I would love to do a biopic of a famous singer, like Diana Ross

Host: The spotlight burned like liquid gold. It washed over the old theater, spilling across rows of empty seats and the worn velvet curtain that hung like a memory refusing to fade. Dust swirled in the air—soft, slow-moving stars trapped in a private galaxy of forgotten applause.

Jack sat at the edge of the stage, a script in one hand, a half-burnt cigarette in the other. His grey eyes reflected the stage light—sharp, calculating, and somehow haunted.

Jeeny stood in the center of the stage, barefoot, her dress a cascade of shadow and shimmer. Her dark hair framed her face like night around a flame. She was humming—low, tentative—until suddenly her voice rose, rich and trembling, echoing through the emptiness.

Host: The sound of her singing filled the hall—not perfect, not polished, but alive. It carried longing and something else—a hunger, a reaching beyond her own skin.

Jeeny: (stopping mid-note, laughing breathlessly) “Taraji P. Henson once said, ‘I would love to do a biopic of a famous singer, like Diana Ross or Donna Summer... I’m salivating to do that.’”

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “Salivating. That’s a hell of a word for ambition.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “That’s what I love about it. It’s honest. You can hear the hunger in it. Not for fame—for becoming.”

Jack: “Or for escape.”

Host: He flicked the ash onto the dusty floor. The light caught the particles as they fell—like sparks losing their way home.

Jeeny: “You think every dream is an escape plan, don’t you?”

Jack: “Aren’t they? People don’t dream because they love where they are. They dream because they want out.”

Jeeny: “That’s not always running away, Jack. Sometimes it’s running toward.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “Toward what?”

Jeeny: “Toward the part of yourself you haven’t met yet. That’s what art does. When Taraji says she wants to play Diana Ross, it’s not imitation—it’s resurrection. She wants to feel what Diana felt standing under the lights, to breathe the same kind of fire.”

Jack: (skeptical) “You call that art. I call it possession.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing.”

Host: The lights hummed faintly above them, as if listening. The smell of old fabric and stage dust thickened the air—something sacred, something tired.

Jack: “You romanticize fame. The spotlight burns everyone who touches it. You think Diana Ross kept her soul when the crowd started calling her divine?”

Jeeny: “Maybe she became divine. Isn’t that what we all want? To be remembered as something larger than pain?”

Jack: “Or to hide from it.”

Jeeny: “No. To transform it.”

Host: Her voice was sharp now, fierce. The echoes of her words lingered in the rafters like music refusing to die.

Jeeny: “Look, Jack, every generation needs its icons—not because we worship them, but because they show us what it means to shine despite the dark. Diana Ross wasn’t just beautiful; she was black magic in a white world. She turned elegance into resistance. Every note she sang was defiance wrapped in velvet.”

Jack: “And every spotlight she stood under was owned by someone else. Power dressed as adoration.”

Jeeny: “Then let the next biopic be the reclamation of that power. Let it show the truth behind the lights.”

Host: The curtain fluttered slightly as a draft slipped through the old boards. A sound like whispered applause rose from the empty seats—a ghostly echo of what once was.

Jack: “You think playing her would change anything? One performance doesn’t rewrite history.”

Jeeny: “No, but it reminds people to look again. That’s what storytelling does—it reopens the wound, but this time, with light.”

Jack: “So acting is a form of healing?”

Jeeny: “It’s confession. The kind that’s loud enough for others to recognize themselves in it.”

Host: She stepped forward, the stage creaking under her bare feet. The light caught her face now—eyes bright, mouth trembling with conviction.

Jeeny: “When Taraji says she’s salivating to play Diana Ross, that’s not vanity. It’s reverence. It’s hunger to channel something untouchable—to step inside greatness, not to own it, but to understand it.”

Jack: (quietly) “Or to be seen.”

Jeeny: (meeting his gaze) “We all want to be seen, Jack. Even you. Especially you.”

Host: His hands tightened around the script, paper creasing beneath his fingers. A long pause. The sound of rain returned faintly outside—soft, rhythmic, almost like applause.

Jack: “You know, I once auditioned for a play when I was sixteen. I didn’t even want the part. I just wanted to feel that moment—the silence before you speak, when the whole room waits for your breath. It’s addictive. It feels like… resurrection.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Then you understand her.”

Jack: “Maybe. But I never chased it again. The idea of becoming someone else scared me more than staying myself.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you confuse becoming with disappearing. But they’re opposites. The more deeply you inhabit another soul, the more you discover your own.”

Host: She turned toward the empty seats, eyes scanning them as if faces still lingered there—watching, waiting.

Jeeny: “Diana sang through heartbreak, through racism, through the pressure of being perfection incarnate. Playing her wouldn’t be mimicry—it would be a communion. Every great story is a séance of courage.”

Jack: “And every great performance is a lie that tells the truth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The spotlight dimmed slightly, softening into a halo around them both. The dust in the air glowed, swirling like the remnants of old applause.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack—art isn’t just entertainment. It’s reincarnation. Each role, each note, each brushstroke—it’s someone saying, I was here once. Don’t let me vanish.”

Jack: “And the actor becomes a vessel for the vanished.”

Jeeny: “Yes. A vessel. But also a mirror. When she plays Diana Ross, Taraji wouldn’t just show us Diana—she’d show us the hunger that’s still inside all of us. The hunger to rise, to be magnificent, to be seen in full color.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment. Then, quietly, he set the script aside and rose to his feet.

Jack: “Sing again.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because for a moment, you almost made me believe.”

Host: Jeeny smiled—small, knowing, luminous. She lifted her chin and began to sing again, softly at first, then stronger, her voice carrying through the empty theater. It wasn’t perfect—it cracked, it trembled—but it was alive.

Jack closed his eyes. For the first time that night, the cynicism fell away. He listened—not as critic, but as witness.

And as her voice rose, the lights flickered brighter. The theater breathed again.

Host: It was not Diana Ross, nor Donna Summer. It was something older—human longing itself, echoing through the bones of the stage.

And in that echo, both Jack and Jeeny remembered what Taraji meant—
that to play greatness is not to mimic it,
but to meet it halfway, trembling and true,
salivating not for fame, but for becoming.

The final note lingered in the air—raw, tender, holy.

Then silence.

And in that silence, for just a heartbeat, the world stood still—
listening,
believing,
becoming.