I play fictitious characters often solving fictitious problems. I

Host: The studio lights had all gone out, leaving only the soft glow of the city through the wide glass windows. Below, the skyline pulsed like a living organism — neon veins and electric breath, stretching endlessly into the dark. A single camera sat abandoned in the corner, its red recording light off now, its lens pointed toward emptiness.

Jack stood by the window, his reflection doubled against the city — one man looking out, one man looking back. His suit jacket hung over the back of a chair, his sleeves rolled up, his face pale in the glow of the skyline.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the table, her notepad open, a pen held loosely between her fingers. The silence between them hummed like the aftertaste of applause — something that once filled the air but had already passed.

Jack spoke first, his voice low, deliberate.

Jack: “DiCaprio once said, ‘I play fictitious characters often solving fictitious problems. I believe mankind has looked at climate change in the same way — as if it were a fiction.’”

He let the words hang for a moment. “Funny how truth only sounds dramatic when it’s too late.”

Jeeny: “Or when it’s said by an actor instead of a scientist.”

Host: Her eyes flicked up, catching the faint reflection of the skyline. “But sometimes,” she continued, “it takes fiction to wake people up. Maybe we’ve forgotten how to listen to facts.”

Jack: “Yeah, because facts don’t make us feel guilty enough.”

Jeeny: “Or guilty for long enough.”

Host: The city lights outside shimmered, blinking like the pulse of something immense and indifferent. A helicopter crossed the skyline — a brief streak of light cutting through the stillness.

Jack turned toward her.

Jack: “You think he’s right? That we’ve treated it all like a movie? That we keep watching the trailer for the apocalypse, waiting for the hero to show up?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what stories have taught us? That there’s always someone else to fix it — some genius, some savior, some main character.”

Jack: “Except there isn’t.”

Jeeny: “No. Just us — the extras pretending the fire in the background is CGI.”

Host: She smiled faintly, but it was a weary smile — one that carried the weight of knowing too much.

Jack: “I think about that sometimes. How easy it is to live in denial when the disaster looks beautiful. Sunsets look redder through smoke. The sky glows more after wildfires. Even ruin can look cinematic.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it dangerous. We aestheticize our own destruction.”

Host: Her voice sharpened slightly, but it wasn’t anger — it was ache. The kind that comes from watching the same mistake play out again and again, and still being surprised by it.

Jeeny: “DiCaprio’s been shouting this for years. But people listen to his films, not his fears.”

Jack: “Because films end. Fear doesn’t.”

Host: He turned back to the window, his reflection merging again with the city. “We always need fiction to make reality digestible. Nobody wants to read the truth when it’s ugly.”

Jeeny: “But the truth’s not ugly. It’s just inconvenient.”

Jack: “Same thing, in politics.”

Host: The silence stretched. The hum of the air conditioning filled it — a cold, artificial wind. Jeeny closed her notebook, setting it aside.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how we talk about saving the planet like it’s a choice? Like we’re rescuing something separate from ourselves?”

Jack: “Yeah. Like Earth’s the victim, and we’re the heroes.”

Jeeny: “When really, we’re both the villain and the corpse.”

Host: He flinched slightly at the bluntness, but didn’t argue. The truth was too clear to soften.

Jack: “You think it’s too late?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s late enough to make pretending immoral.”

Jack: “So what — we recycle harder?”

Jeeny: “We remember that nothing we throw away ever actually leaves. That includes our denial.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping against the glass in uneven rhythms — each drop a punctuation mark in the dark.

Jack: “You know what I hate about this whole topic?”

Jeeny: “Everything?”

Jack: “That it’s become a performance. Politicians crying into microphones, influencers planting trees for content, corporations painting their logos green while dumping waste into the ocean.”

Jeeny: “It’s modern theater — tragedy rewritten as marketing.”

Jack: “And we applaud.”

Jeeny: “Because it feels easier than acting.”

Host: He laughed softly, bitterly. The reflection of lightning flickered briefly across his face — a white flash that looked too perfect to be coincidence.

Jack: “You think that’s what DiCaprio meant by fiction? That we all just wrote ourselves into the wrong genre?”

Jeeny: “Yes. We thought we were making a drama, but it’s really a slow apocalypse with good cinematography.”

Host: The thunder rolled low and long, vibrating through the glass. The city beyond blurred slightly — streaks of rain turning skyscrapers into watercolor smears.

Jack: “You know what scares me? How numb we’ve become. People used to panic about melting ice caps. Now we scroll past videos of floods and call them aesthetic.”

Jeeny: “That’s the curse of constant exposure. When everything is visible, nothing is real.”

Jack: “Then what’s the point of art? Of warning? Of acting?”

Jeeny: “To remind people that fiction is a rehearsal for truth.”

Host: She stood and walked closer to the window. Her reflection joined his — two shadows suspended in the light of a city that hummed on borrowed time.

Jeeny: “You remember the old stories — the ones where the gods destroyed the world because humans forgot reverence?”

Jack: “Yeah. We called them myths.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they were just prophecies that took a while to come true.”

Host: Outside, a neon billboard flickered — an ad for a new luxury SUV. Its tagline glowed mockingly across their faces: “Drive the future.”

Jack stared at it for a long time. “The future,” he muttered. “That’s the one we keep selling, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But the bill always comes due.”

Host: She turned toward him, her eyes sharp but kind. “We don’t need heroes, Jack. We need witnesses. People who stop pretending it’s someone else’s story.”

Jack: “And what if it’s too late to change the ending?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we can tell it honestly.”

Host: The storm outside softened, replaced by a steady drizzle that caught the light like falling glass. The world beyond looked blurred, but inside — in the quiet of that empty studio — things felt painfully clear.

Jack sighed, his voice gentler now.

Jack: “You ever think we deserve a second act?”

Jeeny: “Only if we stop mistaking the first one for fiction.”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked — and for a moment, the cynical weight in his eyes lifted.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s what DiCaprio was trying to say. That the camera’s been on us the whole time. We just keep pretending it’s a movie.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the last illusion left to break.”

Host: The lights flickered once more as the storm began to fade. The city outside shimmered in wet gold, streets shining like veins under skin.

Jack turned away from the window, picked up his jacket, and spoke softly — almost to himself.

Jack: “Then maybe the real acting ends tonight.”

Jeeny: “And the real living begins tomorrow.”

Host: The camera — forgotten until now — caught a faint red glow as its sensor came alive again, silently recording. The frame filled with the two of them standing before the rain-washed window, backs turned to the lens, facing the reflection of a world too beautiful and too broken to ignore.

And as the scene faded, only the sound of rainfall remained —
not as background noise,
but as consequence.

Because DiCaprio was right —
we have treated the greatest truth of our time
as though it were fiction.

But fiction always ends,
and the credits, at last,
were beginning to roll.