I got obsessed with impersonations: impersonating people that I

Host: The school auditorium was empty now — that sacred in-between time when the echoes of rehearsal still clung to the air, like ghosts reluctant to leave. The stage lights hummed softly overhead, warming the floorboards worn smooth by generations of uncertain feet learning the shape of confidence.

Rows of folding chairs stood in obedient silence, each one a witness to laughter, trembling lines, and the tremor of young souls trying to find a voice.

Jack stood center stage, holding a script with dog-eared corners, his shadow stretching long against the curtain. Jeeny sat in the front row, a coffee in one hand, a knowing half-smile on her lips — the kind reserved for teachers, old friends, and those who’ve seen too much of themselves in someone else’s beginnings.

Jeeny: “You’re smiling like a man who just got away with something.”

Jack: (grinning) “Maybe I did.”

Jeeny: “What was it this time? Another monologue gone rogue?”

Jack: “No. Just… remembering.”

Jeeny: “That’s dangerous.”

Jack: “That’s acting.”

Host: The lights flickered once, as if even electricity knew the rhythm of rehearsal.

Jeeny: “You know, you remind me of something Stephan James said once. ‘I got obsessed with impersonations: impersonating people that I knew — people, not famous people but people like my family. At first, it was just fun; it's always been just fun. But I sort of got to a point in maybe seventh or eighth grade where I started getting heavily involved in drama programs via programs in my high school.’”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. That makes sense. You don’t start acting because you love fame. You start because you love reflection.”

Jeeny: “Reflection?”

Jack: “Yeah. You see someone — your father, your teacher, your brother — and you wonder what it feels like to be them. To wear their silence for a minute.”

Jeeny: “You make empathy sound like theater.”

Jack: “It is. It’s the longest-running show on earth.”

Host: The hum of the stage lights deepened, blending with the quiet patter of rain beginning outside — a soundtrack fit for revelation.

Jeeny: “So that’s how it started for you too, huh? Just… imitation?”

Jack: “Always. I used to copy my uncle’s laugh. My mom’s way of saying my name when she was proud of me. The way my dad stared at the TV when he didn’t want to talk about something real. It was like collecting pieces of people I didn’t understand yet.”

Jeeny: “And somewhere in there, you found yourself.”

Jack: “Or lost him.”

Host: She chuckled softly, the sound landing like a truth disguised as affection.

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox of acting, isn’t it? You spend your whole life pretending to be someone else until you finally bump into your own reflection backstage.”

Jack: “And then the hardest part is not breaking character when you realize it’s you.”

Jeeny: “So what kept you doing it?”

Jack: “Same thing that kept James doing it — it’s fun. People forget that. The power of joy in imitation.”

Jeeny: “But it’s also dangerous joy. Because once you start seeing the world through other people’s eyes, you can’t unsee it.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why good actors always look a little haunted.”

Host: The sound of the rain grew louder, echoing through the old building like applause from a storm.

Jeeny: “You ever think imitation’s a form of love?”

Jack: “Always. You don’t imitate what you hate. You imitate what fascinates you — what you want to understand. Maybe even what you miss.”

Jeeny: “So, acting is remembering?”

Jack: “No. It’s empathy with choreography.”

Jeeny: “You should write that down.”

Jack: “I already did. Right here.” (He taps the script.) “Every character is someone I’ve met in disguise.”

Host: She leaned back in her seat, her eyes tracing the edges of the stage as though she could still see the ghosts of teenagers rehearsing hope.

Jeeny: “You know, Stephan James turned that childhood play into purpose. He didn’t just impersonate; he translated. He took pieces of real people and gave them back to the world, only sharper, truer.”

Jack: “Yeah. That’s what real acting is — not pretending, but revealing.”

Jeeny: “You mean stripping away the act, not putting one on.”

Jack: “Exactly. You impersonate to understand. You perform to confess.”

Host: The rain softened into a steady hush. Somewhere down the hallway, a janitor’s broom whispered across linoleum — a familiar postscript to every high school dream.

Jack: “Funny thing, though. When you’re young, it starts with play. You do impressions, you mimic voices — it’s harmless. Then one day, you realize you’ve been studying humanity the whole time.”

Jeeny: “And humanity’s not as simple as the script makes it.”

Jack: “Never is.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what makes it worth performing.”

Host: The stage lights dimmed slightly — not failure, just closure. The sound of the rain merged with silence, and for a long moment, the two simply sat in it — two actors, two humans, one scene between them.

Jack: “You know what I miss about those early days?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “How honest it was. You’d impersonate your father, and it wasn’t parody — it was longing. You’d mimic your teacher, and it wasn’t mockery — it was curiosity. Somewhere along the way, we forgot how pure imitation can be.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe growing up is about unlearning irony.”

Jack: “And rediscovering sincerity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain began to fade, the quiet outside matching the quiet inside.

Jeeny: “You think acting ever stops being fun?”

Jack: “Only when it stops being about people.”

Jeeny: “Then promise me you’ll keep it that way.”

Jack: “I promise.”

Host: He set the script down, the final page marked with fingerprints and notes — a roadmap not just of a character, but of a person still learning how to be.

As the last light dimmed, Stephan James’s words lingered in the air like a benediction:

“I got obsessed with impersonations: impersonating people that I knew — people, not famous people but people like my family. At first, it was just fun; it's always been just fun. But I sort of got to a point in maybe seventh or eighth grade where I started getting heavily involved in drama programs via programs in my high school.”

Because imitation, at its truest, isn’t mockery —
it’s memory in motion.

Acting isn’t about pretending —
it’s about witnessing.

And sometimes, by stepping into another’s skin,
we come closer to our own —
not to escape who we are,
but to understand what it means
to be human at all.