I used to be a fitness model.

Host: The neon lights of the old gym still flickered, though half the bulbs had long burned out. The place smelled of rubber, sweat, and nostalgia — that peculiar scent of something that once meant everything. The mirrors along the wall were cracked, catching fragments of reflections, as if they too were tired of showing people versions of themselves they could never sustain.

Outside, rain had begun to fall, turning the street into a slow river of light and noise.

Jack stood near one of the mirrors, towel around his neck, gaze distant. His reflection looked back at him — older, heavier, softer — a man who had once been carved by ambition and now sculpted by time.

Jeeny entered quietly, umbrella dripping, her eyes scanning the space with both fondness and disbelief.

Jeeny: “It’s strange being back here.”

Jack: “Yeah. Smells the same. Feels smaller though.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you just outgrew it.”

Jack: “I don’t think I ever outgrew it. I think it outgrew me.”

Host: Jeeny watched him — the way his shoulders still carried the memory of strength, the way his hands flexed out of habit, like muscle remembering what the mind has tried to forget.

Jeeny: “You were really something back then.”

Jack: (half-smiles) “Michael Sorrentino once said, ‘I used to be a fitness model.’ I guess that’s me now. Used to be.”

Jeeny: “You say it like a confession.”

Jack: “Feels like one. ‘Used to be’ has a weight to it. Like you’re apologizing for not staying frozen in time.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not an apology. Maybe it’s a sign of survival.”

Host: The lights overhead buzzed, casting pale rings on the floor. The sound of a treadmill in the next room echoed faintly — someone else’s rhythm, younger, faster.

Jack: “You know what no one tells you? When your body’s your currency, aging feels like bankruptcy.”

Jeeny: “Your body isn’t your debt, Jack. It’s your story.”

Jack: “Maybe. But people didn’t pay to hear my story. They paid to see my abs.”

Jeeny: “And what did you pay?”

Jack: “Everything else.”

Host: His voice cracked a little, not with weakness, but with the kind of truth that only comes when the pretending finally stops.

Jeeny: “You think losing it means losing who you were?”

Jack: “It’s not about losing it. It’s about realizing it was never really me. I was just… packaging. A brand.”

Jeeny: “So what are you now?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Still trying to figure that out.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, the sound now a steady drumbeat against the roof — a rhythm of cleansing, of endings.

Jeeny: “You talk about that version of yourself like he’s a stranger.”

Jack: “He is. That guy smiled for cameras, ate boiled chicken five times a day, pretended to be invincible. But inside, he was starving — not for food, for meaning.”

Jeeny: “So you left?”

Jack: “No. My body left first. The rest of me had to catch up.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I’m learning to live without needing a six-pack to feel seen.”

Host: Jeeny walked closer, her boots squeaking against the old tile. She stood beside him, both of them staring into the cracked mirror — two reflections, fragmented yet whole in their brokenness.

Jeeny: “Funny thing about mirrors — they only show what light touches. Maybe what’s unseen is what matters most.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But hard to live by in a world that sells reflection as identity.”

Jeeny: “Then stop buying it.”

Host: The air was thick with unspoken memory. The sound of weights clanking from another room mixed with the hum of electricity, creating a strange kind of heartbeat.

Jack: “You know, I thought if I looked perfect, life would finally make sense. That people would love me. That I’d love me.”

Jeeny: “And did you?”

Jack: (quietly) “For a while. Until I realized perfection is the most exhausting costume you can wear.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s time you took it off.”

Jack: “I don’t even know what I look like without it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beautiful part — you get to find out.”

Host: A small smile crossed her face, not of pity, but of understanding — the kind you give someone who has finally stopped fighting the tide.

Host: Jack turned, leaning against the mirror, his reflection split down the middle by a crack running through the glass. One half confident, sculpted, untouchable — the man he’d been. The other half softer, more human, more real.

Jack: “You ever notice how nobody tells you what happens after the spotlight?”

Jeeny: “Because everyone’s afraid to imagine a life where they’re not admired.”

Jack: “I used to think admiration was love.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s projection. People loved what you represented, not who you were.”

Jack: “Then maybe I should thank them. Without their illusion, I’d never have started looking for the truth.”

Jeeny: “And what’s that?”

Jack: “That maybe it’s okay to just be. No cameras, no filters, no routine built around being seen.”

Jeeny: “That’s freedom, Jack.”

Jack: “Feels more like loss.”

Jeeny: “That’s how freedom always starts.”

Host: The rain had softened now, dripping lazily from the gutters, each drop finding its rhythm in the quiet. The gym lights dimmed slightly, as though even they were tired of pretending to be bright.

Jeeny: “You know, when Sorrentino said that line — ‘I used to be a fitness model’ — he wasn’t mourning it. He was laughing at it. Like he’d finally stopped confusing his reflection for his worth.”

Jack: “You think I’ll ever get there?”

Jeeny: “You’re already on the way. The hardest part of healing is forgiving the man who thought he had to earn love.”

Host: Jack looked at her then, really looked — not with the eyes of a performer, but of a person rediscovering what it means to exist without performance.

Jack: “You ever think maybe the old me had to die for this one to live?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he didn’t die. Maybe he just retired.”

Jack: (laughs softly) “I like that. The old me, finally at peace somewhere — still flexing, probably.”

Jeeny: “Let him. You’ve got new muscles to build now — the kind no one sees.”

Host: They stood there for a moment, side by side, in front of the mirror — two figures framed by the soft decay of a place that once symbolized glory. The rain outside had become a whisper, the night gentle now, forgiving.

Jeeny: “So what now?”

Jack: “Now? Maybe I start over. Train for something that doesn’t need trophies. Like peace.”

Jeeny: “Peace doesn’t photograph well.”

Jack: “Good. Then it’s finally mine.”

Host: The lights hummed one last time, and the mirror caught the faint reflection of both — not perfect, not polished, but whole. The camera would have pulled back slowly, catching the glint of old metal, the rain-streaked windows, and the faint smile on Jack’s face.

As they walked toward the door, Jeeny tossed her umbrella open, and Jack looked once more at the place that had both built and broken him.

Host: Outside, the city exhaled — its noise returning, its lights alive. The night was no longer heavy. It was honest.

And as they disappeared down the wet street, the sign above the gym flickered once more before going dark completely — not in defeat, but in quiet retirement.

Because some versions of ourselves aren’t meant to last forever —
only to remind us that we can.