I could have been more famous if I did all the glitzy things, but

Host: The studio was drenched in blue light, the kind that feels like memory rather than color. Outside, the rain fell softly against the tall windows, streaking the glass like faint brushstrokes on silence. The air was heavy with the smell of old wood, dust, and sound — the ghost of music still clinging to the corners.

In the middle of the room stood Jack, his back to the door, facing a wall of records — gold, platinum, framed in glass but dulled by time. His gray eyes wandered across the reflections, not admiring, not proud — simply searching.

Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps echoing gently on the wooden floor. She wore no umbrella, her hair damp, her presence soft and unassuming, like a note held too long in the air.

Jeeny: “Enya once said, ‘I could have been more famous if I did all the glitzy things, but celebrity always seemed so unnecessary.’”

Jack: without turning “Unnecessary. That’s a word fame doesn’t understand.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Maybe that’s why it’s so lonely at the top — it’s crowded with people who don’t know what they actually want.”

Jack: turns slightly, holding a half-smile “You think Enya wanted nothing?”

Jeeny: “No. I think she wanted peace — which is harder to keep than fame.”

Jack: gruffly “Peace doesn’t pay for studio time.”

Jeeny: “Neither does noise, not when it’s hollow.”

Host: The light flickered as a train passed in the distance, the low rumble vibrating through the glass and settling deep into the floorboards. The world beyond the studio seemed endless; the world inside it, still and complete.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We worship fame like it’s a reward for authenticity. But fame’s just a mirror for people who can’t stand to look inward.”

Jeeny: sits on the piano bench, tracing her fingers over the ivory keys without pressing them “Maybe that’s the point. Some people need reflection — even if it’s distorted.”

Jack: sighs, crossing his arms “Yeah, but when you start needing the reflection more than the reality, you stop existing.”

Jeeny: “You mean when the applause gets louder than the music?”

Jack: smirking slightly “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t blame the crowd for clapping. Everyone’s searching for something beautiful to believe in. Even if it’s someone else’s illusion.”

Jack: sits beside her, tone lower now “Then why do the beautiful ones always run from it? Enya, Salinger, Banksy — the moment people start chasing them, they disappear.”

Jeeny: “Because they understand that the louder the world gets, the more you lose the voice that made it listen in the first place.”

Host: The piano hummed faintly as Jeeny pressed one key — a single note, low and resonant, lingering like truth left unsaid.

Jack’s eyes followed her hand — her calmness, her restraint — the rare power of someone who doesn’t need to fill silence to matter.

Jack: “You really think you can live that way? Quietly? When everyone’s shouting for attention?”

Jeeny: softly “You can. But it’s a rebellion now.”

Jack: chuckles bitterly “Rebellion? Against what?”

Jeeny: “Against the addiction to visibility. Against the belief that you have to be seen to exist.”

Jack: quietly “So, what — you disappear?”

Jeeny: “No. You stay still long enough to remember yourself.”

Jack: after a pause “You sound like her.”

Jeeny: smiles “Maybe I envy her. To create art and not need worship — that’s freedom.”

Host: A light breeze slipped through the cracked window, carrying the faint scent of rain and city smoke. It brushed across the piano keys like a whisper of something sacred and untamed.

Jack: “You know what’s sad? The world doesn’t celebrate that kind of freedom. It only understands noise. You disappear, and it assumes you failed.”

Jeeny: “Because the world doesn’t know the difference between absence and peace.”

Jack: leans back, voice thick with reflection “Maybe we don’t either.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why people like Enya matter — they remind us there’s another way to live. That silence isn’t emptiness. It’s choice.”

Jack: smiles faintly “And that celebrity —”

Jeeny: “— is just the echo of people who never learned to listen.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, the sound steady and meditative against the windows. The candle on the table flickered as the draft found it, casting soft waves of light across their faces — hers serene, his searching.

Jack: “You ever think fame is just fear wearing sequins?”

Jeeny: raises an eyebrow “Fear of what?”

Jack: “Of being forgotten.”

Jeeny: after a moment “Maybe that’s what makes quiet people brave. They let the world forget them, so they can remember themselves.”

Jack: nods slowly, eyes distant “That’s a kind of immortality too, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that doesn’t need applause — just integrity.”

Host: The piano note still lingered faintly, the air carrying its ghost long after the sound itself had died.

Jack reached forward, pressed a second key — higher, softer — the two tones weaving together like a conversation without words.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The rain became rhythm. The silence became music.

Jeeny: whispers “Do you ever think about what kind of legacy you want?”

Jack: smiles faintly “Legacy’s just a longer version of fame. People use it to make death sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Then what do you want instead?”

Jack: after a pause “Peace. A quiet life that still meant something. Like Enya said — no glitter, no games. Just… enough.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Enough is underrated.”

Jack: nods, looking at her “Maybe that’s what she meant. That art doesn’t owe us fame — just honesty.”

Jeeny: “And honesty, Jack, is the only kind of noise worth making.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the sound thinning into a gentle patter. The blue light faded into gray, the room softening into calm.

They sat side by side — two souls quietly rebelling against a world addicted to applause.

The last flicker of the candle died.

But in that darkness, the silence wasn’t empty. It was whole.

Host: And in that wholeness, Enya’s words seemed to hum through the quiet air — a whisper of grace amid the noise of existence:

Fame is loud, but truth is quiet.
Celebrity shines; integrity glows.
Those who choose silence are not lost —
they have simply found a world too small for their peace.

For what is greatness,
if not the courage to remain unseen
and still create something beautiful?

Host: The rain stopped. The city exhaled.
And in the soundless glow of the morning’s first light,
Jack and Jeeny sat beside the piano —
unfamous, unguarded, unafraid —
and utterly free.