I can't see any value in being a celebrity, famous for being

Host: The city outside was a living thing — a tangle of neon, noise, and narcissism. Screens flickered on every corner, faces smiling, selling, performing for the unseen masses below. From the rooftop bar, you could see the whole skyline — glittering like a crown made of glass and lies.

Jack leaned against the railing, his grey eyes cold as the night wind. A cigarette burned slowly between his fingers, a small, angry sun. Jeeny sat beside him on the edge of a low couch, her long black hair whipping in the wind, a half-empty glass of whiskey glowing amber in her hand. Behind them, a DJ played a slow electronic pulse that seemed to echo the city’s restless heart.

They had come here after attending a film premiere below — a red-carpet affair of flashes, poses, and people pretending to mean something. But the air had felt empty, the applause hollow. And now, up here, away from the noise, Jeeny broke the silence with Noomi Rapace’s words:

“I can't see any value in being a celebrity, famous for being famous.”

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder, Jack — what all that noise is really for? All those people down there, the cameras, the influencers pretending their lives are a masterpiece. It’s a kind of hunger, isn’t it? A hunger to be seen, even if you’ve got nothing to say.”

Jack: exhaling smoke “It’s economics. Attention is currency now. Fame isn’t about meaning anymore — it’s about metrics. The number of eyes, not the depth of thought.”

Host: The smoke curled upward, swallowed by the dark. Below, the sound of the city hummed — like applause with no audience left.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the sickness, Jack. Being known for being known — it’s like eating air and calling it food.”

Jack: “And yet, they keep eating. We all do. Even the ones who hate fame check their notifications before bed. The system feeds on vanity — and vanity is bottomless.”

Jeeny: “So you think it’s inevitable?”

Jack: “It’s evolution. We used to hunt for food. Now we hunt for relevance.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of the sea mixed with the metallic tang of city lights. Jack’s cigarette dimmed, then flared again. Jeeny watched him — her eyes soft but fierce, filled with the quiet fire of conviction.

Jeeny: “But relevance without reason is rot. We used to honor artists, thinkers, leaders. Now we reward whoever shouts the loudest. Look at history — Marilyn Monroe was adored, but she was devoured too. Fame didn’t love her back.”

Jack: “She played the game. They all do. The camera gives and the camera takes away.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of playing? Noomi Rapace had it right — fame for its own sake is emptiness. It’s the applause of ghosts.”

Jack: “You say that, but look around — half this city is built on ghosts. Hollywood, social media, politics — all powered by people desperate to matter. You think you can fight that instinct?”

Jeeny: “Not fight it. Redefine it.”

Host: The music below grew louder, the beat spilling upward through the open rooftop door. The sound seemed to mock their stillness, their distance from the intoxicated crowd below.

Jeeny: “When I was sixteen, I thought fame meant freedom. I used to stay up watching award shows, dreaming of walking across that stage. But the older I get, the more I see — the spotlight doesn’t free people. It traps them. Like insects in amber.”

Jack: “Maybe some people need that trap. Some people can’t stand the silence of being unknown.”

Jeeny: “You think fame gives meaning?”

Jack: “No. But it gives direction. Even if it’s artificial.”

Jeeny: “That’s like saying a mirage quenches thirst.”

Jack: shrugs “For a while, it does.”

Host: Jeeny’s jaw tightened. The city lights reflected in her eyes, tiny galaxies of sorrow and defiance.

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy — we’ve mistaken recognition for purpose. You can go viral and still be invisible. You can have a million followers and not one person who truly knows you.”

Jack: “Then maybe the problem isn’t fame — it’s the people chasing it. They want validation, not truth.”

Jeeny: “But truth doesn’t trend, Jack.”

Host: A siren wailed in the distance, a long, lonely sound. The night air grew colder. Jack ground out his cigarette and looked toward the glowing skyline.

Jack: “You ever think about how fame used to mean something sacred? A name carved in stone. Now it’s pixels. Temporary. Disposable. Tomorrow someone else replaces you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why I think the only fame worth having is the kind that outlives the noise — the quiet kind. The fame of doing something that matters, even if no one’s watching.”

Jack: “But what’s the point if no one sees it?”

Jeeny: “The point is doing it anyway. The value doesn’t come from the eyes on you — it comes from the soul in you.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, trembling with the kind of conviction that feels both fragile and unbreakable. Jack looked at her — really looked — as though he hadn’t realized how tired his own cynicism had made him.

Jack: “You really believe that? That obscurity can hold dignity?”

Jeeny: “Completely. Look at the monks who spend their lives painting sand mandalas only to brush them away. Or the writers whose books never get published. Their work isn’t less beautiful because it’s unseen. It’s more pure because it’s unbought.”

Jack: “That’s poetic — and tragic.”

Jeeny: “It’s honest. The world doesn’t owe us an audience. But we owe the world authenticity.”

Host: The clouds moved aside, and the moonlight slipped over their faces — pale, unflinching, intimate. For a moment, the noise from below seemed to fade.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe fame is just another addiction — to attention, to illusion. And like all addictions, it eventually eats what it feeds.”

Jeeny: “Then stop feeding it, Jack.”

Jack: smirking faintly “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But it’s possible. Maybe meaning isn’t in being seen, but in seeing — deeply, truly — the people right in front of us.”

Host: The wind stilled. The city below continued its glittering masquerade, oblivious to the quiet rebellion blooming on that rooftop.

Jack reached for his drink, raising it slightly toward Jeeny.

Jack: “To being unseen — and unashamed.”

Jeeny: “To meaning over mirrors.”

Host: Their glasses clinked — a soft, human sound against the mechanical hum of the world below.

The night stretched out around them, vast and alive. Somewhere beneath, cameras still flashed, parties still raged, and people still performed their emptiness. But up here — just for this moment — there was no stage, no spotlight, no audience. Only two souls remembering what it felt like to exist without applause.

The sky above was clear now, dotted with faint, distant stars — silent witnesses that have never needed fame to shine.

Jeeny leaned back, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “We chase immortality in pixels, but real legacy lives in quiet hearts. Maybe that’s all the fame I’ll ever want.”

Host: Jack didn’t answer. He only looked at her, then out toward the sleeping city — and for the first time in years, the lights below didn’t look like dreams. They looked like reflections.

The wind rose again, carrying their words away — dissolving them into the night — leaving behind only the sound of two people learning that meaning, like truth, glows brightest in the dark.