I know I'm not supposed to have any opinions about politics

Host: The studio lights glowed like tired stars, their heat pressing down on the quiet set. It was long past midnight. The air hung thick with the smell of coffee, old stage dust, and the faint electric buzz of equipment left running too long.

A single camera stood in front of them, its red recording light a silent witness. Jack leaned forward on a cracked leather couch, his suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Jeeny sat opposite, cross-legged, barefoot on the cold studio floor, her long black hair falling over her shoulders.

The night had settled heavy outside, but the city beyond the tall windows was still awake, shimmering with distant lights and the faint hum of traffic — like a heartbeat that refused to sleep.

Jack stared at the script pages scattered across the table. “You ever read what Cher once said?” he muttered, voice low and hoarse. “‘I know I’m not supposed to have any opinions about politics, because I’m famous.’”

Jeeny looked up, her eyes catching the faint reflection of the red light.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we build people up to speak, to shine, to inspire, and then we tell them to shut up when their words make us uncomfortable.”

Host: Her voice was soft but steady, like the calm after thunder. Jack’s jaw tightened; he leaned back, his hand rubbing the side of his face, half amused, half exhausted.

Jack: “Maybe it’s not that strange. People don’t want their idols to be human. They want songs, not statements. They want beauty, not belief.”

Jeeny: “So what? They want puppets, not people?”

Host: The lights flickered faintly above them, the shadows stretching and shrinking like the breath of something unseen.

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe they just don’t want to be reminded that truth can come from a voice they weren’t expecting. It’s like—” He paused, searching for words. “It’s like when Bob Dylan went electric. People booed him for it. They wanted him to stay their folk prophet, not a man with a guitar plugged in. People hate when their symbols change shape.”

Jeeny: “And yet the only way to stay alive is to keep changing.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the air like smoke. The silence between them had a rhythm — slow, uncertain, thoughtful. Jack’s eyes drifted to the city skyline beyond the glass.

Jack: “You really think it’s right? For actors, musicians, anyone with a spotlight — to use it for politics?”

Jeeny: “Not to use it. To own it. To choose not to be silent when your voice can carry farther than most.”

Jack: “But where’s the line? What if people only listen to them because they’re famous, not because they’re right? Fame doesn’t make you wise, Jeeny. It just makes your mistakes louder.”

Jeeny: “And silence doesn’t make you innocent, Jack. It just makes the world colder.”

Host: The rain began outside, slow and gentle, tapping against the window like hesitant fingers. The faint rumble of thunder pulsed beneath their conversation, a reminder that even the sky could argue.

Jeeny turned toward him fully now, her eyes sharp with something fiery.

Jeeny: “You know what’s worse than being wrong, Jack? Being silent when you could have been right. People like Cher — they’ve lived through wars, movements, laws changing. She’s seen America shift under her feet. Why shouldn’t she speak about it?”

Jack: “Because people don’t want their entertainment mixed with lectures. They want escapism. A world where no one preaches, no one judges — where the movie ends and they can just breathe.”

Jeeny: “That’s the illusion, Jack. The world doesn’t stop when the credits roll. Every song, every film, every word carries the weight of what’s happening out there — the poverty, the wars, the discrimination, the silence. If art doesn’t speak, it dies.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a long, quiet breath. He looked away, at the pile of scripts — political thrillers, war dramas, biopics — all pretending to be just stories, when in truth, each was a quiet revolt.

Jack: “You think people want to hear actors talking about poverty while wearing diamonds? Or pop stars preaching about equality while flying private? It’s hypocrisy. That’s what people see.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least they’re talking. At least they’re trying. Hypocrisy is still a sign of conscience, Jack. It means they know they should be better.”

Host: Her tone sharpened, like glass catching light. Jack looked at her — not angry, but curious, almost wary, as if standing near a fire he couldn’t step away from.

Jack: “So what — everyone famous should just start giving their opinions? You’d have chaos. No one to just… entertain anymore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we don’t need more entertainment, Jack. Maybe we need more truth. You remember what happened to Colin Kaepernick? He knelt — didn’t even speak — and they erased him from the field. He lost everything. But that image, that one act, it changed something. It made people look.”

Jack: “It divided people.”

Jeeny: “Good. Division means people are awake. You can’t heal what you won’t touch.”

Host: The thunder rolled again — deep, distant, like a god clearing his throat. Jack stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the floor. He walked to the window, watching the rain turn the city into a wash of blurred lights and ghosted reflections.

Jack: “You talk like people want to be healed. Most just want to be left alone.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They want to be seen. They want to know their pain matters. When someone like Cher, or Dylan, or Kaepernick speaks, they remind us that even those who live in light still feel the dark.”

Host: Her words softened now, carrying something tender. The fire in her eyes dimmed to a quiet glow.

Jack: “You think she’s brave, huh? For saying something like that?”

Jeeny: “Brave? Yes. Because she knows people will call her foolish. They’ll mock her, tell her to stay in her lane. But she says it anyway. Because truth doesn’t care about lanes. It cares about courage.”

Jack: “Courage doesn’t always pay well.”

Jeeny: “Neither does silence.”

Host: Jack laughed, quietly — not with joy, but with the kind of laughter that hides a bruise.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve rehearsed this speech.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have. Maybe every woman who’s been told to smile instead of speak rehearses it.”

Host: The words hung heavy in the air, like rain suspended mid-fall. For a moment, even the buzz of the lights seemed to pause.

Jack turned back, his expression softer now. He studied her, the strength beneath her gentleness, the conviction that refused to crack.

Jack: “You know, I used to tell my sister to stay out of politics. Said it would just make her life harder. She didn’t listen. She became a teacher, started a petition to stop cuts to her school’s budget. Got fired for it.”

Jeeny: “And did she regret it?”

Jack: “No. She said losing her job was worth keeping her voice.”

Jeeny: “Then she understood what Cher meant.”

Host: The rain had slowed to a whisper, the city now wrapped in a silver stillness. Jack sat again, his posture eased, his tone no longer defensive — just tired, honest.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe fame isn’t a reason to stay quiet. Maybe it’s a reason to be louder. To use it for something that outlives the applause.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fame fades, but influence lingers. If your voice can reach millions, even one sentence can shift a heart.”

Host: The studio light above them flickered one last time before going out, leaving only the soft neon glow from the window. Two figures — one pragmatic, one poetic — sat in that half-light, both seeing the same truth from different corners of the same heart.

Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes warm but fierce.

Jeeny: “Maybe the price of being famous isn’t losing your voice, Jack. Maybe it’s finding out who’s still listening when you use it.”

Host: Jack didn’t reply. He just nodded, a faint smile tracing his lips. Outside, the rain had stopped completely, and the city began to breathe again.

The camera’s red light flicked off. The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full, alive, waiting.

And somewhere in that quiet, the truth lingered — that art, fame, and courage all share the same fragile heartbeat: the will to speak, even when the world prefers silence.