If you try to come off as this big-time star with an attitude

Host: The stage lights had been switched off hours ago, yet the faint scent of smoke, perfume, and electricity still lingered in the air — the perfume of fame, the residue of applause. Rows of empty chairs stretched toward the dim spotlight, where the echo of a crowd still seemed to hum in the wooden floorboards.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, his hands wrapped around a bottle of water, elbows on his knees, eyes staring into the dark. Jeeny sat beside him, one leg crossed over the other, her heels dangling just above the edge. Her face glowed faintly under the last soft bulb above the stage, her expression somewhere between admiration and sadness.

Host: They had just finished watching a documentary about Selena — the singer who had turned humility into charisma, simplicity into immortality. Now, her words lingered between them like a melody that refused to fade.

Jeeny: (softly) “Selena once said, ‘If you try to come off as this big-time star with an attitude, people don’t like that.’”
She tilted her head, looking at the vast, empty hall. “I think that’s what made her so luminous. She never believed she was bigger than the people listening.”

Jack: (half-smiling, half-cynical) “Or maybe she just knew better than to let fame eat her too soon.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound cynical.”

Jack: “It is. Fame’s a dangerous meal. Most choke on it before they realize they’re full.”

Host: The silence that followed felt like the space between two notes — small but infinite. Jack took a sip of water, his reflection caught in the bottle, warped and flickering under the light.

Jeeny: “You’ve always hated the idea of celebrity, haven’t you?”

Jack: (shrugging) “Not hate. Just don’t trust it. You start with talent, you end with ego. And somewhere in between, you forget the reason you began at all.”

Jeeny: “But Selena didn’t forget. That’s what made her rare.”

Jack: “Rare, yes. But not immune.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, her voice lowering.

Jeeny: “She had every reason to act like a star, Jack — and she never did. That kind of grace comes from knowing who you are before the world tells you.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “You think that’s possible anymore? To stay real when the lights never go off?”

Jeeny: (gazing at the seats) “Maybe not for everyone. But humility isn’t about pretending to be small. It’s about remembering you’re part of something bigger. The crowd, the music, the moment — not above it.”

Jack: (thoughtful) “So you think fame doesn’t corrupt — people just forget their place in it?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They start to believe the light belongs to them. Selena never did. She danced in it, but she knew it came from love, not her reflection.”

Host: The air in the theater grew heavier — not oppressive, but reverent. Jack leaned back on his palms, staring up at the ceiling, where faint cracks spidered through old plaster, like veins beneath translucent skin.

Jack: “You know, I met a musician once — one-hit wonder type. He told me the applause was the worst addiction he ever had. Said he’d rather go deaf than stop hearing it.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “That’s the danger — when you start living for the echo instead of the song.”

Host: The bulb above them buzzed softly, flickering. Shadows rippled across the stage, cutting across their faces like thin bars of light and truth.

Jeeny: “Selena wasn’t trying to be adored. She was trying to give something. And people can feel the difference.”

Jack: “You’re saying authenticity can be felt.”

Jeeny: “Of course it can. It’s the most contagious thing in the world. That’s why she’s still loved. She didn’t act like a star; she shined like a human.”

Jack: (murmuring) “Maybe that’s why people called her the Queen of Tejano — not because she ruled, but because she belonged.”

Host: The words hung in the air — fragile, shimmering, painfully true.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Exactly. She wasn’t above her audience; she was among them. That’s the difference between an idol and an inspiration.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “So humility’s the secret ingredient of immortality?”

Jeeny: (laughing lightly) “Maybe not immortality. But it’s the only thing that survives it.”

Host: A small draft blew across the theater, carrying with it the faint smell of dust and old applause. Jeeny rubbed her arms for warmth, her tone softening.

Jeeny: “You ever notice, Jack, that the people who last — the ones we still talk about — they all had that same quality? Fred Rogers. Mandela. Maya Angelou. They didn’t demand attention. They earned it by giving something real.”

Jack: (nodding) “While the ones who scream for it burn out faster. Noise doesn’t last — it just echoes.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And when it fades, all that’s left is who you were when no one was looking.”

Host: Jack’s eyes drifted toward the stage curtains — deep red, heavy, worn. He exhaled slowly, almost reverently.

Jack: “You think that’s what scares them — the silence after the show?”

Jeeny: “For most, yes. But for the few like her? I think the silence was home. She didn’t need to be loud to be heard.”

Jack: (half-smile) “You ever think the world doesn’t deserve people like that?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The world needs them to remember what it means to be human.”

Host: A faint hum filled the space — the sound of the projector still cooling in the booth. The final still image of Selena, projected earlier, seemed to echo behind them — her smile, radiant, genuine, unguarded.

Jack: (softly) “You know what’s strange? Watching her, I felt something I haven’t felt in years — sincerity. No filters. No performance. Just… joy.”

Jeeny: “That’s the power of authenticity. It disarms cynics and melts critics. It’s unteachable, but unforgettable.”

Jack: (sighing) “Makes me wonder if I’ve spent my life trying too hard to look unbothered.”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “Then stop trying. People don’t love perfection — they love truth. Selena knew that. You don’t have to act big to be seen. You just have to be.”

Host: The lights dimmed further, until the theater glowed only with the faint gold of the EXIT sign. The rain outside had stopped, replaced by a deep, tender stillness.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You think she knew, Jeeny? That she’d leave so soon, but still never leave at all?”

Jeeny: (gazing at the dark stage) “I think she didn’t care about being remembered — she cared about being real. And that’s why she still is.”

Host: The camera would linger on them — two figures bathed in ghost-light, framed by silence and memory — while a faint melody of Dreaming of You began to echo faintly in the background, distant and eternal.

Host: And as the final chords faded, Selena’s words remained suspended in the air like a blessing and a warning both: that greatness isn’t in acting like a star, but in loving like a person — because humility, unlike fame, never dies.