I think I've wanted to be an actress since the day I was born. I

Host: The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of the theater, laying golden dust over the rows of red velvet seats. The air smelled faintly of sawdust, makeup, and old applause — the perfume of ambition that never quite leaves a stage.

From somewhere deep backstage came the echo of a distant piano scale — uneven, hesitant, like a memory being tuned. Onstage, under the soft halo of a single rehearsal light, Jeeny stood, flipping through a worn script. Her hair was tied up, her face still marked with traces of powder and lipstick from a morning audition.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, one leg dangling over, his hands clasped loosely. A quiet smile curved his lips as he watched her pace, the way one might watch a flame — with equal parts admiration and concern.

Jeeny: (grinning) “Shoshannah Stern once said, ‘I think I’ve wanted to be an actress since the day I was born. I even asked my parents for an agent for my seventh birthday!’”
She laughed softly, eyes glinting. “Can you imagine being that sure of who you are at seven?”

Jack: (smirking) “At seven, I wanted to be a firefighter, a detective, and a dinosaur. Certainty’s just childhood enthusiasm with better lighting.”

Host: His voice carried that familiar dry humor — the sound of a man who’d outgrown dreams, or perhaps just buried them under practicality.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s passion before the world teaches you permission.”

Jack: “Permission’s just another word for survival.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But art was never meant to survive — it was meant to live.”

Host: The stage light flickered slightly, humming. Dust motes drifted like tiny comets through the air. The silence of the empty theater was vast, but not empty — it felt full, like the breath before a first line.

Jack: “You talk about acting like it’s destiny.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Some people find a role — others are the role. Stern knew who she was before the world told her who she couldn’t be.”

Jack: “And what if the world’s right?”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “Then the world needs rewriting.”

Jack: “You really think the stage changes anything? It’s just shadows pretending to be meaning.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s meaning pretending to be shadows. And that’s the difference between cynicism and art.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who still believes the curtain can save humanity.”

Jeeny: “No — just remind it of itself.”

Host: The piano backstage shifted from scales to a melody — hesitant, fragile, beautiful. The sound floated through the darkness like a confession.

Jeeny: “You know why I love that quote? Because it’s pure. It’s not about fame or validation — it’s about calling. Imagine asking for an agent at seven. That’s not ego. That’s clarity.”

Jack: “Or delusion. Children think they’re invincible.”

Jeeny: “And adults spend the rest of their lives trying to believe it again.”

Jack: “You think she was born to act?”

Jeeny: “No. I think she was born unable to be anything else. That’s what passion does — it gives you no other choice.”

Jack: “That sounds like captivity, not freedom.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only kind of captivity that teaches you how to fly.”

Host: The light dimmed for a moment, then steadied, throwing Jeeny’s face into sharp relief — all shadow and radiance. She looked out at the empty seats, her voice softening.

Jeeny: “You know what acting really is, Jack? It’s the art of becoming more human than you were yesterday. Every role you take peels away a layer you didn’t know you were wearing.”

Jack: “And when the roles are gone?”

Jeeny: “You hope what’s left is truth.”

Jack: “Truth’s a hard sell.”

Jeeny: “Not if you live it instead of perform it.”

Jack: “You think a stage can hold truth?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only place honest enough to admit it’s pretending.”

Host: The sound of the piano stopped. Silence returned — but it wasn’t empty. It was charged, electric, alive.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know, I envy people like her. People who knew what they were meant to do before life confused them. I’ve spent thirty years waiting for certainty to knock.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t knock. It burns. Inside you. Quietly, until you either listen or it eats you alive.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve been burned.”

Jeeny: “Of course. That’s how I know it’s real.”

Jack: “And you still keep walking into the fire?”

Jeeny: “Every artist does. It’s the only place where shadows turn into light.”

Host: The camera would pan slowly across the theater — the worn seats, the faded curtains, the air thick with invisible memories. On the stage, Jeeny stood facing the rows of emptiness as if they were filled with ghosts of an audience that never left.

Jeeny: “You know, Stern wasn’t just talking about acting. She was talking about identity. About refusing to let anyone define your story — whether it’s Hollywood, or history, or circumstance.”

Jack: “Identity’s a fragile thing to build a life on.”

Jeeny: “So is denial.”

Jack: “You think we’re born with our purpose?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not fully formed. But we’re born with its seed. The rest of life is the growing — and the pruning.”

Jack: “And the dying.”

Jeeny: “Only if we stop creating.”

Jack: “You really think art keeps us alive?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think it keeps us awake.”

Host: The lights above them slowly brightened — stage lights warming, humming to life one by one until the whole theater glowed gold and soft. The space felt resurrected, breathing again.

Jack rose from the edge of the stage, brushing dust from his hands. He looked around, the light glinting in his eyes.

Jack: “You know, maybe she was right. Maybe some people are born knowing exactly what script they’re meant to live.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the rest of us are just improvising.”

Jack: (smiling) “Then maybe that’s the real acting.”

Jeeny: (grinning back) “Exactly. The kind that doesn’t end when the curtain falls.”

Host: The camera would linger on the stage as Jeeny stepped forward, into the full light, lifting her chin, her shadow stretching long across the boards. Jack stood just behind her, his silhouette steady, quiet, watching.

The old theater seemed to exhale — as though, after years of silence, it had found its voice again.

And in that glowing stillness, Shoshannah Stern’s words echoed — not as a memory of childhood, but as a declaration of the soul:

Some dreams are not chosen.
They are born with us,
written into the first breath,
spoken before we learn to speak.

To follow them
is not vanity — it is vocation.

For the artist’s heart
is not made to be silent.
It beats in dialogue with destiny —
and even in failure,
it creates.

Because passion is not learned —
it is remembered.
And the stage,
whether crowded or empty,
is simply where the remembering begins.