I watched a lot of movies when I was younger and I remember, when

Host: The city skyline shimmered outside the window — a restless constellation of dreams pretending to be lights. The loft was cluttered with half-empty coffee cups, crumpled scripts, a flickering TV that hummed softly in the background. On it, old movies played — scenes from another century, another kind of innocence.

The rain tapped against the glass like impatient applause. Inside, the air smelled of popcorn and nostalgia.

Jack sat on the floor near the window, his back against the couch, flipping through a stack of screenplay drafts marked with red ink. Jeeny stood near the TV, her reflection shimmering in the glass, watching an old black-and-white movie with that faraway look people get when they’re watching their own memories in disguise.

Jeeny: (softly) “Meaghan Rath once said, ‘I watched a lot of movies when I was younger and I remember, when I was seven years old, I asked my parents if I could have an agent for Christmas.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Seven years old. Asking for representation. That’s either ambition or prophecy.”

Host: His voice carried the quiet humor of someone who had learned that childhood dreams age differently — some into success, others into ghosts. The TV screen flickered over his face, alternating light and shadow — like reels of faith and doubt playing in sync.

Jeeny: “It’s both. You don’t ask for something like that unless you already feel the pull — the gravity of the stage, the hunger of the lens.”

Jack: “Or the loneliness of wanting to be seen.”

Jeeny: “You think wanting to be seen is loneliness?”

Jack: “What else could it be? You don’t crave visibility if you already feel visible.”

Host: The movie dialogue on the TV bled faintly into the room — a line about dreams, a kiss, a fade to black. Jeeny turned down the volume, her eyes still on the screen.

Jeeny: “When I was little, I wanted to be in the movies too. Not for fame — for the feeling. The way everything made sense on screen. The way love was choreographed, grief was poetic, and even pain had lighting.”

Jack: “Yeah. Movies make suffering cinematic. Real life just makes it messy.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s why people like Meaghan Rath fall in love with the craft so young — because cinema teaches you that beauty can come from chaos. That if you tell your story right, even heartbreak has purpose.”

Jack: “So you think she wanted an agent to find beauty?”

Jeeny: “No. I think she wanted an audience.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, beating rhythmically against the windows, each drop reflecting the glow of the screen like scattered confessions. Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes distant.

Jack: “You know, I remember my first time in front of a camera. Thought it’d change everything. Thought I’d finally stop feeling invisible. But when the lights came on, it didn’t make me more real — just more performative.”

Jeeny: “That’s the trap, isn’t it? You start acting before anyone asks you to.”

Jack: “Exactly. You build a version of yourself for the audience, and one day you forget which one’s home.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that all of us? Performing for someone — a parent, a lover, a crowd — hoping one of them will clap?”

Jack: “Yeah. And sometimes they do. And it feels like sunlight for a second. But then you realize applause doesn’t last. Silence always wins.”

Host: The camera of the scene drifted closer, catching the soft tremor in Jeeny’s smile. She turned back to the TV, where a child actress recited lines with heartbreaking sincerity.

Jeeny: “Seven years old, and she already wanted to be in the machine. That says something about how early we learn the price of visibility.”

Jack: “Yeah. The dream starts pure — just joy and imagination. Then it grows teeth.”

Jeeny: “And still, we chase it.”

Jack: “Because maybe the pain is proof we mattered.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s just the only language dreamers ever learn.”

Host: Her words hung between them, sharp and soft all at once. The TV light flickered again — black and white flashing over their faces like memory editing itself in real time.

Jack: “I envy her, though. The seven-year-old version of that dream. When all she wanted was a chance. Before critics, before casting, before rejection became routine.”

Jeeny: “Before the business replaced the wonder.”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “But maybe the business isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s the fire that tests how much wonder can survive the burn.”

Jack: “You sound like a director.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a dropout.”

Jack: (smiling) “Touché.”

Host: The mood in the room lightened briefly — laughter breaking the heaviness like a sudden cut to daylight. But beneath it, something truer still lingered — the ache of dreams that never grow old, only older.

Jeeny: “You know, when Meaghan Rath said that, it wasn’t about ambition. It was about innocence — the way kids can dream without permission.”

Jack: “And adults need validation just to try.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what we lose — that fearless absurdity of asking for the impossible like it’s a toy under the tree.”

Jack: “An agent for Christmas.” (pauses) “Hell, that’s not a wish. That’s a manifesto.”

Jeeny: “It’s also an admission — that art and love come from the same hunger. The need to be chosen.”

Jack: “To belong to something bigger than yourself.”

Jeeny: “Or to finally meet the world on your own terms.”

Host: The sound of the rain softened, the storm easing into something tender. The movie on the TV had ended — credits rolling silently across the screen, names fading into black.

Jack: “You ever think we chase this whole dream thing just to make the child version of ourselves proud?”

Jeeny: “Or to prove to them that the dream wasn’t foolish.”

Jack: “Or that the world didn’t win.”

Jeeny: “But maybe it’s okay if it did. Maybe growing up isn’t about keeping the dream alive. Maybe it’s about keeping its echo.”

Jack: “The echo’s enough?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s all we get.”

Host: The camera lingered on the two of them — older, wiser, but still children at the edges of their longing. The flicker from the screen cast their shadows onto the wall: two silhouettes caught in conversation with their younger selves.

Jeeny: “Seven years old and already asking to be part of the story.”

Jack: “Yeah. And maybe she was right to ask.”

Jeeny: “Because the ones who dare to ask end up telling the stories the rest of us live.”

Jack: “Or regret not living.”

Host: The room dimmed. The credits finished. The screen went dark — but the glow it left on their faces lingered, soft and forgiving.

And through the stillness, Meaghan Rath’s words seemed to hum — both naive and profound, both childlike and prophetic:

“I watched a lot of movies when I was younger and I remember, when I was seven years old, I asked my parents if I could have an agent for Christmas.”

Host: Maybe that’s how every artist begins —
not with certainty, but with a question;
not with fame, but with faith;
not with applause, but with the audacity to believe
that being seen might one day mean being understood.

Fade to black.
Fade to wonder.