I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with the idea of being

Host: The streetlights hummed softly above the narrow alley, their amber glow falling over the wet pavement like liquid gold. The city night was restless — distant sirens, laughter from a nearby bar, the faint rhythm of a saxophone spilling from an open window.

In this in-between hour — too late for crowds, too early for silence — two figures lingered beside a poster half-torn from a brick wall. The faded image was of Jack, his name printed in bold across the bottom, the remnants of applause captured in glossy ink.

He looked older than the poster version — worn, quieter, as though applause had left a shadow.

Jeeny stood beside him, coat wrapped tight, her hair glistening faintly in the drizzle. Her dark eyes were thoughtful, the kind of eyes that could see beneath applause, beneath masks.

Jeeny: “Alison Lohman once said, ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable with the idea of being famous.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “She must have tried it then — fame. It’s the kind of discomfort you can’t imagine until you wear it.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who knows.”

Jack: (looking at the torn poster) “Comfort isn’t the word I’d use. Fame’s like light that burns the eyes. At first, it feels warm — then it blinds you.”

Jeeny: “But you wanted it once.”

Jack: “Everyone does. Until it arrives wearing the wrong face.”

Host: The rain began to fall harder, tracing silver veins down the window of a closed café. The smell of wet asphalt and cold air mixed with the faint sweetness of espresso drifting from inside.

Jeeny: “So what does fame feel like, really?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Like being loved by strangers and forgotten by yourself.”

Jeeny: “That sounds lonely.”

Jack: “It is. The loneliest kind. Because it’s not the absence of people — it’s the absence of truth.”

Jeeny: “But people think fame is freedom.”

Jack: “It’s the opposite. When the world knows your name, you lose the right to whisper it without echo.”

Host: A neon sign flickered, its reflection spilling across the puddles — fractured letters glowing in the water. It read Open, though the door behind it was locked.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Lohman never seemed to chase it. Some people aren’t afraid of obscurity; they’re afraid of losing what’s real.”

Jack: “Real doesn’t sell tickets.”

Jeeny: “But it saves souls.”

Jack: (smirking) “You’d make a terrible agent.”

Jeeny: “And you’d make a tragic celebrity.”

Host: He laughed — not the full sound of joy, but the kind that carries fatigue, the sound of someone remembering who they used to be. The rain softened, becoming a mist that shimmered under the streetlights.

Jack: “When you’re famous, people think they know you. They don’t. They know a story they’ve built with your face. And after a while, even you start believing it.”

Jeeny: “So fame becomes a mirror.”

Jack: “A funhouse mirror. You look for your reflection and find distortion. The higher you rise, the less your shadow follows.”

Jeeny: “And yet… some part of you misses it.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe. But not the lights, or the interviews, or the noise. I miss the moment before it all — when creating was still honest. Before every word, every gesture was watched, recorded, replayed.”

Jeeny: “So you miss being invisible.”

Jack: “I miss being free.”

Host: The sound of rain on metal filled the silence between them — the rhythmic tapping against the fire escape, the slow drip into puddles. Jeeny’s voice broke the quiet like a soft melody.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that line from The Great Gatsby — when Nick says, ‘You can’t repeat the past’? Maybe fame is the same. Once you step into it, you can’t go back to being unseen.”

Jack: “No, but you can learn to disappear differently.”

Jeeny: “Disappear?”

Jack: “Not hide. Just… exist without performing. Like right now — no cameras, no audience, no script. Just the sound of rain and someone who isn’t trying to sell you back to yourself.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “So this is your new fame — obscurity in peace.”

Jack: “Something like that. Obscurity’s underrated.”

Host: The wind rustled the posters, one corner peeling loose and fluttering like a flag surrendering to time. Jeeny stepped closer to the wall, running her fingers over the printed image of Jack — younger, confident, invincible.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Maybe fame doesn’t destroy people. It just amplifies who they already are. If you’re lost, it makes you more lost. If you’re grounded, it gives you wings.”

Jack: “And if you’re both?”

Jeeny: “Then it becomes your teacher.”

Jack: “A cruel one.”

Jeeny: “But the ones that break you usually are.”

Host: He leaned against the wall, the rain collecting on his shoulders, his eyes distant but alive — like someone who had stared too long at brightness and was finally learning to see in the dark again.

Jack: “Funny thing about fame — it’s supposed to make you known. But all it really does is make you search for someone who still looks at you without expectation.”

Jeeny: “And have you found that someone?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “I think I’m talking to her.”

Jeeny: “Careful. That line sounds rehearsed.”

Jack: “Old habits.”

Host: The city’s hum grew softer, the rain easing into a fine drizzle. The world around them seemed smaller now — two figures sharing a patch of light beneath a lamppost, while everything else faded into mist.

Jeeny: “You know, Alison Lohman said she’d never be comfortable with being famous. Maybe comfort isn’t the goal. Maybe it’s awareness — knowing fame’s a borrowed name, not a real one.”

Jack: “And when it’s taken back?”

Jeeny: “You get to remember your own.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Then maybe fame isn’t a curse. Maybe it’s just a phase — a test of whether you’ll let the world define you, or whether you’ll reclaim your own silence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fame is noise. Peace is music.”

Host: A car passed, splashing through the puddles, its headlights sweeping over their faces like a brief spotlight — and then it was gone, leaving only rain and dim gold light.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? Even when the crowd’s gone, the echo stays. Sometimes I still hear it — the applause, the laughter — like ghosts who don’t realize the show’s over.”

Jeeny: “Then you need to teach them silence.”

Jack: “And how do I do that?”

Jeeny: “By living quietly. Authentically. Let the applause fade into the background noise it always was.”

Host: He looked up, exhaling slowly, as if letting go of something invisible — the weight of being seen. The poster flapped one last time in the wind, then tore free completely, carried off into the rain.

Jack watched it drift away — his younger self dissolving into the dark — and for the first time, he didn’t chase it.

Jeeny stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “You’re free, Jack.”

Jack: (smiling softly) “Finally.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving the air fresh and clean. The city glowed faintly through the mist — quiet, almost forgiving.

And in that stillness, Alison Lohman’s words took root like a truth rediscovered:

That fame is a disguise,
that comfort isn’t found in being seen, but in being known,
and that true freedom begins when applause ends.

Host: The light flickered once, then steadied.

Jack and Jeeny stood there — two silhouettes beneath the last glow of night —
the famous man who no longer needed to be seen,
and the quiet soul who reminded him how to be real again.