I hope 'The Voice' has a fifteen-year run, don't get me wrong.

Host: The rain had stopped just an hour ago, but the streets of Los Angeles still glistened under the neon light of the late night. A soft mist hung in the air, like the ghost of a forgotten storm. The café was almost empty, save for the quiet hum of an old espresso machine and the faint sound of jazz playing through the static of a cheap speaker. Jack sat by the window, his reflection split between the inside light and the outside darkness. Jeeny arrived a few minutes later, wet hair sticking to her cheeks, eyes bright with that unmistakable fire of someone who still believes.

Jack: (dryly) “You ever feel like all this is just a fluke, Jeeny? Like you’re playing a role, and any minute now someone’s gonna walk in and say, ‘Alright, fun’s over, we’ve seen enough.’”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “You sound like Carson Daly tonight.”

Jack: (arches a brow) “That guy from The Voice? What about him?”

Jeeny: “He once said, ‘I hope The Voice has a fifteen-year run, don’t get me wrong. But I come from nothing, and maybe it’s the Irish in me, but my attitude is always like, they’ll figure me out soon.’”

Host: The steam from her cup rose like ghostly fingers, curling in the air between them. The rain tapped again — gentle, rhythmic — like the heartbeat of the city.

Jack: “Yeah. That’s exactly it. You climb, you fight, you earn your way up from nothing, and when you finally get there, you can’t even enjoy it. You’re just waiting for the fall.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not the fall you’re afraid of, Jack. Maybe it’s the feeling that you don’t belong at the top.”

Jack: “You say that like it’s some illusion. But it’s not. It’s real. The world’s full of people pretending to be more than they are. You think half the people on those talent shows deserve to be there? They’re just lucky. Wrong place, right camera.”

Jeeny: “Luck doesn’t write your songs, Jack. It doesn’t keep you awake at night fighting to be better. Maybe what you call pretending is just people carrying the weight of their own doubt.”

Host: A bus passed outside, splashing water onto the curb, breaking the silence. Jack watched it with tired eyes, the reflection of red taillights bleeding across his face like a wound.

Jack: “You ever look at those old photos of yourself — the ones from when you had nothing? I do. I see the kid who thought success would fix everything. But all it did was make the mirror harder to face.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you keep looking at success like a judgment, not a gift. You think someone’s going to ‘figure you out,’ as Daly said, but what if they already have? What if the only one still doubting you — is you?”

Jack: (chuckles, low and bitter) “That’s the kind of thing people say when they’ve never been broke. When you’ve had to steal a sandwich at 17, you don’t forget that. You just hide it behind a suit and a smile.”

Jeeny: “But Carson Daly came from nothing, Jack. That’s why his words cut. Because even when you escape, a part of you never believes you really did. It’s like survivor’s guilt — but for hope.”

Host: The music shifted, a slow, melancholic trumpet filling the room. The light from the window flickered as the sign outside buzzed, casting shadows that moved like memories across their faces.

Jack: “You really think hope is stronger than fear?”

Jeeny: “Every revolution, every art, every song, every child — all of it begins with hope, not fear.”

Jack: “Tell that to the ones who failed.”

Jeeny: “Failure isn’t proof of being an impostor, Jack. It’s proof you tried. Michelangelo spent years believing the Sistine Chapel wasn’t good enough. Maya Angelou once said she feared every time she published that people would finally realize she was a ‘fraud.’ Even the greatest carry that voice inside. Maybe that’s what keeps them human.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes shone with a quiet fierceness, like the flame of a candle that refuses to die in the wind. Jack leaned back, his jaw tight, his fingers drumming on the table — a man balancing between cynicism and truth.

Jack: “So what, we just embrace the doubt? Call it ‘humanity’ and move on?”

Jeeny: “No. We acknowledge it. We let it remind us where we came from. Carson’s words — they’re not about fear of being found out. They’re about gratitude. About never forgetting that you weren’t born on the stage — you built it.”

Jack: “Gratitude doesn’t stop the voice in your head that says, ‘You don’t deserve this.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it can turn that voice into a friend instead of a threat.”

Host: A long pause. The rain had stopped completely now. Only the distant sound of tires on wet asphalt remained, like the echo of an old song. Jack looked at Jeeny — really looked — as if seeing her for the first time that night.

Jack: “You ever feel like we’re all just faking confidence? Like we’re all just hoping nobody sees how scared we really are?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But that’s what makes us real, Jack. The actors on The Voice — they sing not because they’re certain, but because they’re terrified. That’s what gives the music its soul. It’s not the note, it’s the tremor before it.”

Host: The room seemed to breathe with them. The light softened, the clock on the wall ticked like a metronome marking their silence.

Jack: (whispering) “You make it sound like fear’s not the enemy.”

Jeeny: “It never was. The enemy is forgetting. Forgetting where you started, forgetting who you are when the spotlight fades. Daly’s not saying they’ll ‘figure him out’ — he’s saying he’ll never forget that he could’ve easily been the one watching, not the one hosting.”

Jack: (sighs) “You always find the light, don’t you?”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Only because I’ve been in the dark, too.”

Host: Jack nodded, a slow, almost painful gesture. He lifted his cup, the coffee long cold, but he drank it anyway — as if to swallow something unfinished inside him. The neon sign outside blinked, casting a final glow over the table, two souls caught between doubt and faith.

Jack: “So maybe we’re all just impostors learning to believe our own stories.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe we’re just souls trying to stay grateful for the miracle of being here at all.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — out through the rain-slicked window, past the reflections of neon and shadow, leaving them as two small, bright figures in a vast, sleeping city. Their voices would fade, but their truth would linger — that every dream, no matter how earned, carries the ghost of where it began. And maybe that’s not fear at all — but humility. The kind that keeps a person human, even under the spotlight.