I actually don't feel famous.

Host: The city hummed beneath a gray morning sky. Billboards flashed faces, neon and perfect, above crowds that barely looked up. Inside a small, dim café, the sound of an espresso machine hissed like a sigh from the world outside. Steam curled through the air, and at the far corner table, Jack and Jeeny sat — two figures caught between silence and thought.

Jack’s jacket hung from his chair, his eyes cold and focused, scanning the newspaper headlines about a celebrity scandal. Jeeny, across from him, stirred her coffee, watching the ripples form and fade.

Host: A single quote hovered between them, printed in bold: “I actually don’t feel famous.” — Anwar Robinson.

Jeeny: (softly) “Isn’t that something? A man the world calls famous, saying he doesn’t feel it. I think that’s… beautiful.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Beautiful? It’s a contradiction, Jeeny. He’s on television, has millions of eyes watching him. That’s fame by definition. Feeling it or not doesn’t change what he is.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t it? Maybe fame isn’t about what the world sees, but what you feel inside. Maybe he means his soul didn’t change — that he’s still just himself.”

Jack: (snorts) “That’s romantic nonsense. The moment the world knows your name, you’re changed. Whether you like it or not, the mirror doesn’t belong to you anymore — it belongs to them.”

Host: Jack leans back, his hands wrapped around the coffee cup, the steam rising between his face and the light that slipped through the window blinds. Jeeny studies him — that same defensive stillness he always wore when truth brushed too close.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”

Jack: (shrugs) “I’ve seen it. I worked with a musician once — small gigs, bars, the whole underground scene. One viral video, and boom — overnight, everyone called him a genius. He couldn’t breathe without someone filming it. Within a year, he stopped making music. Said he didn’t recognize himself anymore.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe that’s why Robinson said what he did. Maybe he’s fighting that — trying to hold on to who he was before the cameras.”

Jack: “Or maybe he’s pretending humility. You know, PR strategy. The ‘I’m still humble’ routine to keep fans happy. Fame sells better when it pretends it’s not fame.”

Host: The words hang in the air — sharp, cynical, cutting. Outside, a bus passes with a poster plastered across its side — a smiling actor, eyes too bright to be real. The reflection of that poster flickers across the window, brushing Jeeny’s face like a fleeting mask.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe anyone can be genuine anymore, do you?”

Jack: (slowly) “Not in public. The moment a camera turns on, people perform. Even you would.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean the performance erases the person. Think about all the artists who never wanted fame — Van Gogh, Kafka, Emily Dickinson. They created because they had to, not because they wanted applause. If they lived now, maybe they’d still say, ‘I don’t feel famous,’ even if the world screamed their names.”

Jack: “Van Gogh cut off his ear and died poor. He never had to deal with paparazzi or social media. If he’d been famous in his lifetime, maybe he’d have gone mad sooner.”

Jeeny: (leans forward) “Or maybe he’d have healed. Maybe being seen for your art doesn’t have to destroy you. Maybe it can connect you — if you remember who you are beneath the noise.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice grows softer, almost trembling, but filled with fire. The rain begins to fall against the glass, thin lines of water tracing the reflections of faces that no longer look like their own.

Jack: (sighs) “You’re giving fame too much credit. Or too much hope. Fame’s not a mirror, it’s a magnifying glass. Whatever you are — it burns it. Weakness, vanity, guilt — all of it. You say you don’t feel famous? That’s like saying you don’t feel gravity.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see, Jack? Gravity keeps us on the ground. Fame doesn’t have to burn if you stop trying to stand in the sun all the time.”

Jack: (smirks) “That’s poetic. But fame is the sun. You can’t step into it without catching fire.”

Host: The sound of rain deepens, muffled thunder rolling somewhere beyond the city’s skeleton. Jack’s grey eyes flicker, like ash remembering flame. Jeeny watches him, and for a moment, she sees something behind his sarcasm — a wound, old and unhealed.

Jeeny: “Who burned you, Jack?”

Jack: (quietly) “What makes you think I was the one who got burned?”

Jeeny: “Because you speak like someone who’s been too close to the light.”

Jack: (pauses) “I once thought I could write something honest. Something real. It got published. Went viral. Everyone wanted interviews, podcasts, book deals. They said I was a ‘voice of my generation.’ But the next week, someone tore it apart online. Said it was all performative. Said I was chasing attention. Suddenly I wasn’t a writer anymore — I was a brand.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And that’s when you stopped feeling real.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tighten around the cup, the ceramic trembling in his hand. His voice lowers, rough like gravel.

Jack: “Yeah. I learned that fame doesn’t make you seen. It makes you interpreted.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Robinson meant. He didn’t feel famous — because fame isn’t a feeling at all. It’s a reflection others build around you. And maybe the only way to survive it… is not to feel it.”

Jack: “So you’re saying denial is salvation?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying detachment is freedom. You can’t stop people from looking at you. But you can stop needing them to.”

Host: The rain slows to a drizzle, the window now a canvas of faint reflections. The crowd outside moves like a slow river, umbrellas blooming and closing. Inside, the café feels like a pause between two worlds — one that worships the image, and one that quietly resists it.

Jack: “You think there’s a way to live between those worlds?”

Jeeny: “I think there’s only one world, Jack. The rest are illusions. The public one — where fame lives — and the private one — where you actually exist. The trick is to remember which one feeds you.”

Jack: (after a moment) “So you think Robinson managed that balance?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe he just wanted to remind himself that fame doesn’t define being known. You can be known to millions and still unseen by yourself.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Unseen by yourself… yeah. That sounds about right.”

Host: A long silence stretches between them. The clock ticks. The light shifts. The rain finally stops.

Jeeny: “Jack… what do you feel, when people read your words?”

Jack: “Exposed. Judged. Empty. Like I’ve traded my thoughts for attention.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time you write again — not for them, but for you. That’s how you stop feeling famous.”

Jack: “You think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. But simplicity isn’t the same as ease.”

Host: Jack’s gaze drifts toward the window, where the clouds begin to break, revealing a thin band of sunlight that paints the wet pavement in gold. His reflection merges with Jeeny’s, two faces caught in the same light, blurred by the same glass.

Jack: (quietly) “You know… maybe fame isn’t real until you believe it. Maybe Robinson had it right. Maybe he refused to believe it.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s how he kept his soul intact.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s how anyone does.”

Host: The sunlight grows warmer, soaking the room in quiet gold. The noise of the city softens. Jeeny smiles, small but sincere, as Jack finally lets go of his cup — the steam gone, but the warmth still there.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to feel famous, Jack. You just have to feel real.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Yeah. Real sounds… good.”

Host: And as the light spills across their table, touching the pages of the newspaper still open between them, the headline fades beneath the sun — leaving only the quiet truth beneath it.

"I actually don’t feel famous."
Not denial. Not pretense.
Just the simple heartbeat of a man who refuses to let the world’s eyes replace his own.

Host: Outside, the sky clears. Inside, the silence holds — gentle, luminous, and true.