I wanted to be just a normal girl flirting with a normal guy.

Host: The night had fallen over Los Angeles like a soft, exhausted curtain. The sky pulsed faintly with the glow of the city — not quite dark, not quite alive. On the balcony of a small apartment overlooking the hills, two figures sat with wine glasses in their hands, the distant hum of traffic murmuring like an endless, restless sea.

Jack leaned against the railing, the smoke from his cigarette curling upward, dissolving into the neon haze. His grey eyes caught the light of the city, reflecting the weight of thoughts he didn’t say aloud. Jeeny sat cross-legged on a cushion, her hair loose, her face lit by the faint glow of a nearby lamp.

The television inside still flickered with the closing credits of an old film — Reality Bites. Winona Ryder’s voice echoed faintly from the screen before fading into silence.

Jeeny: (softly) “She once said something I can’t get out of my head — ‘I wanted to be just a normal girl flirting with a normal guy…’ You know the rest.”

Jack: (takes a drag) “Yeah. It’s a nice sentiment — but let’s be honest, there’s no such thing as ‘normal’ once people start recognizing your face.”

Host: His tone was quiet, half teasing, half tired, the kind of voice that carried the echo of someone who had long stopped believing in simplicity.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve lived it.”

Jack: “Maybe not her version of it. But I’ve seen enough. The more people know about you, the less they actually see you. You become an idea — not a person.”

Host: The city lights blinked below, like a thousand curious eyes watching from the dark. The air was cool, scented faintly with jasmine from the balcony plants and the distant smoke of the streets.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what we all do anyway? Build versions of ourselves for people to look at? It’s not just fame — it’s survival. You can’t show everything.”

Jack: “There’s a difference between privacy and a mask. Fame just makes the mask heavier. It’s like… people want your reflection more than your reality.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You sound poetic tonight, Jack. What happened to the cynic?”

Jack: “He’s still here. He’s just drinking wine.”

Host: Jeeny laughed — a soft, fragile sound that drifted into the night. It didn’t feel like amusement, though; it felt like a defense, a quiet protest against the loneliness hiding behind irony.

Jeeny: “I think I get what she meant — Winona. It’s not about fame or masks. It’s about wanting something real. To meet someone who doesn’t already have a story written about you.”

Jack: “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Everyone has read the story before they meet you. They walk in with a script in their head. You end up playing their version of you.”

Host: The wind stirred, brushing Jeeny’s hair across her face. She tucked it back behind her ear, her eyes glimmering in the soft light.

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s hopeless. But even actors — especially actors — crave authenticity. Maybe that’s why she said she wanted to date someone in the same world. Someone who understands the madness.”

Jack: “And yet she says she doesn’t want to be with another actor. Because then it’s like a mirror kissing itself — beautiful maybe, but empty. You can’t escape your reflection when the other person is living the same performance.”

Host: He flicked his cigarette into the night, the tiny ember tracing an arc of brief, glowing life before vanishing into the dark.

Jeeny: “So what do you think the answer is? To hide? To stop trying?”

Jack: “To stop pretending you can live like other people. That’s what hurts them most — trying to be normal when you’re not.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes someone human? Wanting to belong, even when you can’t?”

Host: She leaned forward now, her elbows on her knees, her voice trembling with something close to tenderness. Jack looked at her — really looked. The lines on his face softened, his eyes losing their edge for a moment.

Jack: “You ever dated someone who didn’t understand what you do?”

Jeeny: “Once. He thought my work — my art — was a phase. That I should settle down, find something steady. He said I lived in my own world. He didn’t realize that was the only place I could breathe.”

Jack: “And when you left?”

Jeeny: “He said I’d never find peace.” (pauses) “He was half right. But peace isn’t the goal. It’s connection. The kind that doesn’t ask you to shrink.”

Host: A moment of silence hung between them. Somewhere down the hill, a dog barked. A car door slammed. The city breathed, restless and alive.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Winona was really saying. That the hardest thing isn’t finding love — it’s being seen without the performance. We’re all playing roles, but actors just do it professionally.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it’s not about being normal. Maybe it’s about finding someone who lets you take off the costume.”

Jack: “That’s rare.”

Jeeny: “So is honesty.”

Host: Her words fell softly, like the dust of a broken star — bright for a heartbeat, then gone. Jack’s hand brushed the table, reaching for his glass, but instead he let his fingers rest near hers.

Jack: “You think love can exist without illusion?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can survive it — if both people know they’re dreaming.”

Host: The balcony light flickered slightly. Their faces were painted in shadow and glow, alternating between clarity and mystery — like two souls caught between reality and the film of their own making.

Jack: “You ever wonder if we fall in love with people or with their stories?”

Jeeny: “Stories first. Always. But the right person — the real one — they help you rewrite it.”

Host: He smiled faintly — a small, weary gesture, but it carried warmth.

Jack: “You know, I used to think fame was freedom. Turns out it’s just a louder kind of loneliness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even loneliness can be shared. That’s what makes it bearable.”

Host: She reached out, touched his hand briefly — the kind of touch that doesn’t demand, only acknowledges. The city seemed to fade behind them, replaced by the quiet intimacy of two people not needing to perform anymore.

Jack: “Do you ever wish you were just someone anonymous, walking through the world unseen?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But then I remember — being seen isn’t the problem. Being understood is. And that takes a different kind of courage.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why we keep acting — even offstage. We want someone to look through the performance and still stay.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind rose again, carrying the faint scent of the ocean far away, distant but real. Jeeny tilted her head toward the sky, where a single plane blinked across the stars — a lonely, moving light in a field of stillness.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe the point isn’t to find someone who understands everything. Maybe it’s to find someone who tries.”

Jack: (quietly) “Even when it’s inconvenient.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The city below glowed like a field of gold dust, alive and humming. Jack set his cigarette pack aside, turned toward her fully, his expression open, unguarded.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in it — love that isn’t a role.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I do. Maybe I just believe that behind every script, there’s still a heartbeat waiting to speak for itself.”

Host: He laughed softly, the sound rough but genuine.

Jack: “Then maybe we’re both still auditioning.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe. But tonight — let’s forget the roles.”

Host: They clinked their glasses, a quiet cheer against the noise of the city. The wine shimmered deep red beneath the light, like something sacred and fleeting.

The camera would pull back now — the balcony, the city, two people framed against a world that demanded masks but, for a few fragile moments, allowed them none.

Host: And in that stillness, Winona Ryder’s words lingered — not as a lament, but as a truth whispered across time:

We all want to be normal — not because normal exists, but because somewhere in the dream of it, we remember what it means to be seen without applause.