I was honoured when they asked me to appear at the president's

Host: The theatre was dim, bathed in soft amber light that spilled from the old bulbs above the stage. Dust floated in the air like tiny ghosts, and the faded velvet curtains whispered of decades past — of laughter, of applause, of trembling hands and beating hearts.

Outside, the city was asleep, but inside, the echo of a rehearsal piano drifted through the empty seats, haunting and pure. Jeeny stood at the center of the stage, her eyes closed, holding a microphone as if it were a memory.

Jack sat in the front row, his coat draped over one armrest, a paper cup of coffee in his hands, watching her. His grey eyes were quiet, but his jaw tense — a man who didn’t believe in fragility, but somehow couldn’t look away from it.

Host: The moment was thick with nostalgia, with the fragile electricity that lives between fear and fame. And somewhere between that tension, Marilyn Monroe’s whisper still seemed to linger, as though the walls themselves remembered her trembling.

Jeeny: “You know, Marilyn once said — ‘I was honoured when they asked me to appear at the president's birthday rally in Madison Square Garden. There was like a hush over the whole place when I came on to sing “Happy Birthday,” like if I had been wearing a slip, I would have thought it was showing or something. I thought, “Oh, my gosh, what if no sound comes out!”’”

Jack: “Yeah. I know the story. The famous performance — the breathy Happy Birthday, Mr. President. The world remembers the glamour. Nobody remembers the fear.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. That quote — it’s not about glamour. It’s about that instant before you speak, when the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for you to fail.”

Jack: “Or waiting for you to perform.”

Jeeny: “Same thing, isn’t it? Every time you step on a stage — literal or not — you gamble a piece of yourself. You can’t fake that hush she felt. That’s real. That’s the sound of the soul before it dares to exist.”

Host: The piano fell silent. The light above them flickered, casting long, wavering shadows across the stage floor. Jeeny opened her eyes slowly, and in that faint glow, she looked almost ghostlike, caught between past and present.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always thought Monroe was overrated. The world turned her into a myth because it couldn’t handle her as a person. All that talk about fear — sure, but she courted it, didn’t she? She wanted the attention. That’s why she sang that night.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. She didn’t court fear. She carried it. And that’s the difference. You think bravery means being without fear. But she stood there — terrified — and sang anyway. That’s what makes it beautiful.”

Jack: “Or tragic. Because in the end, the world loved her performance, not her pain.”

Jeeny: “The world never loves pain, Jack. It consumes it. It applauds the shine, not the shaking hand behind it. But that moment — that hush — was hers alone. No one can take that away from her.”

Host: The stage light warmed, as though it, too, were leaning in to listen. The sound of a distant city siren broke the silence, only to fade again into the velvet dark.

Jack: “You talk about that hush like it’s holy.”

Jeeny: “It is. That’s the space between fear and expression — between who you are and who you dare to be. Every artist, every soul that’s ever spoken truth, passes through it.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But that hush? It’s also the sound of judgment. Of eyes waiting to see you mess up.”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. But you can’t escape that. The hush means they’re watching. It means you matter. Silence is a stage, Jack — and courage is the first note.”

Host: Jeeny set down the microphone, the metal still echoing faintly as it touched the floor. Her eyes met Jack’s — steady, unblinking — as if she were asking him to see her beyond the performance.

Jack: “So what — you think we should all just… bare ourselves to the world? Tremble in front of everyone and call it courage?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because that’s the only way to be real. You spend your life trying to look unshakable, Jack — but that’s not strength, that’s fear in disguise. Monroe was shaking when she sang, but no one could look away. That’s power.”

Jack: “Power?” He laughed softly, a dry, tired sound. “She was exploited, Jeeny. The world used her vulnerability as entertainment.”

Jeeny: “No — the world did. But the moment didn’t. That instant before the first note? That belonged only to her. It’s the purest kind of power — not control over others, but over herself. To still sing when your throat tightens.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped, his expression softening, the steel in his eyes giving way to something like recognition.

Jack: “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? That hush?”

Jeeny: “Every time I walk on stage. Every time I speak truth in a room full of people who’d rather I stay quiet. Every time I choose to be seen.”

Jack: “And it never gets easier?”

Jeeny: “No. That’s why it matters.”

Host: A faint breeze stirred the curtains, and a beam of light from the street below cut through the dust, illuminating them both — two souls caught in the soft afterglow of honesty.

Jack: “You know, I envy that. I hide behind logic, behind work. You — you stand there and let the world see your fear. I couldn’t do that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you already are. Every time you admit you’re afraid, you’re already halfway to singing.”

Jack: “So... the trick is to sing anyway?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Even when your voice shakes. Especially then.”

Host: The lights dimmed, until only the faint glow from the exit sign remained. The silence grew thick again, that sacred pause between what’s felt and what’s spoken.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Marilyn meant — when she said she thought no sound might come out. She was talking about every moment of doubt we’ve ever faced. Every dream that trembles before it’s born.”

Jack: “And she sang anyway.”

Jeeny: “Yes. She sang anyway.”

Host: Jeeny picked up the microphone again. Her voice, when it came, was soft — fragile as silk, but true.

Jeeny: “Happy birthday, Mr. President…”

Host: The notes floated, echoing through the empty hall, pure and aching. Jack closed his eyes, listening — not to the song, but to the courage inside it.

The camera pulled back, revealing the vast empty seats, the ghosts of applause long past, and one woman still singing — her fear turned into music, her trembling into light.

Host: And as the sound faded, the hush returned — not of judgment, but of reverence. The kind that says: This is what it means to be alive. To stand trembling, to risk silence, and still to sing anyway.