For my 21st birthday party, I had a 'Strictly'-themed fancy

Host: The night shimmered with faint music, and the city’s glow rippled through the glass walls of the rooftop bar. It was the kind of evening that carried the weight of forgotten dreams and the spark of youth — a dance between nostalgia and time. Rain had fallen earlier, leaving the air thick with the scent of wet concrete and perfume.

Jeeny stood by the balcony, her dress catching the faint breeze like a memory that didn’t want to let go. Jack sat on a high stool, his jacket slung over the back, one hand gripping a half-finished glass of whiskey, the other drumming lightly against the tabletop. The light from the city’s neon veins flickered across his face, tracing lines of fatigue and thought.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think about your twenty-first birthday?”

Jack: “Barely. I was probably too drunk to remember.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Rachel Riley once said — ‘For my 21st birthday party, I had a ‘Strictly’-themed fancy dress.’ I like that. There’s something pure in the idea — celebrating with style, dressing up, playing roles, even if just for a night.”

Jack: “Pure? It sounds… trivial. A costume party. People pretending to be something they’re not. It’s the same illusion the world sells us every day — that happiness can be worn like a tuxedo.”

Host: A low hum of laughter rippled from a nearby table, and the music swelled — an old jazz tune with a broken melody that clung to the air.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. Pretending — just for a night — to be something brighter, freer. We all wear masks anyway. The party just makes it honest.”

Jack: “Honest? Pretending to be honest doesn’t make it truth. It’s still performance. You think a glittery dress and fake smiles make people freer? I think it’s just denial in a prettier package.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s forgotten how to celebrate.”

Jack: “Or a man who’s seen too much of the costume behind the face.”

Host: The wind stirred between them, whispering across the balcony rails like an unseen third guest. Down below, the streets shimmered — puddles reflecting signs, people hurrying under umbrellas, the city’s endless theatre still unfolding.

Jeeny: “When I was little, my mother used to say that every birthday is a mirror — showing you who you’ve been, and who you wish you could be. Maybe that’s what the theme was about. Not just fancy dress, but the freedom to be someone else, even for one evening.”

Jack: “And then morning comes. The costume comes off, and the mirror cracks. You realize you’ve been dancing with a shadow.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what life is, Jack — a series of shadows we give light to. You think the dancers on Strictly Come Dancing don’t know it’s a show? They still pour their hearts into it. They still make beauty out of pretend.”

Jack: “Beauty doesn’t mean truth.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s the only truth we can bear.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened in the neon reflection, her voice trembling between sincerity and sorrow. Jack’s jaw tightened, his gaze lost in the glass where the city blurred into amber light.

Jack: “You always want to believe in the poetry of things. But tell me — what good is a mask when the world burns? When people starve, when wars tear apart nations — who has time for a fancy dress?”

Jeeny: “Maybe those who still need to feel human.”

Jack: “You think dancing in sequins can make people human again?”

Jeeny: “I think joy can. Even if it’s dressed in sequins. Even if it’s just for one night.”

Host: A pause fell — long enough for the music to fade into the next song, a slower one. The lights dimmed slightly, and in that shadowed glow, Jeeny looked both younger and older at once — like someone who’d seen too much hope and refused to let it die.

Jeeny: “During the Second World War, they held dances in bomb shelters. People would waltz while the city was being bombed above them. Can you imagine that? They wore their best clothes, painted their faces, and danced. Not because they were naive — but because it was the only way to stay alive.”

Jack: “You’re comparing a costume party to war-time survival?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying that pretending to live can sometimes help you remember that you still are.”

Host: The wind caught her hair, and for a moment, the light made it look like strands of fire. Jack’s eyes softened, though his lips still held the edge of defiance.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But most people don’t dance to survive. They dance to forget.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with forgetting, for a while? Isn’t that what you do with your whiskey?”

Host: Jack’s hand froze. The glass trembled slightly in his grip before he set it down with a soft thud.

Jack: “That’s different.”

Jeeny: “Is it?”

Host: The silence stretched — long, delicate, almost fragile. Then Jack laughed, quietly, but with the sound of something breaking.

Jack: “You’re right. It’s not different. Maybe I drink to forget. Maybe they dance. Maybe Rachel Riley just wanted a night where everything sparkled, where she wasn’t a math genius, a public figure — just a girl spinning under lights. But still… it’s temporary. It all fades.”

Jeeny: “Everything does, Jack. That’s why it matters. We dress up, we dance, we love, we hurt — because none of it lasts. And that’s what gives it weight.”

Host: The rain began again, soft and rhythmic, a thousand tiny footsteps across the roof. The music echoed gently in the background, the city now a dim mirage through the watery glass.

Jack: “You really think there’s meaning in a costume?”

Jeeny: “In what it represents, yes. Every mask tells you what someone secretly wants to be. It’s a glimpse of their soul when they’re brave enough to hide it.”

Jack: “That’s paradoxical.”

Jeeny: “So is being human.”

Host: They both laughed, quietly — the kind of laughter that carries a tear beneath it.

Jack: “Alright. Suppose you’re right. Suppose it’s not just play. Then what was your ‘fancy dress’ moment, Jeeny? What did you wear when you wanted to be someone else?”

Jeeny: “An astronaut.”

Jack: “You?” grinning slightly “You, who gets dizzy on escalators?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why I chose it. Because for one night, I wanted to believe I could leave the Earth behind.”

Host: Her voice drifted like a confession, soft and glowing. Jack looked at her — really looked — and something in his expression changed. The skeptic faltered; the man remained.

Jack: “Maybe… that’s what I missed. The courage to dream in costume.”

Jeeny: “It’s never too late. The dance floor’s still open.”

Host: A faint smile crept across Jack’s lips. He glanced toward the bar, where the last few couples swayed under dim lights, their movements slow, unguarded.

Jack: “If I dance, you’ll laugh.”

Jeeny: “Only if you stop halfway.”

Host: Jack stood, his shadow stretching across the floor like a half-forgotten memory. He offered his hand, uncertain but open. Jeeny took it, her fingers warm and trembling.

The music filled the space, slow and tender — a melody made of old wounds and quiet hope. They began to move, awkward at first, then smoother, their steps finding a rhythm neither had known they remembered.

The rain blurred the city, the lights shimmering like fragments of lost stars.

Host: And so they danced — two souls shedding their masks, not pretending to be anyone else, but daring to be what they’d always been: alive.

As the night folded into silence, the city kept singing — not of illusion, but of the brief, beautiful truth hidden in every act of pretend.