I have had fans make me the big picture collages of the photo

Host: The club was half-empty now. Lights dimmed, the air thick with the fading smell of perfume and smoke, that peculiar cocktail of glamour and loneliness that lingers after the music dies.

The stage still glowed, a faint purple haze hovering above the empty microphone stand — a throne abandoned by applause. The bartender wiped down glasses, his movements weary, almost meditative.

In the back booth, Jack and Jeeny sat, the last of the night’s believers, two silhouettes bathed in the dying heartbeat of neon.

Jack tilted his glass, watching the ice melt, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room — on memory, maybe, or just the echo of too many lights.

Jeeny watched him with quiet curiosity, her hair framing her face like a dark curtain, her hands folded in thought.

Jeeny: “You’re quiet tonight.”

Jack: “Just thinking about something I read earlier. Sean Combs — you know, Puff Daddy, Diddy, whatever name he’s wearing these days — once said, ‘I’ve had fans make me collages, send me birthday cakes, sing to me on voicemail. I’ve had fans flash me. Older fans give me their bras and underwear onstage.’”

Jeeny: “Ah.” (She smiled faintly.) “The religion of fame.”

Jack: “Yeah. Worship without the theology.”

Host: The lights from outside flickered through the club’s blinds, cutting across their faces in stripes — like two confessions seen through a half-closed door.

Jeeny: “You sound disgusted.”

Jack: “Not disgusted. Just… fascinated. The way people can turn another human into a mirror for their own hunger. It’s not love — it’s a kind of possession. They don’t see him; they see the piece of themselves they wish existed.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what all art does? We project our own need onto someone else’s expression. The fan who sends a cake isn’t worshipping Diddy — they’re thanking the version of themselves his music made them feel.”

Jack: “Maybe. But it’s not the same. This isn’t connection; it’s consumption. A celebrity becomes a brand, and the fan becomes addicted. It’s not gratitude, it’s craving.”

Host: The bass from a forgotten speaker hummed low — a remnant of the music still trembling through the floorboards.

Jeeny: “But even craving is a kind of devotion. Maybe it’s the only one people know anymore.”

Jack: “That’s a bleak gospel, Jeeny. We used to build cathedrals. Now we build stages.”

Jeeny: “What’s the difference? Both are temples. Both built for eyes that look upward.”

Jack: “The difference is purpose. Cathedrals pointed to something higher. Stages point to someone prettier.”

Host: Jeeny’s smile was sad now, but knowing. She looked at the empty stage — the lone microphone still standing — and exhaled slowly, as if releasing the ghost of applause.

Jeeny: “You think it’s vanity. But maybe it’s just evolution. People don’t want to pray to gods they can’t touch anymore. They want deities who bleed, cry, cheat, break — like them. Celebrities are the new mythology, Jack. Mortal gods.”

Jack: “And mortals who forget they’re mortal. That’s the tragedy. They start believing in their own divinity until it kills them. Michael Jackson. Amy Winehouse. Whitney Houston. The crowd gives them wings, and then burns them for flying too close.”

Host: The air grew heavier, the lights dimmer. The bartender switched off the neon over the counter, and the last glow came from the candle at their table — its small flame flickering like an exhausted heartbeat.

Jeeny: “And yet we keep coming to watch. To witness. To feel close to their fire, even when it scorches.”

Jack: “Because people would rather feel burned than unseen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fame isn’t about being admired. It’s about being known. Even the fans crave it — proximity to someone who matters makes them matter, too.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed against the table, a small, restless percussion. He looked up, his eyes glinting with something between cynicism and pain.

Jack: “You know, I once saw it up close — a crowd outside a concert. There was this girl, couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Crying, shaking, screaming for a glimpse of the singer. When he waved, she collapsed — literally fainted. And I thought, that’s not love, that’s possession meeting emptiness.”

Jeeny: “Or hope meeting its reflection.”

Jack: “You romanticize everything.”

Jeeny: “Because you drain the soul out of everything.”

Host: A beat of silence hung between them, fragile and alive. The flame fluttered, caught in their tension.

Jeeny: “Jack, maybe it’s not the fans who are lost. Maybe it’s the artists. They build these images — flawless, infinite, untouchable — and forget that they were human before they were worshiped. They forget they built the altar too.”

Jack: “So both sides are guilty.”

Jeeny: “No. Both sides are hungry.”

Host: Her voice softened — it carried the weight of compassion, not defense. The word “hungry” hung in the air like incense, invisible but tangible.

Jack: “And what are they hungry for?”

Jeeny: “Connection. Meaning. To be part of something bigger than themselves. Fame just gives them a script for it.”

Jack: “But it’s all illusion. You can’t build meaning on attention.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But for a moment, it feels real. That’s enough for some people — a brief spark before the dark.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long while. Then he smiled, faintly — the kind of smile that hides both defeat and understanding.

Jack: “You really think love can exist between a fan and a celebrity?”

Jeeny: “Of course not. But longing can. And longing has built more art than love ever did.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but dangerous.”

Jeeny: “So is being human.”

Host: The last call bell rang. The bartender wiped the counter one final time, turned off the lights, and left, leaving the two of them alone in the half-dark.

Jeeny stood, her hand resting on the back of the booth.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? All those bras and birthday cakes — they’re not madness. They’re prayers. People just praying to be seen, to matter, even for a second. Maybe the real tragedy isn’t the obsession. Maybe it’s the silence after the song ends.”

Jack: “And what happens then?”

Jeeny: “The lights go out, the stage empties, and both the fan and the star go home — lonelier than before.”

Host: She walked toward the door, her shadow long and graceful in the dim light. Jack remained, watching, his thoughts heavy but newly alive — like coals that refused to die out.

Outside, the rain had started again, falling on the abandoned posters and scattered cigarette butts — the holy remnants of another night’s devotion.

The stage now stood empty, but its silence was sacred.

And somewhere in that silence, fame and loneliness held hands — a duet unfinished, but eternal.