I have a profound empathy for people who are in the public eye

Host: The café was nearly empty, hidden deep within the quiet corner of the city’s arts district. The rain outside was soft, hypnotic, coating the windows in glistening veins of silver. The faint sound of an old record player drifted through the air—Joni Mitchell’s voice curling like smoke above the dim lights.

Jack sat near the window, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling before him, his reflection caught faintly in the glass beside the blurred glow of passing cars. Jeeny sat across from him, her elbows on the table, her hands wrapped around her own cup as though drawing warmth from it.

She watched the world outside for a moment before speaking, her voice calm, thoughtful.

Jeeny: “Alanis Morissette once said, ‘I have a profound empathy for people who are in the public eye, whether they manifest it themselves or whether it happened by accident—it doesn’t matter to me. I think there’s a great misunderstanding of what it is to be famous.’”

She looked up, eyes steady. “It’s strange how fame is treated like a reward when it often feels like exposure.”

Jack gave a low, contemplative hum, then leaned back in his chair.
Jack: “Exposure’s the right word. Fame doesn’t illuminate—it strips away privacy until there’s nothing left but light and shadow. And neither belong to you anymore.”

Host: The rain thickened, a soft percussion against the window. The café’s neon sign flickered, painting faint pink and blue across Jeeny’s face as she nodded slowly.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve thought about this before.”

Jack: “I’ve watched people chase it. It’s like moths to flame—they think it’s warmth until they’re too close to the fire.”

Jeeny: “And yet the world worships it. The famous become myth—then mirror—then target.”

Jack: “Because fame is the closest thing our society has to immortality. But no one asks what kind of eternity they’re signing up for.”

Host: A brief silence followed. Outside, a bus passed by, splashing water across the curb. Inside, the sound seemed to stretch—the ticking of the old clock, the hiss of the espresso machine, the low hum of memory.

Jeeny: “I think Alanis was right. There is a misunderstanding. People see fame as power, but it’s actually vulnerability in disguise.”

Jack: “Exactly. You stop being a person—you become a projection. A collage of expectations that doesn’t breathe the way you do.”

Jeeny: “And empathy disappears the moment visibility arrives.”

Jack: “Because the audience loves the story, not the storyteller. Fame isn’t about you—it’s about what people need you to represent.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy. People envy fame but rarely understand its loneliness. The higher you climb, the fewer people speak to you, and the more they speak to your echo.”

Host: Jeeny’s words drifted through the quiet air like truth finding a place to land. Jack’s eyes softened, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his cup.

Jack: “You know what’s cruel? The very thing that isolates you—the attention—is what the world tells you to crave.”

Jeeny: “It’s paradoxical. Society tells you to be extraordinary, but punishes you the second you stop pretending to be ordinary.”

Jack: “Fame’s a performance with no curtain call. Even silence becomes a stage.”

Jeeny: “And every mistake becomes a headline.”

Host: The rain paused for a moment, leaving behind the soft aftersound of water dripping from the awning. The world outside felt still, suspended. Jeeny tilted her head, her tone gentler now.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think about why we’re so obsessed with it—this idea of being known?”

Jack: “Because being seen feels like being loved. And being invisible feels like being erased.”

Jeeny: “But fame isn’t love.”

Jack: “No. It’s the imitation of it. Bright enough to fool you, but never warm enough to hold you.”

Host: A faint lightning flash illuminated their reflections in the window—two faces superimposed on a city that kept moving without them.

Jeeny: “That’s why Alanis said she had empathy. Because fame looks like freedom but feels like confinement.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s a gilded transparency. Everyone sees through you, but no one really sees you.”

Jeeny: “And yet, fame seduces even those who know better. It promises validation. But the cost is peace.”

Jack: “The oldest trade in the world—selling your solitude for applause.”

Jeeny: “And applause fades faster than silence.”

Host: Jeeny took a slow sip of coffee, her gaze drifting toward the door.
Jeeny: “Do you think you could handle being famous?”

Jack chuckled softly, shaking his head.
Jack: “No. I’d suffocate. I like being anonymous enough to make mistakes.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you already understand fame better than most people who chase it.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just too afraid of losing myself.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fear. That’s wisdom. The famous spend years trying to find themselves again—after everyone else has renamed them.”

Host: The storm returned, heavier now, the windows trembling under the rhythm of rain. Jeeny reached for a napkin and began idly sketching circles—small, imperfect, overlapping.

Jack watched her hand move.
Jack: “You know what those look like?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Spotlights. The kind that never turn off.”

Jeeny smiled sadly.
Jeeny: “And each one burns differently.”

Jack: “Until there’s nothing left of the performer but light.”

Jeeny: “And the audience keeps clapping, unaware they’re applauding the ashes.”

Host: The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance. The café lights flickered, casting the room in soft shadows. Jack looked at Jeeny—really looked—and for a moment, the air between them felt like confession.

Jack: “You ever wonder if empathy is the cure? The way Alanis meant it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because empathy rehumanizes what fame dehumanizes. It reminds us that behind every image is someone still learning how to breathe.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the lesson—to look past the spotlight, past the noise, and find the heartbeat again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To remember that the public eye is just another lens—and no one can live forever under magnification.”

Host: The rain eased once more, replaced by a deep, luminous calm. The record on the player reached its end, the soft crackle of static filling the room like an old secret refusing to fade.

Jack leaned forward slightly, his voice quiet, almost reverent.
Jack: “Maybe fame isn’t the disease—it’s the misunderstanding of it. The belief that being seen is the same as being understood.”

Jeeny: “And maybe empathy is what restores the difference.”

Host: The two sat in silence, the glow of the café washing over them. Outside, the city glistened anew, its streets reborn under the rain. Inside, their reflections—dim, fragile, human—stayed behind on the glass like ghosts of thought.

And as the camera drifted backward, leaving the warmth of that quiet place, Alanis Morissette’s truth lingered like the echo of a song not yet finished:

That fame is not a crown but a mirror—
a reflection magnified beyond mercy.
That the world mistakes visibility for connection,
and applause for understanding.
But true empathy—
the kind that listens, not looks—
is what saves the soul from disappearing
beneath its own reflection.