I try to keep it real. I don't have time to worry about what I'm

Host: The night was tender and electric — the kind that hummed through the air like a barely contained secret. The city beyond the window was a slow pulse of light and loneliness, every apartment window a different confession. A small studio apartment, half art and half chaos, flickered under the dim glow of a single lamp. Paintings leaned against walls. An open notebook lay on the floor beside a cracked coffee mug.

Jack sat by the window, a cigarette unlit between his fingers, his reflection trembling faintly in the glass. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the rug, her long black hair draped over one shoulder, sketching aimlessly into a worn journal. The faint hum of an old record player drifted through the room — some melancholy jazz tune, the kind that filled the silence without ever breaking it.

Outside, rain began to fall, soft and steady — like truth, when it finally decides to speak.

Jeeny: (looking up, voice calm but sure) “Demi Lovato once said, ‘I try to keep it real. I don’t have time to worry about what I’m projecting to the world. I’m just busy being myself.’”

Jack: (exhales a half-laugh) “Ah, authenticity — the most overrated currency of our time.”

Jeeny: (smiles knowingly) “Only overrated to people who can’t afford it.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but their weight lingered. The rain outside intensified, tracing slow, meandering paths down the glass — little rivers of impermanence.

Jack lit his cigarette, the brief spark catching in his eyes, as if igniting a thought he didn’t quite want to admit.

Jack: “You really believe people can just ‘be themselves’ anymore? The world’s one big mirror. You can’t move without seeing your reflection — online, on screens, in someone’s expectations. Even when you think you’re being real, you’re still performing.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe the act of being yourself is a performance — just not for an audience.”

Jack: (snorts softly) “You’d make a great philosopher for the age of filters.”

Jeeny: (laughing quietly) “And you’d make a great cynic in any century.”

Host: The lamplight flickered. Smoke curled upward from his cigarette in delicate spirals, forming temporary art — shapes that meant nothing and everything.

Jack: “You ever notice how people talk about being ‘real’ like it’s a trend? As if authenticity’s something you can brand and sell.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. The moment you declare ‘I’m just being myself,’ you’ve already made an announcement to the world — a statement designed to be seen.”

Jack: “Exactly. There’s no such thing as being real without witnesses.”

Jeeny: (pauses) “Then maybe ‘real’ isn’t about what’s seen. Maybe it’s about what you can’t fake — the parts of you that don’t need applause to exist.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly — not from uncertainty, but from emotion. The kind of tremor that comes when the truth is small, but raw.

Jack: (sighs) “I used to think being real meant telling people the truth. But the truth changes. Some days, I feel like a stranger in my own skin. What’s real then?”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of it. You don’t owe the world consistency — just honesty in the moment.”

Jack: “So, we’re allowed to contradict ourselves?”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s how we grow.”

Host: The record skipped, then found its rhythm again. A low trumpet note lingered in the air, vibrating against the walls like a slow heartbeat. Jack leaned back, smoke drifting from his lips like a sigh he’d been holding for years.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. People talk about ‘keeping it real’ — but half the time, they just want permission to stay broken.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s okay too. Real doesn’t have to mean perfect. Sometimes it’s just about not pretending to be healed when you’re still bleeding.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s dangerous honesty.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s human.”

Host: The rain softened. The city lights blurred through the window, turning everything outside into watercolor. Inside, the space felt heavy and sacred — the kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled.

Jack: (looking at her) “You ever get tired of being yourself?”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Sometimes. But it’s still the only skin that fits.”

Jack: “Even when it hurts?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. Pain’s part of the proof.”

Host: She set her sketchbook aside. The light caught her face, revealing both fatigue and serenity — the quiet triumph of someone who has fought hard to stay whole. Jack studied her for a moment, his eyes softer now, the sharpness replaced by something gentler, almost reverent.

Jack: “You think Demi Lovato actually believes that — about not caring what the world thinks?”

Jeeny: “I think she believes it the way most of us do: not always, but enough to keep trying.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Maybe that’s all we can do. Keep trying not to disappear behind our own reflection.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The moment you stop performing, even for yourself, you start living.”

Host: The cigarette burned low, its ash crumbling gently onto the floor. The last note of the song on the record player faded into silence. Outside, the rain stopped, leaving the world slick, shining, new.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know… I’ve spent years building this idea of myself — the version people expect, the one I can control. And sometimes I wonder if the real me just… moved out quietly while I wasn’t looking.”

Jeeny: (reaches forward, resting her hand on his) “Then maybe tonight’s the night you invite him back in.”

Jack: (meets her gaze) “And what if he’s not who I thought he’d be?”

Jeeny: (smiles softly) “Then you’ll finally meet him.”

Host: For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. The air hummed with that fragile stillness that follows an epiphany — when no one wants to move, in case the truth dissolves with motion.

Jack stubbed out the last of his cigarette, his fingers trembling slightly, but his face calm. Jeeny leaned back, closing her eyes, as if the world had finally stopped asking them both to perform.

Host: The camera would drift toward the window now, capturing their reflections — not perfect, not clear, but honest. The two figures bathed in half-light, half-shadow, suspended between what they were and what they were brave enough to become.

The city outside still shimmered, still buzzed with noise, still demanded versions of everyone. But here, in this small, imperfect room, something pure existed — the simplicity of presence, unfiltered, unposed.

And perhaps that was Demi Lovato’s truth all along:

That realness isn’t a performance. It’s a rebellion.
Not against the world — but against the temptation to be anyone other than who you are.

Host: The final shot:
The record spins to its silent end.
The rain starts again.
And Jack, for the first time, doesn’t turn away from his reflection.

He just watches it — quietly, truthfully, himself.