I do not regret one professional enemy I have made. Any actor who

Host: The theater was almost empty now — the house lights dimmed, the stage washed in that haunting half-glow that comes after applause dies and before silence learns how to breathe again. Dust motes danced in the spotlight, slow and graceful, like tiny ghosts of performances past.

The smell of makeup, sweat, and velvet curtains hung heavy in the air — the scent of ambition and exhaustion.

Jack stood center stage, still in his costume, the echo of clapping fading in his ears. His grey eyes were tired, but sharp, reflecting the empty rows of seats like mirrors that no longer needed to flatter.

Jeeny sat on the edge of the stage, her long black hair falling loose, her hands resting on a script marked with scribbles and coffee stains. She looked at him the way a confidante looks at a soldier after battle — admiration mixed with a quiet warning.

Jeeny: “Bette Davis once said, ‘I do not regret one professional enemy I have made. Any actor who doesn’t dare to make an enemy should get out of the business.’”

Host: Her voice carried softly across the stage — intimate, but edged, like a challenge whispered through smoke.

Jack: (half-smiling) “Trust Bette Davis to turn fury into philosophy.”

Jeeny: “And truth into survival.”

Jack: (sighs) “Yeah. The woman had claws — and she used them.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you envy her.”

Jack: “Not envy. Respect. In this business, it’s not the applause that keeps you alive. It’s the spine.”

Host: He walked toward the footlights, his shadow stretching long and dramatic behind him. The theater creaked faintly — as if it, too, were listening.

Jeeny: “You’ve made a few enemies yourself, Jack.”

Jack: (shrugs) “Comes with the territory. If everyone likes you, you’re probably doing something wrong.”

Jeeny: “Or saying nothing worth disagreeing with.”

Jack: (grinning) “Exactly.”

Host: She rose and followed him, the sound of her heels echoing softly across the boards. When she spoke again, her voice was calm, but her eyes were fierce.

Jeeny: “You know, people think actors are fragile — all nerves and vanity. But the truth is, you have to be ruthless to survive it. You have to risk being hated.”

Jack: “And what happens when being hated becomes too easy?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve stopped fighting for something real.”

Host: He turned to face her, the stage light catching the sharpness of his profile — a man both proud and weary, the lines around his mouth telling stories of both laughter and regret.

Jack: “I’ve burned bridges, Jeeny. Some I needed to. Others... I miss the smoke.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about fire. It destroys and reveals. You find out who’s still standing after the smoke clears.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve been through a few infernos yourself.”

Jeeny: “I have. But I learned something — you can’t build a legacy out of politeness.”

Host: The spotlight flickered slightly, its hum filling the pause between them.

Jack: “You know what I hate most? The pretense. All the smiles backstage that hide knives. The ‘darling, you were marvelous’ from people who can’t wait for you to fail.”

Jeeny: “That’s the theater. A cathedral of hypocrisy. But without it, there’d be no saints or sinners to applaud.”

Jack: (laughing) “And no martyrs, either.”

Jeeny: “Oh, there are plenty of martyrs. Every actor who compromises truth for approval is one.”

Host: The words hit him harder than she intended. He looked down, his hands tightening on the edge of the stage.

Jack: “You think I’ve compromised?”

Jeeny: “I think you’ve softened. The man who once called out directors, producers, critics — now he shakes hands and bites his tongue.”

Jack: “You think that’s weakness?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s fatigue disguised as diplomacy.”

Host: The air between them thickened. Outside, a faint rumble of thunder rolled through the city. The stage lights dimmed further, the room folding itself into a kind of moody intimacy.

Jack: “You don’t get it, Jeeny. There’s only so many battles you can fight before the wars start living inside you.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe those wars are what make you real. Bette Davis didn’t survive Hollywood because she was kind — she survived because she didn’t apologize for being unlikable.”

Jack: “And she died alone.”

Jeeny: “No. She died legendary.”

Host: Her words sliced through the air like truth delivered without anesthesia. He flinched — not because she was wrong, but because she was right.

Jack: “You really think greatness justifies cruelty?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think authenticity demands it sometimes. The world doesn’t like truth-tellers. It likes entertainers who lie beautifully.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’m done lying.”

Jeeny: “Then prepare to be hated.”

Host: A heavy silence. Then, the sound of the storm outside — rain beginning to fall against the roof, steady, relentless.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we do it, Jeeny? Why we put ourselves on a stage — not just literally, but in life — knowing every word will be judged, every flaw magnified?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the only place we can be seen.”

Jack: (quietly) “Even if what they see isn’t who we are?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: She walked to the center of the stage, standing where the light hit hardest, the rest of the theater sinking into darkness.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Bette meant? She wasn’t talking about enemies for the sake of ego. She was talking about courage — the kind that offends complacency. If you’ve never made an enemy, it’s because you’ve never told the truth loud enough.”

Jack: “Or maybe because you’ve never mattered enough.”

Host: He joined her in the light. The storm outside grew louder — rain like applause from a dark sky.

Jack: “You really think it’s worth it? The fights, the loneliness, the cost?”

Jeeny: “If you love the work more than the peace, yes.”

Jack: “And if you love the peace more?”

Jeeny: “Then get out of the business.”

Host: Her echo of Bette’s words landed like the final cue in a play neither of them wanted to end.

He smiled then — slow, tired, but sincere. The kind of smile that comes when you realize the battle’s not over, and that’s the point.

Jack: “You know, you’d have made a hell of a director.”

Jeeny: “And you’d have made a better legend if you stopped trying to please ghosts.”

Host: The lights flickered one last time before dimming into blackness. The storm outside softened to a whisper.

In the dark, Jack’s voice came — low, steady.

Jack: “Then let them hate me, Jeeny. I’d rather die honest than live adored.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then you’ll live forever.”

Host: And as the rain faded, the theater held their silence like a sacred thing — not the quiet of defeat, but the stillness that follows truth.

Because in the echo of Bette Davis’s defiance, the world was reminded:

that art, like the artist,
was never meant to please.

It was meant to provoke.

And those brave enough to make enemies in its name
are the ones who end up immortal.