I was never very interested in boys - and there were plenty of

Host: The spotlight still glowed faintly on the empty stage, a pool of light trembling in the dark like the memory of applause. Dust floated in the beam, slow and golden, the ghosts of a thousand performances. The theatre was silent now — the kind of silence that smells of velvet, whiskey, and regret.

Host: Jack sat in the front row, his tie loosened, his hands clasped as if holding an invisible script. Jeeny stood on stage, in a faded red dress, her hair undone, the hem brushing the old wood as she moved. The echoes of forgotten stars lingered around her, as if Bette Davis herself might still be waiting in the wings.

Host: The only sound was the creak of the stage beneath Jeeny’s heels and the faint hum of the city far beyond the walls — a city that had once lived and died for fame.

Jeeny: (reciting) “Bette Davis once said, ‘I was never very interested in boys — and there were plenty of them — vying with one another to see how many famous women they would get into the hay.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Ah, Hollywood — where romance is a trophy hunt and desire’s just a transaction.”

Jeeny: “It still is, in different costumes. Everyone’s still counting something — followers, lovers, victories.”

Jack: “You sound like you blame the game. But the game’s always been the same — power disguised as intimacy.”

Jeeny: “And yet she refused to play it. That’s what made her dangerous.”

Jack: “Or lonely.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But I’d take dangerous loneliness over hollow affection.”

Jack: (leans forward) “You think she could afford that choice because she was famous. Most people settle because the world tells them it’s better than being alone.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the sickness, Jack. We confuse attention with affection. Bette saw through it — the parade of men who mistook conquest for connection. She wanted something real, and she knew it couldn’t exist in a place obsessed with performance.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer to the edge of the stage, the light catching her face — half-shadow, half-fire. Jack watched her, his expression unreadable, a mix of admiration and unease.

Jack: “Real? You really think that exists in a world built on pretense?”

Jeeny: “Of course. That’s why it’s so rare — because it’s inconvenient. Real love doesn’t fit neatly into a script. It’s messy, unphotogenic, and it doesn’t trend.”

Jack: (chuckles) “You sound like someone who’s tried to love a man who loved himself more.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “Haven’t we all?”

Host: Her voice was quiet but sharp, like glass catching light. Jack laughed softly, shaking his head.

Jack: “You make cynicism sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “And you make emptiness sound inevitable.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. Hollywood, politics, the office, the café — it’s all the same. People use each other to feel significant. The only difference is the lighting.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe significance isn’t the point. Maybe self-respect is.”

Jack: “Self-respect doesn’t keep you warm at night.”

Jeeny: “Neither does a body that doesn’t care who you are.”

Host: The silence that followed was soft, but heavy — the kind that lingers in confession. The light dimmed slightly, as if the theatre itself had exhaled.

Jack: “You really think people can live without needing to be wanted?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we just need to stop confusing being wanted with being valued.”

Jack: “And yet, even Bette Davis — strong, brilliant, untouchable — she still craved admiration. She lived off the gaze as much as she despised it.”

Jeeny: “Yes, because she understood its power. But she also refused to be devoured by it. She didn’t owe anyone her vulnerability.”

Jack: “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? To survive in a world that worships beauty, you have to weaponize it.”

Jeeny: “And to be a woman, you have to outthink the men who mistake desire for dominance.”

Host: Her words struck like a quiet chord through the room. The dust danced in the air again, caught in the golden glow — as if applauding without sound.

Jack: “So you think her defiance was strength?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it was survival. She was carving dignity out of a system that sold it wholesale.”

Jack: “But you make it sound tragic — as if power itself was the price of being a woman in control.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Every woman who refuses to be conquered becomes a myth — admired, feared, misunderstood. And the world still asks her why she’s alone.”

Host: The light flickered once, humming faintly — an old bulb nearing the end of its life, but refusing to fade quietly.

Jack: “You think that’s changed?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the costumes have. But not the story. The setting’s digital now, not Hollywood Boulevard. The stage is smaller, the audience infinite. But the hunger’s the same — to be seen, desired, consumed.”

Jack: “And yet here we are, still pretending we’re different.”

Jeeny: (sighs) “Maybe the difference is that now, at least, we can choose to turn off the spotlight.”

Jack: (grins) “If only anyone remembered how to live without it.”

Host: The theatre creaked as the wind pressed against its doors, a soft reminder of the world waiting outside. Jeeny stepped down from the stage, her heels clicking on the worn floor as she crossed toward him.

Jeeny: “You think cynicism protects you, Jack. But it just makes you another version of those men she talked about — collecting detachment instead of intimacy.”

Jack: (quietly) “And you think faith in love protects you?”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps me honest.”

Jack: “Honest doesn’t mean safe.”

Jeeny: “Nothing worth feeling ever is.”

Host: She stopped in front of him, the light catching the curve of her jaw, the faint tremor of vulnerability behind her calm. He looked up, and for a heartbeat, the distance between cynicism and belief disappeared.

Jack: “So what do we do then? Keep trying? Keep risking?”

Jeeny: “Of course. That’s the only rebellion left — to love in a world that treats it like a weakness.”

Jack: “And what if it breaks you?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll wear the cracks like jewels.”

Host: The light faded, leaving only the amber glow of the fire exit sign — the last red flicker in a room full of ghosts. Outside, the city hummed with hunger and history, the same song that had played since the first face was lit beneath a spotlight.

Host: Jack stood, his eyes on Jeeny, his voice low — almost reverent.

Jack: “Maybe Bette was right. Maybe the real art isn’t being desired. It’s refusing to be defined by it.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why she’ll never be forgotten.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — past the empty rows of velvet seats, past the cracked stage lights and worn curtains — until the theatre became just a small glow in the city’s dark pulse.

Host: Two souls lingered inside it, one still guarding his heart, the other brave enough to keep hers open.

Host: And as the night settled around them, her voice — soft, defiant, eternal — seemed to echo in the hollow air:

Host: “I was never interested in being someone’s conquest. I was too busy being my own.”