I can't advise any of the young ones, because I don't know what

Host: The afternoon sun hung low, stretching across the city like molten glass, its light catching on the windows of the skyscrapers until they looked like flaming mirrors. The street below was alive with horns, footsteps, and the constant hum of ambition. Inside a dim café, tucked between a fashion studio and a recording booth, Jack and Jeeny sat by a window, watching the crowd stream by—faces, phones, selfies, dreams all moving fast toward something they couldn’t quite touch.

Jack was dressed in a black coat, his tie loosened, his eyes still carrying the weight of too many meetings and too few meanings. Jeeny’s hair fell across her shoulder, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup, her gaze steady, calm, and searching.

Jeeny: “I read something today,” she said, quietly, her voice just above the noise of the espresso machine. “Shirley MacLaine once said, ‘I can’t advise any of the young ones, because I don’t know what their background was, but I would suggest that anyone who wants to be famous more than anything — there’s a real problem.’”

Jack: “A real problem?” he snorted, leaning back. “She’s from another era, Jeeny. Fame is the currency now. You can’t just ignore it. It’s the market. People don’t just want to exist—they want to be seen.”

Host: The light shifted, a beam of gold catching Jack’s face, cutting across the tired lines under his eyes. Outside, a teenager posed in front of a graffiti wall, repeating the same smile until the camera caught the perfect angle.

Jeeny: “Being seen is one thing, Jack. Needing to be seen—that’s something else. That’s not hunger, that’s hollowness.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just human, Jeeny. You think Michelangelo didn’t want to be known? You think he painted ceilings in silence for the fun of it? Every artist, every thinker, every leader—they all wanted to be remembered.”

Jeeny: “Remembered, yes. But not famous for fame’s sake. There’s a difference. Michelangelo wanted to create something eternal, not to trend for a week.”

Host: A motorbike rumbled past the window, its engine echoing down the street. For a moment, Jack watched it disappear, the reflection of the rider’s helmet still glinting in his eyes.

Jack: “You say that like it’s a bad thing to want to be known. Maybe fame just means relevance now. In this world, if you’re not visible, you’re invisible. You don’t exist.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s exactly the problem Shirley meant. That fame has become a measure of existence. People aren’t living, Jack—they’re performing. For likes, for follows, for validation. We used to ask, ‘Who am I?’ Now we ask, ‘Who’s watching me?’”

Jack: “You sound like a philosophy professor with a Wi-Fi problem.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man who’s mistaken applause for meaning.”

Host: The air between them tightened, as if the light itself had turned sharp. A barista in the corner dropped a tray, the sound of shattering glass cutting through the room. Neither of them moved.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange, Jack? We used to be mysteries to each other. Now we’re just content. We’re not sharing lives, we’re broadcasting them. Even our sadness is for display.”

Jack: “Come on. Don’t act like you don’t use social media. Everyone does.”

Jeeny: “Of course I do. But I don’t worship it. There’s a difference between using a tool and being used by it.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was steady, but her hands trembled slightly as she lifted her cup. The steam rose, curling around her face, softening her expression as if her words themselves had burned something inside her.

Jack: “You talk about fame like it’s poison. But for some people, it’s the only way out. Look at Malala, or Greta Thunberg—their voices reached the world because of fame. Without it, their message would’ve drowned in the noise.”

Jeeny: “That’s not the same, Jack. They didn’t chase fame; fame found them. There’s a difference between being known for something true and being known for nothing at all. The problem isn’t visibility, it’s vanity.”

Host: The sun had dipped, casting the café in amber light. The city outside blurred, the faces in the glass overlapping with the reflections inside—real people and illusions, blending until you couldn’t tell which was which.

Jack: “Maybe it’s all vanity. You write a book, you speak your mind, you build something—you want someone to notice. We all do. Even you.”

Jeeny: “I don’t want to be noticed, Jack. I want to be understood. That’s the difference. One feeds the ego, the other feeds the soul.”

Jack: “And who decides which is which?”

Jeeny: “You do. Every day. Every time you choose between being real and being liked.”

Host: Jack’s eyes dropped to the table, where the condensation ring from his cup had spread, a perfect circle, fading slowly. His finger traced it once, silently, as if trying to find something in the pattern.

Jack: “When I was twenty-five,” he said, “I wanted it all—the recognition, the name, the crowd. I thought that if people just knew me, I’d finally feel real. But the more they saw, the less I felt. It’s like... the more I shared, the more I disappeared.”

Jeeny: “Because fame doesn’t fill you, Jack. It hollows you. It takes your truth and turns it into a story, and then the story starts owning you.”

Host: The streetlight outside buzzed to life, casting a pale glow through the window. The people walking past were now just silhouettes, outlined by their screens, faces lit from below by the cold light of their phones.

Jeeny: “You can be known by millions and still be a stranger to yourself.”

Jack: “And yet... we keep chasing it.”

Jeeny: “Because we’ve been taught to. We confuse attention with love, and noise with significance. Shirley MacLaine was right—if your greatest goal is to be famous, then you’ve already lost the only thing that can make fame meaningful: your why.”

Host: A pause, deep and full, like the space between notes in a sad song. The café had emptied, the music now just a low hum, mournful and slow.

Jack: “So what’s the alternative? Obscurity?”

Jeeny: “No. Authenticity. Live so that if no one ever records your name, your life still matters. Because meaning isn’t measured in followers. It’s measured in footprints—the quiet ones you leave behind in people’s hearts.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted, meeting hers across the table. For the first time, the city noise outside seemed to fade—the cars, the voices, even the sirens—until all that was left was the soft hum of connection.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what we’ve all forgotten—that the point isn’t to be famous, it’s to be felt.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said, a gentle smile breaking across her face. “Because being seen fades. Being felt lasts.”

Host: Outside, the sun had sunk completely, leaving only the streetlights, glowing faintly like souls refusing to dim. Inside the café, the camera would have pulled back—Jack and Jeeny now just two figures in a golden frame, their shadows stretching long across the floor.

The world outside moved on, chasing, posting, performing. But for a moment, in that small café, two voices had stopped to remember what it meant to be real.

And in that stillness, fame itself felt very, very small.