I would say my dream collaboration would probably have to be with

Host: The city night buzzed with the electric hum of dreams not yet broken. Billboards flickered, cars whispered through the streets slick with neon rain, and a soft bass pulsed from a club around the corner — steady, hypnotic, like a heartbeat wearing headphones.

Inside a small recording studio, the air shimmered with the scent of coffee, cords, and ambition. A lone lamp cast a halo of gold across the mixing board, where Jack sat hunched, twisting dials, his grey eyes narrowed in focus. Across from him, Jeeny reclined on a beat-up sofa, her bare feet propped on a speaker, humming softly to some rhythm only she could hear.

A poster of Drake hung crooked on the wall — the man half in shadow, half in light.

Jeeny: “You know what Austin Mahone once said? ‘I would say my dream collaboration would probably have to be with Drake. I think he is an amazing artist.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Drake, huh? Everyone wants to collaborate with Drake. That’s not a dream, that’s a business plan.”

Jeeny: “You think admiration always has an agenda?”

Jack: “In this industry? Absolutely. People call it collaboration when what they really mean is proximity to power.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s about resonance. About recognizing something in someone else’s art that wakes something in your own.”

Host: The recording light blinked red, as if the room itself were breathing. The faint sound of rain tapped against the window, blending with the low vibration of a bassline still looping in the background.

Jack: “Drake’s an empire now, Jeeny. A myth with a credit line. Wanting to work with him isn’t art, it’s strategy.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with strategy when it comes from admiration? You sound like collaboration’s a sin. Maybe Mahone just sees something in Drake’s artistry — that balance between vulnerability and swagger. It’s not about the fame, Jack. It’s about the way he tells the truth.”

Jack: (finally looking at her) “Truth? Drake’s built an empire out of filters and rhythm. It’s not confession — it’s choreography.”

Jeeny: “You don’t think truth can exist inside choreography?”

Jack: “Not when it’s designed for mass consumption.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve forgotten what performance really is. Every artist choreographs their pain — they just use different lighting.”

Host: The room fell quiet except for the steady hum of the monitors. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice soft, her eyes bright with conviction.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when you used to make music, Jack? Before all this—” (gesturing to the studio) “—before you cared about charts and clients?”

Jack: (quietly) “Yeah. I remember. I used to record in my apartment with one mic and a busted laptop. Thought I was changing the world.”

Jeeny: “You were. Because you believed in sound before you believed in success.”

Jack: “And what did it get me? A few tracks no one heard and a pile of rent notices.”

Jeeny: “Maybe what you lost wasn’t an audience — it was wonder.”

Host: The lamp flickered, and the rain outside thickened, the sound growing heavier, louder, almost like applause. Jack’s fingers hovered above the keyboard, frozen between doubt and remembering.

Jeeny: “That’s what I love about what Mahone said. He didn’t say he wanted to use Drake — he said he wanted to create with him. That’s the difference. Collaboration isn’t about profit — it’s about expansion.”

Jack: “Expansion?”

Jeeny: “Yes. When two artists meet in the same frequency, something new is born. You can’t manufacture that. You can’t plan it. It’s alchemy.”

Jack: “And what if it fails?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you tried to connect. Isn’t that what art is supposed to be — reaching out, even if no one catches your hand?”

Host: The music loop stopped. Silence fell — thick, almost alive. Jack leaned back, the chair creaking, his expression softening just slightly.

Jack: “You know, I used to have a dream collaboration once.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “With who? Don’t say Drake.”

Jack: “No. With this producer named Leon Torres. He made beats that sounded like cities dreaming. I wanted to blend his rhythms with my lyrics — raw, unpolished. But I never reached out.”

Jeeny: “Why not?”

Jack: “Because I was scared he’d say no. Or worse — that he’d say yes, and I’d find out I wasn’t good enough.”

Jeeny: “So you let fear kill the song before it was written.”

Jack: “Guess so.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, Jack. Not the rejection — the silence.”

Host: The lamp dimmed again, throwing half of Jack’s face in shadow, the other half illuminated by the soft glow of monitors. The image mirrored the poster of Drake on the wall — two sides of the same man: the dreamer and the skeptic.

Jack: “You think collaboration’s worth the risk?”

Jeeny: “Always. Because every artist needs another heartbeat beside theirs sometimes — to remind them that creation isn’t loneliness disguised as work.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “Completely. Drake’s collaborations — the best ones — aren’t about fame. They’re about energy. The merging of voices, the way two souls sound when they’re brave enough to meet in sound.”

Host: Jack turned slowly to the mixing board, his fingers brushing the faders. The room filled with a faint melody — a simple piano line he’d written months ago but never finished. It sounded small, hesitant, beautiful.

Jeeny listened, her eyes soft, her smile quiet.

Jeeny: “That’s it. That’s the start. Maybe your dream collaboration isn’t with Drake. Maybe it’s with yourself — the part you stopped listening to.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You really don’t let people hide, do you?”

Jeeny: “Not when there’s music left in them.”

Host: The sound swelled, filling the room — piano, heartbeat, rain. The camera panned slowly, catching the small studio glowing like a shrine to what once was — the dream still alive, the art still breathing.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe Mahone’s got it right. Maybe the dream isn’t about the name — it’s about finding someone whose rhythm reminds you why you started.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The artist doesn’t matter. The honesty does.”

Host: The music faded, leaving only the soft patter of rain on glass and the steady thump of possibility.

As the screen dimmed, Drake’s poster loomed behind them — the silhouette of an artist who had become both muse and mirror.

And in that dim, sacred stillness, Austin Mahone’s words felt less like admiration and more like truth —
not about Drake, but about the power of connection itself:

That in art — as in life —
the greatest collaboration isn’t about who you work with,
but about who helps you remember the music that was always yours.