I don't like the idea of famous people.

Host: The café sat at the edge of the city, tucked between a thrift bookstore and a shuttered cinema — one of those forgotten corners where the world seemed to pause for breath. The evening light slanted through dusty windows, glinting off the steam rising from half-empty mugs and the faint tremble of rain against glass.

A record played somewhere behind the counter — old, crackling, imperfect. The kind of song that wasn’t performed for applause, just to be heard by anyone who happened to listen.

Jack sat in his usual corner, coffee cooling, hands wrapped around the cup as though the warmth might translate into courage. Jeeny sat across from him, elbows on the table, her hair pulled back, her brown eyes sharp and alive, but softened by the golden hour’s glow.

They had been talking for a while — about music, about art, about what people now called fame. But then Jeeny said something that quieted the air between them.

Jeeny: gently, quoting “Kristin Hersh once said, ‘I don’t like the idea of famous people.’”

Jack: raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly “That’s a strange thing to say coming from someone famous.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “That’s what makes it true.”

Jack: “You think fame’s a lie?”

Jeeny: “No. Fame’s just... a misunderstanding that lasts too long.”

Jack: chuckles “That’s poetic. But fame built everything we consume — art, music, politics. It’s the engine of modern mythology.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It turns people into symbols before they finish being human.”

Host: The barista clattered dishes in the background, breaking the stillness for a moment. Outside, a couple walked past under an umbrella, their reflections stretching like watercolor across the wet pavement. The rain began to fall harder.

Jack: “You’re saying fame kills authenticity.”

Jeeny: “Not kills — replaces. The more people watch you, the less you get to exist outside their gaze. You stop being yourself and start being what they need.”

Jack: “That’s not fame’s fault. That’s the bargain.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s the prison. The moment you start performing for attention, you stop creating for truth.”

Jack: leans back, thoughtful “But you can’t deny the power of recognition. Fame gives voice. Platform. Influence. Without it, most people never get heard.”

Jeeny: leans forward, eyes intense “And yet, the loudest voices rarely say the truest things. The world doesn’t listen to the quiet — even when the quiet’s where the truth lives.”

Host: The record crackled, and a new track began — soft jazz, lazy and melancholy. The café felt suspended in that sound, as if time itself had decided to listen. Jack traced the rim of his cup with his finger, his reflection rippling in the dark coffee like a thought not yet ready to surface.

Jack: “You sound like you want to dismantle the whole system.”

Jeeny: smiles wryly “Not dismantle it. Just remember it’s not sacred. The idea of famous people — it’s a modern religion. We worship faces instead of virtues.”

Jack: “And what’s the harm? People need something to believe in.”

Jeeny: “Not if that belief replaces their own sense of worth. You can’t build a self by living through someone else’s spotlight.”

Jack: quietly “But everyone wants to matter.”

Jeeny: nods “Yes. But fame doesn’t make you matter. It just makes you visible.”

Host: A pause settled between them — long, meaningful, unforced. The café’s light dimmed slightly as the rainstorm deepened, its rhythm soft and hypnotic. Jack stared out the window, watching raindrops race down the glass like fragments of thought he couldn’t quite catch.

Jack: “You know what’s ironic? We chase fame for validation, and when we get it, we spend the rest of our lives trying to prove it doesn’t define us.”

Jeeny: “Because it doesn’t. The real art is invisible — it happens long before the world sees it, and long after they forget it.”

Jack: “Then what’s the point? If no one remembers you?”

Jeeny: softly “To have existed truthfully, even for a moment.”

Jack: “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s everything. You can’t take fame with you. But you can take peace.”

Host: Her words lingered like steam over the coffee, curling in the air and fading. Jack looked at her for a long time — the sincerity in her voice, the calm defiance in her eyes.

He thought of all the headlines, the speeches, the applause — the noise he’d spent half his life chasing. And how empty silence had begun to feel after the crowd was gone.

Jeeny: after a pause “You know, fame’s just the illusion of connection. People think they know you because they’ve seen you. But seeing isn’t knowing.”

Jack: nodding “And knowing isn’t owning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world consumes people like products. It calls it admiration.”

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

Jeeny: “Authenticity.”

Jack: smiles faintly “Those two rarely coexist.”

Jeeny: smiles back “Maybe that’s why I like small rooms.”

Host: The rain softened, its rhythm gentler now — the sound of release. The barista turned off the record player, and the last note hung in the air for a long, trembling second before vanishing.

Jack: quietly “Do you ever wish you were famous?”

Jeeny: thinks for a moment “No. I wish I was understood. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “And if you had to choose between the two?”

Jeeny: smiles sadly “Understanding lasts longer.”

Jack: “You think Kristin Hersh meant that? That fame isn’t wrong, just empty?”

Jeeny: “I think she meant fame steals the very intimacy that makes creation real. The more people know you, the less you get to be known.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The city outside glistened, washed clean, a mirror of light and shadow. Jeeny finished her tea, setting the cup down softly, the porcelain making a delicate sound — a punctuation mark at the end of something honest.

Jack: after a long pause “You know, I think that’s why people romanticize artists. They mistake visibility for vulnerability. But most famous people hide better than anyone.”

Jeeny: “Because the crowd doesn’t want your truth — they want your reflection. And reflections, Jack, don’t have depth.”

Jack: nods slowly “So you’re saying fame is a surface.”

Jeeny: “No. Fame is a mirror. And it only shows what the world already wants to see.”

Host: Jack looked down at his reflection in the black coffee, his face distorted by the ripples — blurred, indefinite. He smiled faintly, then reached across the table and turned the cup slowly, distorting it even further.

Jack: “Maybe being unknown is the only way to stay real.”

Jeeny: nods, quietly “Maybe being real is the only way to stay free.”

Host: The camera pulled back, framing the two of them in the café’s soft lamplight — two silhouettes surrounded by rain-soaked glass and the echoes of sincerity. Outside, the city still buzzed, still sold its stories, still worshipped its faces.

But inside this small room, something gentler had survived — a conversation untouched by performance,
a truth spoken without an audience.

As the lights dimmed, the scene lingered on Jeeny’s empty teacup, a faint ring of steam still rising.

And somewhere beyond the city noise, Kristin Hersh’s words seemed to whisper through the quiet:

That fame is the loudest silence,
and real connection is the quietest applause.

The screen faded to black,
leaving only the echo of rain and two unseen people —
still talking, still human,
still gloriously unknown.