I started dreaming of becoming a singer after seeing Michael

Host: The city hummed beneath a silver rain, the kind that made every neon sign bleed softly into the pavement, transforming puddles into little galaxies of light. A quiet café sat tucked between a record shop and a theater, its window fogged with warmth and memory. Inside, the world seemed to slow — the sound of vinyl crackling, the faint melody of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” playing softly from an old jukebox in the corner.

Jack sat in the back booth, his hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee, watching the raindrops race each other down the windowpane. Jeeny entered quietly, umbrella dripping, her dark hair damp against her coat. She slid into the seat across from him, her eyes glowing with a light that didn’t belong to the storm outside.

Jeeny: “BoA once said, ‘I started dreaming of becoming a singer after seeing Michael Jackson in the “Billie Jean” video. The mix of fantastic choreography and amazing music made such a huge impact on the music industry.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Dreaming because of a music video. That’s the modern gospel, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you make it sound small. That one video changed the world for millions of people. One performance — one spark — and suddenly a generation starts to believe in movement, rhythm, and creation again.”

Jack: “Or in illusion. Lights, camera, perfection. People worshipped that man because he seemed superhuman. But the truth? It’s just choreography and smoke.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s art. Choreography is body language turned divine. Music is feeling given structure. Together — they make transcendence possible.”

Host: The jukebox crackled as “Billie Jean” began to play again — that iconic bassline, pulsing through the room like a heartbeat made of light. Jeeny’s hand tapped gently against the table, keeping rhythm, her eyes distant — remembering.

Jack: “You sound like a believer. But I don’t buy it. Art like that doesn’t lift people — it blinds them. Makes them think talent is magic instead of sweat. For every kid inspired by Michael, a thousand others were crushed trying to imitate him.”

Jeeny: “And yet they tried. Isn’t that beautiful? To be moved so deeply that you attempt the impossible? BoA wasn’t crushed — she was called. Inspiration isn’t about success, Jack. It’s about ignition.”

Jack: “Ignition’s just the start. Most flames burn out fast.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But some flames become stars.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, pounding rhythmically against the glass, matching the beat of the song. Jack looked up, watching Jeeny sway slightly in her seat, her movements small but deliberate — a subtle echo of the video itself.

Jack: “You ever notice how that performance — Billie Jean — it wasn’t just music or dance? It was mythmaking. He was selling perfection. The glove, the moonwalk, the spotlight — it wasn’t real.”

Jeeny: “Of course it wasn’t real. That’s the point. Art never is. It’s not supposed to mirror reality — it’s supposed to reveal what reality hides. The glove, the walk, the spotlight — they were symbols. Michael turned movement into metaphor. That’s what BoA saw — the moment when the human body transcended gravity.”

Jack: “And yet, that same illusion destroyed him. The closer he got to perfection, the further he fell from himself.”

Jeeny: “Tragic, yes. But even tragedy has purpose. His pain still gave people hope. Don’t you see? Every artist who burns leaves behind a light. BoA found hers in his.”

Host: Lightning flashed, white and sudden, reflecting off the windowpane and briefly illuminating Jack’s face — sharp features softened by thought. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watched as Jeeny’s eyes filled with quiet reverence, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the table, like choreography remembered from a dream.

Jack: “You ever dance, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “When no one’s watching.”

Jack: “Figures.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: (shrugs) “I used to. When I was younger. My sister and I tried to learn the moonwalk from a VHS tape. We’d slide across the kitchen floor in socks. I never got it right.”

Jeeny: (softly) “But you tried.”

Jack: “Yeah. We laughed until we fell down. She said I moved like a broken robot.”

Host: Jack’s voice cracked with quiet laughter. The memory sat between them, warm and fragile. The jukebox switched songs, then skipped — the needle scratching softly, like a whisper of time.

Jeeny: “That’s what I mean. Art connects us even when it fails us. You weren’t copying Michael. You were reaching for wonder. That’s what BoA did. That’s what all dreamers do.”

Jack: “Wonder doesn’t pay the rent.”

Jeeny: “No. But it feeds the soul — and sometimes, that’s what keeps people from breaking.”

Jack: “You make it sound like art is salvation.”

Jeeny: “It is, Jack. Not in the way religion saves, but in the way it awakens. Michael’s moonwalk wasn’t just a step backward — it was a message: that you could move in directions people said were impossible.”

Host: Jeeny’s tone deepened with emotion, her words vibrating with conviction. Jack’s eyes softened, caught between skepticism and something older — recognition, maybe even longing.

Jack: “You know, when I look at performances like that now — the lights, the choreography, the spectacle — I don’t see magic. I see machinery. Teams of people behind the curtain, working to create illusion. It’s impressive, but it’s not sacred.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even knowing it’s machinery, you still feel something, don’t you? That’s the miracle, Jack. The magic survives even when you understand the trick.”

Jack: (pauses) “Maybe. But does that make it truth?”

Jeeny: “No. It makes it beauty. And beauty doesn’t need to be true to matter.”

Host: The rain eased, tapering into a soft drizzle. The jukebox light dimmed slightly, its gentle glow flickering across their faces. Jack leaned forward, his hands relaxed, his voice quieter now — almost reverent.

Jack: “I suppose that’s what Verlander meant — no, what BoA meant. Watching something evolve — from clunky beginnings to mastery — it’s a kind of miracle. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s human. Every generation adds its own step, its own rhythm.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Michael inspired BoA. BoA inspired another. It’s a chain of dreams — a dance that never ends.”

Jack: “A relay of wonder.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And maybe that’s what art really is — the eternal passing of awe from one heart to another.”

Host: A silence followed, filled with the hum of electricity and the faint scent of rain drifting through the open window. Jack looked outside — the puddles reflected the streetlights, glowing like tiny stages.

Jack: (softly) “You know, I used to think artists chased attention. Maybe they’re just trying to share the moment that saved them.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it ever is. BoA saw Michael’s light — and she decided to become a mirror. Every performer is just trying to reflect the brilliance they once witnessed.”

Jack: “And the audience?”

Jeeny: “They’re the reflection of the reflection — the proof that the light is still alive.”

Host: The jukebox restarted, the unmistakable beat of “Billie Jean” playing again. The sound filled the café, wrapping around them like memory itself. Jeeny stood, took a slow step back, and began to move — just slightly — a soft imitation of the famous walk.

Jack laughed quietly, shaking his head.

Jack: “You’re not bad.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “I had a good teacher — the King himself.”

Jack: “He’d be proud. You didn’t just copy him — you felt it.”

Jeeny: “That’s what it’s all about, Jack. Feeling. Remembering that the body can speak where words fail.”

Host: The lights flickered, catching on the raindrops outside, turning the world into a shimmering film reel. The song reached its bridge — that perfect mix of drums, bass, and breathless voice — and for one fleeting moment, the past, the present, and the dream all moved together.

Jack: (softly) “You were right, Jeeny. It’s not small. One dance — one song — can echo forever.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because every time it’s remembered, it’s reborn.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The silence that followed was alive, humming with invisible rhythm. Jack and Jeeny sat there — two souls surrounded by ghosts of music — and somewhere beyond the night, the echo of a moonwalk crossed another generation.

And in that moment, even silence seemed to dance.