I knew a lot of girls who just wanted to be famous, and if that's

Host: The night was hot and humming with the pulse of the city — lights flickering off rain-slick pavement, cars sliding past like fleeting memories. Inside a small rooftop bar, the air smelled of citrus and ambition. A low bassline pulsed beneath the chatter of dreamers — singers, writers, actors — each voice shimmering with that fragile hunger called hope.

Jack sat at the far end of the bar, sleeves rolled up, eyes distant. His glass caught the faint neon glow of the city skyline. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back on a stool, her hair falling loose, a knowing smile ghosting her lips.

Somewhere below, music blared from an open car window — a Lizzo song, full of brass and confidence, rolling up through the humid air like laughter.

Jack: “Lizzo said, ‘I knew a lot of girls who just wanted to be famous, and if that’s your goal, that’s awesome; that just wasn’t enough for me.’”

Jeeny: “Mm. She gets it. Fame’s a bright flame — beautiful, blinding, gone too fast.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s the only light some people ever see. Not everyone gets to talk about meaning when they’re trying just to be noticed.”

Jeeny: “Noticed and known are different things, Jack. Fame makes you visible. Purpose makes you seen.”

Host: The bartender slid two drinks toward them — condensation gleaming like the sweat on ambition’s brow. The murmur of conversation filled the space around them, a symphony of dreams colliding with deadlines.

Jack: “You say that like fame’s poison.”

Jeeny: “It’s not poison — it’s sugar. Sweet, addictive, empty. You crave more the second it fades.”

Jack: “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to chase it. Some people need it — to prove they exist. Fame’s just another way to say, ‘I matter.’”

Jeeny: “But you already matter. Fame doesn’t give you worth; it just amplifies the noise around it.”

Jack: “You sound like a philosopher trying to talk a starving artist out of a meal.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m just saying — if the meal feeds your ego but starves your soul, what’s the point?”

Host: The rain began again, tapping lightly against the rooftop glass. Down below, the city glimmered — restless, electric, alive with the ache of people trying to be someone.

Jack: “You ever notice how everyone wants to be seen, but no one wants to be known? They’ll bare their bodies, their lives, but not their truth.”

Jeeny: “Because truth doesn’t trend.”

Jack: “You think Lizzo found both — fame and purpose?”

Jeeny: “I think she made both. That’s the difference. She didn’t chase fame; she chased authenticity, and fame found her because of it.”

Jack: “So you think authenticity’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Because when the lights go out and the noise dies, that’s all you have left.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed absently against the glass, in time with the distant rhythm of the rain.

Jack: “You know, I used to think fame was the answer too. Growing up poor, all I saw on TV were people smiling — rich, confident, untouchable. I thought if I could just get there, everything would stop hurting.”

Jeeny: “And did it?”

Jack: “No. I didn’t even get close. But the hunger hurt worse than the poverty ever did.”

Jeeny: “Because fame’s not fulfillment. It’s applause without understanding.”

Jack: “You make it sound like wanting more is a sin.”

Jeeny: “It’s not the wanting. It’s the why. Wanting more to create, to lift, to inspire — that’s growth. Wanting more to fill a void — that’s grief dressed in glitter.”

Host: The lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the edges of their faces — one etched with skepticism, the other with quiet faith.

Jack: “You think Lizzo ever feels lonely? Surrounded by noise, but still alone?”

Jeeny: “Of course she does. Everyone who’s honest feels lonely sometimes. But the difference is, she turns that loneliness into art, not performance.”

Jack: “Art and performance — aren’t they the same thing?”

Jeeny: “Only if you’re lying. Art reveals. Performance hides.”

Jack: “So fame hides.”

Jeeny: “Often. The bigger the spotlight, the more you lose your outline.”

Host: A long silence followed, filled only by the rain’s rhythm and the soft murmur of the bar. Then Jeeny reached for her drink and stared into it as though it were a mirror.

Jeeny: “You know what’s wild? Lizzo didn’t say chasing fame was wrong. She said it wasn’t enough. That’s the difference between ambition and purpose. One feeds the world’s gaze. The other feeds your soul.”

Jack: “And you really think soul’s enough to live on?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Fame fades. Followers vanish. But the feeling of doing what you love — of doing it right — that doesn’t die. It stays, even when nobody’s watching.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s made peace with obscurity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just stopped mistaking silence for failure.”

Host: The music from the bar shifted — a low, soulful bass, followed by a voice that could only belong to Lizzo herself: rich, fearless, radiant.

Jack looked up. The song poured into the room, wrapping them both in its rhythm, its power, its audacity to be.

Jack: “You ever wonder what it takes to sound that free?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. A lifetime of being silenced.”

Jack: “So freedom’s born from pain?”

Jeeny: “Always. The people who shine the brightest are the ones who learned how to turn pain into permission.”

Jack: “Permission for what?”

Jeeny: “To love themselves out loud.”

Host: The rain outside had stopped now. The air felt cleaner, as if the city had just taken a long breath. Jeeny’s eyes caught the skyline’s reflection — the glow of a thousand windows stacked like stages for ordinary lives.

Jack: “You think that’s what she meant — that fame’s not enough because love, purpose, truth — those are the real trophies?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fame’s a mirror. Purpose is a window.”

Jack: “And you’d rather look out than in.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, his gaze softening as the music swelled.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing. Not the fame — the reason for wanting it.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re already closer than most.”

Host: The bar lights dimmed as last call was announced. The city outside buzzed on, restless as ever, but inside, the air felt still — sacred.

Jeeny stood, slipping on her jacket. Jack followed, slower, his face caught in thought.

Jeeny: “You know what Lizzo taught us?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That fame can be a stage. But purpose — purpose is the song.”

Host: They stepped out into the night, the wet pavement reflecting the shimmer of the skyline like melted starlight.

And as they walked into the hum of the world — voices, headlights, dreams colliding — Jack looked up and whispered, almost to himself:

Jack: “Maybe I don’t want to be famous.”

Jeeny: “Then what do you want to be?”

Jack: “Free.”

Host: Jeeny smiled.

The wind carried Lizzo’s voice one last time through the open street — bold, fearless, alive — reminding them both that fame is a spark,
but freedom — that’s the fire that keeps burning long after the applause fades.