I always remember when I first started out and first became a

Host: The hotel ballroom shimmered beneath a thousand lights, each crystal droplet of the grand chandelier trembling like a nervous heart. Music floated — polished, practiced, artificial — through the chatter of people too beautiful to be real. Photographers flashed like small, relentless storms. The air smelled of champagne, perfume, and faint fear.

Near the corner, at a small table half-shielded by an ice sculpture, Jack and Jeeny sat — their faces half-illuminated by gold reflections, half-drowned in shadow.

Jack, in a black suit that didn’t quite fit his comfort, turned his glass slowly between his fingers, watching the bubbles rise and disappear. Jeeny, in a soft blue dress, looked both graceful and slightly lost, as if she were still waiting for her skin to catch up with her surroundings.

Outside the window, the city lights pulsed like a restless heartbeat. Inside, they were surrounded by laughter that didn’t quite reach anyone’s eyes.

Jeeny: “Lisa Stansfield once said, ‘I always remember when I first started out and first became a little bit famous, I went to a celebrity party. For me it was really intimidating.’”

Jack: (half-smirking) “At least she was honest. Most people pretend fame feels like flight, not fear.”

Host: A waiter drifted past, his tray glinting with golden glasses. The sound of a shallow toast rippled through the crowd, breaking like glass against the hum of small talk.

Jeeny: “I think it’s beautiful — that someone can admit to being scared in the middle of their dream.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s pathetic. The whole idea of fame — walking into a room where everyone pretends to see you but nobody really does. That’s not beauty, Jeeny. That’s a carnival.”

Jeeny: “But it’s still human. Everyone wants to be seen. Even you.”

Jack: “Seen, maybe. Not staged.”

Host: Jack’s eyes swept across the ballroom — glittering gowns, sculpted smiles, practiced laughter. It was a theater, and everyone was both actor and audience.

Jack: “This isn’t seeing. It’s surveillance disguised as admiration.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been here before.”

Jack: (quietly) “I have.”

Host: The music softened. Somewhere, a piano started a lazy melody. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice barely rising above the clinking of glasses.

Jeeny: “Tell me.”

Jack: “I was twenty-seven. Wrote a book that did better than I ever expected. Got invited to one of those… literary parties in New York. Champagne, velvet, fake smiles. Someone introduced me to a famous critic — and all I remember thinking was how I had nothing to say. I didn’t belong. Not there, not anywhere.”

Jeeny: “Did anyone notice?”

Jack: “They noticed I didn’t know how to pretend yet. That’s the first skill fame teaches you — camouflage.”

Host: He gave a bitter laugh, short and sharp. The music swelled slightly, filling the brief hollow between their words.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like success is a kind of punishment.”

Jack: “It is, if you didn’t plan for it. You start chasing authenticity, but the moment people start clapping, you lose the thing they were clapping for.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you just have to learn to hold both — the applause and the fear.”

Jack: “You ever tried holding smoke?”

Host: Her eyes softened. She reached for her glass, then stopped, her fingers tracing the condensation ring left on the tablecloth.

Jeeny: “I think that’s what Lisa Stansfield meant. Fame isn’t joy — it’s exposure. Like standing under a light that never turns off. Some people mistake that warmth for love. Others realize it burns.”

Jack: “And most just keep smiling while they catch fire.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because being invisible hurts more.”

Host: The crowd around them erupted in laughter — a sudden, dazzling wave of sound. But neither of them looked. Their silence was thicker, more honest, than any toast in the room.

Jack: “You ever wanted it? Fame?”

Jeeny: “Once. When I was younger. I thought it would make people listen. Thought being known meant being understood.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I think I’d rather be seen by one person completely than by a million halfway.”

Host: The light shifted — golden turning to amber, warm turning to weary. The party glimmered around them, but they seemed set apart, like two ghosts observing their own lives from a distance.

Jack: “Funny thing about intimidation — it’s just honesty in disguise. You realize everyone else is just as scared, but pretending better.”

Jeeny: “That’s the secret of every stage, isn’t it? Everyone trembling under the spotlight, praying no one sees the shake in their hands.”

Jack: “Except some people learn to love it.”

Jeeny: “Or they confuse fear for excitement. The way soldiers confuse adrenaline for courage.”

Host: A pause. Then a soft piano note fell — like a raindrop on marble. The moment stretched.

Jeeny: “What did you do, that night at the party?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “I left. Walked three blocks in the rain. Found a diner. Ordered eggs at midnight. Best meal I ever had.”

Jeeny: “Because it was honest?”

Jack: “Because nobody cared who I was.”

Host: A warmth flickered briefly in his voice — not nostalgia, but relief remembered. Jeeny nodded slowly, her eyes distant, as if picturing him alone in that small booth, free of his reflection.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what we’re all looking for — a diner at midnight. A place where our names don’t echo.”

Jack: “A place where being unseen doesn’t mean being empty.”

Host: The music faded. The crowd thinned. Outside, the rain began again, soft, cleansing, intimate. The lights dimmed to something almost real.

Jeeny: “Do you think fame changes people, Jack?”

Jack: “No. It just reveals what they were hiding.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe intimidation is a gift. It keeps you humble enough to stay human.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “Maybe. Or it reminds you that the crowd isn’t your home.”

Host: A final flash went off across the ballroom — a photo of people who would forget each other tomorrow. Jack stood slowly, his chair scraping the floor. Jeeny rose beside him, her eyes meeting his, steady, kind.

Jack: “Let’s go find that diner.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Fame can wait.”

Host: They stepped out into the rain, leaving the ballroom’s laughter behind. The city air was sharp and wet, the kind that washes off the world’s glitter. Jack loosened his tie, Jeeny took off her heels. For a moment, they were just two souls under the same quiet sky — anonymous, free, alive.

And as they disappeared down the sidewalk, the last echo of the party faded, leaving only the soft sound of footsteps and the small, sacred courage of those who dare to start over — unmasked, unseen, and real.