I get nervous around famous people.

Host: The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place that wore its weariness like perfume — old wood, warm whiskey, and too many half-finished conversations. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the city outside into soft halos of yellow and red.

A small jazz band played in the corner — not loud, not perfect, but honest. Jack sat at the bar, his sleeves rolled up, a half-empty glass in front of him. He wasn’t drinking to forget. He was drinking to think slower.

Jeeny slid onto the stool beside him, brushing the rain from her black coat. She smiled at him, that knowing kind of smile that always felt like both challenge and comfort.

On the TV above the bar, muted footage of a red-carpet event flashed — bright lights, big smiles, names shouted like confessions. Jack’s eyes lingered on it a moment too long.

Jeeny: (softly) “John Rzeznik once said, ‘I get nervous around famous people.’”

Jack: (chuckles) “Yeah. So do I. Except most people get nervous for the wrong reasons.”

Jeeny: “What’s the right reason?”

Jack: “Because they remind you that the world still worships faces instead of souls.”

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “Not bitter. Just… allergic to glitter.”

Jeeny: “Fame’s not poison, Jack.”

Jack: “No. But it’s a hell of a drug.”

Host: The bartender polished a glass, pretending not to listen, but his smirk gave him away. The jazz slipped into a slower tempo, the trumpet crying softly through the haze of dim light. The whole bar felt like a photograph someone forgot to frame.

Jeeny: “So you still get nervous when you meet someone famous?”

Jack: “Not nervous. Just… aware.”

Jeeny: “Aware of what?”

Jack: “Of how much power illusion has. You can feel it. Like static. You look at them and suddenly your own words shrink.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s their fault?”

Jack: “No. It’s ours. We build them higher, then wonder why we can’t reach.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like fame’s a sin.”

Jack: “No. Just a side effect of being seen too much.”

Host: A woman laughed at a nearby table — loud, musical, free. It cut through the room like the sound of something unfiltered, unperformed. Jack glanced over, half-smiled, then turned back to Jeeny.

The light above them flickered, catching the gold in Jeeny’s eyes for a brief second — alive, curious, unafraid.

Jeeny: “You ever wanted to be famous?”

Jack: “Once. When I thought it meant being understood.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I know fame just means being seen. Understanding’s too quiet for that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re just scared of being known.”

Jack: (grinning) “You say that like it’s a flaw.”

Jeeny: “It’s human.”

Jack: “So is insecurity. That’s what Rzeznik meant, I think. Fame makes everyone feel smaller — even the ones who have it.”

Jeeny: “Funny, isn’t it? The more people know your name, the less they know you.”

Jack: “And the more you hide behind it.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, the drops racing down the glass like hurried thoughts. The band switched to a minor key — the kind that hums in your chest instead of your ears.

The bartender refilled Jack’s glass without asking. The neon from the beer sign above painted their faces in faint red.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was younger, I met a movie star once. I froze. Couldn’t even say hello.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because I realized I knew everything about her — and she knew nothing about me. It felt like trespassing on her humanity.”

Jack: “That’s the irony, isn’t it? The more famous you are, the less human people let you be.”

Jeeny: “And yet they crave it. They want the illusion and the intimacy.”

Jack: “They want gods who cry on cue.”

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) “And we’re surprised they burn out.”

Host: The camera would pan slowly to the TV again — a celebrity couple waving at fans, their smiles wide and unbreakable. Then back to Jack and Jeeny — two strangers who had chosen honesty over image, shadows over spotlight.

The contrast felt like truth.

Jack: “You ever notice how fame makes even the ordinary seem sacred? Like drinking water looks profound if a celebrity does it on camera.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we don’t love people. We love symbols.”

Jack: “Symbols are safe. They don’t argue back.”

Jeeny: “And they never disappoint — until they do.”

Jack: “Yeah. Then we crucify them for being human.”

Jeeny: “And call it journalism.”

Host: The jazz slowed further, the piano soft and hesitant, as if even the music was thinking. The bartender dimmed the lights another notch, and the air thickened with warmth and melancholy.

Jeeny leaned her elbow on the bar, studying Jack with that curious blend of affection and analysis she always had.

Jeeny: “You get nervous around famous people because they remind you of the parts of yourself you’ve abandoned.”

Jack: (raises an eyebrow) “You think so?”

Jeeny: “Sure. Everyone projects something onto fame — desire, envy, guilt. The famous just end up carrying everyone else’s reflection.”

Jack: “And we call it admiration.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But it’s really confusion.”

Jack: “You make it sound tragic.”

Jeeny: “It is. To be known by millions and understood by none.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why Rzeznik was nervous. He saw the cage behind the curtain.”

Jeeny: “And the price tag on the applause.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving behind a soft hum on the rooftop. Outside, the streetlight flickered once, then steadied. Inside, the bar had gone quieter — conversations fading, glasses half-empty, the night itself beginning to yawn.

Jack stared into his drink as if it might offer him a reflection he could trust.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what it would feel like to be that famous?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Like standing in front of a crowd that keeps applauding long after you’ve forgotten your own lines.”

Jeeny: “Lonely?”

Jack: “Terrifying. Because they don’t love you. They love what you give them permission to feel.”

Jeeny: “That’s not love. That’s transaction.”

Jack: “Exactly. And I think I’d rather be invisible than sold.”

Jeeny: “Invisible’s a luxury now.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “Then maybe I’m rich after all.”

Host: The bartender flipped the sign to “Closed.” The music faded, leaving only the sound of rain easing into silence. Jack stood, tossed a few bills on the counter. Jeeny followed him to the door.

The night outside was cleaner now — rinsed by rain, washed of glamour. The streets glistened like mirrors no one wanted to look into.

They stepped out, shoulders brushing, their breath visible in the cool air.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Even the ones who make us nervous — the famous ones — they probably get nervous around someone too.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe that’s the last bit of proof they’re still human.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And maybe that’s what makes you human too — the fact that you still care enough to feel nervous.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just empathy dressed as anxiety.”

Jeeny: “Same thing. Just spelled differently.”

Host: The camera would follow them as they walked down the glistening street, their reflections trailing in the puddles. The neon behind them flickered, then went dark, leaving only the soft hum of the city at rest.

They didn’t need to say goodbye. The night had already done it for them.

And as the scene faded, John Rzeznik’s words lingered like an echo in the rain —

that nervousness is not weakness,
but recognition — the trembling acknowledgment
that fame does not erase fragility;
that behind every perfect smile
beats the same uncertain heart.

For when you stand before someone the world adores,
and you feel that quiet quake inside you,
you are not small —
you are simply seeing clearly:

that even the brightest lights
still cast shadows,
and even the famous
still long to be understood,
not just seen.