I love meeting famous people. I'm even happy just looking at

Host: The night was thick with rain, a restless haze over the city that refused to sleep. Neon lights blinked like nervous stars, reflected on wet asphalt. Inside a quiet bar tucked between two old theaters, Jack sat by the window, a glass of bourbon half-empty beside his hand. The TV above the counter murmured — red carpets, cameras, smiles, the echo of fame flickering like lightning through smog.

Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, steam rising gently like breath. She watched the screen, a faint smile curving her lips.

Jeeny: “You know, I kind of get what Joey McIntyre meant when he said that — ‘I love meeting famous people. I’m even happy just looking at them.’ There’s something… electric about fame, don’t you think?”

Jack: (grins faintly) “Electric? More like synthetic. Fame is a hallucination the crowd pays to share. You’re just looking at a reflection of your own desires, not at a person.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, splashing against the glass like applause. Lights from passing cars painted their faces in brief, shimmering colors — red, blue, gold.

Jeeny: “That’s a cynical way to look at it. Sometimes, just seeing someone who made something beautiful — a song, a movie, a story — it reminds you that people can rise above ordinary life. Isn’t that worth admiring?”

Jack: “Admiration’s fine. Worship isn’t. Most people don’t love who those people are. They love what they represent — escape, success, attention. You know how the Romans used to cheer gladiators? Same thing. Blood, beauty, and illusion.”

Jeeny: “You’re comparing celebrities to gladiators?”

Jack: “Both perform. Both bleed. Both die young in one way or another.”

Host: A pause. The bar filled with the hum of rain, the faint buzz of the TV, and the sound of a bartender polishing glasses in the corner.

Jeeny: “But there’s still inspiration in it. Don’t you ever feel that little spark — when you see someone on stage and think, ‘Maybe I could do something great too’? That’s not illusion, Jack. That’s hope.”

Jack: “Hope built on mirrors, Jeeny. You think it’s the artist that inspires you, but it’s the camera. The PR team, the angles, the filter. You’re not seeing the truth, you’re seeing the package.”

Jeeny: “You think truth can’t exist inside a performance?”

Jack: “Not when it’s monetized.”

Host: Lightning flared outside, cutting the dark in a white blade. The silhouette of Jeeny’s face glowed — earnest, alive. Jack’s remained in shadow, only his eyes catching the light, cold and reflective.

Jeeny: “But look at someone like Robin Williams. His fame wasn’t a product — it was an offering. He gave people joy. He used the light of the camera to reach the broken. You can’t dismiss that as illusion.”

Jack: “And yet he was broken himself. The crowd cheered while he was dying inside. That’s fame — it eats the one who feeds it.”

Host: The room seemed to shrink, the air dense with memory. Jeeny’s eyes softened, as if she saw the pain behind Jack’s words.

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s been there.”

Jack: (quietly) “I’ve seen enough. I used to shoot promo reels for rising stars. Watched them go from human to hologram in months. The moment the public stopped watching, they fell apart.”

Jeeny: “So you stopped believing?”

Jack: “I stopped pretending.”

Host: A train horn wailed somewhere in the distance, deep and lonely. The bar’s clock ticked.

Jeeny: “Maybe fame doesn’t have to be poison. Maybe it’s like fire — dangerous, yes, but capable of warmth too. It depends on how you use it.”

Jack: “That’s the dream people sell to themselves. But you can’t ‘use’ fire without getting burned. Look at Marilyn Monroe. She lit up every screen, and then she was consumed by the very light that adored her.”

Jeeny: “Still, her light reaches people even now. Maybe that’s her victory — that she lived brightly, even if briefly.”

Jack: “Or maybe that’s her tragedy — that people still prefer her image to her truth.”

Host: Jeeny looked down at her coffee, now cold, and drew a small circle in the condensation on the table. The silence between them was heavy, but not hostile — like two souls watching the same fire from opposite ends.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was twelve, I saw a famous actor at an airport. He was just sitting there, reading a book. And everyone was staring, whispering. I didn’t say anything. I just watched. And for some reason, that made me happy — like I’d glimpsed something magical, something larger than life. I think that’s what Joey McIntyre meant.”

Jack: “Being happy just looking at them?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Not out of envy, but out of awe. Like seeing a comet. You know it’ll vanish, but for a moment, the world feels bigger.”

Jack: “But that happiness — it’s not about the person. It’s about you. The feeling they trigger. The fame’s just a mirror reflecting your own hunger to matter.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not so bad, Jack. Maybe that hunger is what keeps us human — the need to see ourselves in others who dared to be seen.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but with conviction. Jack leaned back, staring at the rain streaking the window, his reflection distorted by moving drops.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But fame isn’t noble, Jeeny. It’s a machine built on loneliness and worship. It makes gods out of people who are barely holding on.”

Jeeny: “And yet… it also makes children dream, artists create, and strangers feel less alone. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Jack: “It does. But it comes at a price most people can’t see.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as a power surge flickered through the city. For a second, their faces were lit only by the glow of the TV, where a celebrity was smiling under camera flashes, waving at the crowd.

Jeeny: “Do you ever miss that world, Jack? The lights, the cameras, the noise?”

Jack: “Sometimes. But only like a man misses a wound that’s healed — just to remember the pain was real.”

Jeeny: “You think everyone chasing fame is doomed?”

Jack: “Not doomed. Just… confused. They’re looking for love in applause.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that applause is love, in its own imperfect way.”

Host: A long silence followed — the kind that makes even time hesitate. The rain softened, turning into a whisper.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe. Maybe it is. Maybe the crowd loves what it can’t have — and the star loves being loved, even if it’s by strangers. It’s tragic, but it’s human.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fame isn’t about perfection. It’s about connection. About being seen, even if it’s fleeting. Don’t we all want that — to be noticed before we fade?”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “To not disappear in the noise.”

Host: The bar was nearly empty now. The bartender turned off the TV, leaving only the rain and the low hum of the street outside.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Fame is just another way we try to prove we exist. It’s not the best way — but it’s one of the few that leaves light behind.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s why people can’t stop looking — even if they don’t know why.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A soft smile crossed Jack’s face, the first of the night. The rain had finally stopped. Streetlights shimmered on the wet pavement, as if the city itself had been washed clean.

Jack: “So, Jeeny… maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s okay to just look — as long as we remember there’s a person behind the picture.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it’s okay to admire — as long as we don’t forget to live our own stories.”

Host: They both sat in quiet contemplation, their reflections merging in the window — two faces, two souls, both searching for meaning in the glow of a fading light. Outside, the world glistened — not with fame, but with quiet human wonder.

Fade out.