If you're nervous, that means you care and you want to give your

Host: The theater was almost empty, the air thick with the smell of dust, paint, and old velvet. Rows of worn red seats stretched out into the darkness, their fabric frayed by years of applause and forgotten shows. Onstage, a single light burned — a spotlight — cutting through the gloom like a blade.

Jack stood near the edge of the stage, his hands shoved into the pockets of a worn leather jacket. His face was pale under the light, and his eyes, gray and cold, drifted over the rows as though staring into an audience that no longer existed.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the stage floor, tying the laces of her shoes, her long black hair falling over her shoulders. The faint echo of her voice broke the silence.

Jeeny: “You ever get nervous, Jack?”

Jack: “Every damn day.”

Jeeny: “You don’t look it.”

Jack: “That’s the trick.”

Host: A small smile tugged at her lips, but her hands trembled slightly as she stood. The rehearsal had gone long; the opening night was tomorrow. The air itself felt charged — that peculiar blend of hope and fear that comes only when something that matters is about to begin.

She turned to him, eyes shining in the harsh white light, and said quietly, “You know what Adriana Lima once said? ‘If you’re nervous, that means you care and you want to give your best.’”

Jack looked at her, expression unreadable.

Jack: “That’s easy for someone like her to say. Some people get nervous because they care. Others get nervous because they’ve already failed too many times.”

Jeeny: “No. Being nervous isn’t failure, Jack. It’s proof you still feel something. That you still have skin in the game.”

Jack: “Or that you haven’t learned to accept what’s out of your control.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the point. Maybe you’re not supposed to. Maybe you’re supposed to feel it all — the fear, the trembling, the hope. That’s what makes it real.”

Host: The spotlight buzzed faintly above them, its glow softening the lines on their faces. Dust floated in the beam like tiny stars suspended midair.

Jack walked toward the edge of the stage, staring down into the darkness beyond the lights — that invisible gulf between performer and audience, faith and judgment.

Jack: “You know what nerves feel like to me? Weakness. Doubt. The body telling you it doesn’t trust you. I’ve spent years learning how to silence that voice.”

Jeeny: “And has it helped?”

Jack: “It’s kept me alive.”

Jeeny: “But not alive enough to feel.”

Host: Her words lingered, soft but sharp, like a note held too long. Jack exhaled, a dry laugh escaping him — half mockery, half surrender.

Jack: “You sound like one of those motivational posters they hang in corporate hallways.”

Jeeny: “You mean the ones people read when they’re trying not to cry at their desk?”

Jack: (smirks) “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “Still, there’s truth in it. Being nervous means you care. It means you’re about to step into something uncertain — and that’s where the best things happen.”

Host: The theater lights flickered. The hum of the air vents filled the silence. Jack sat down beside her, the wooden floor creaking beneath his weight.

Jack: “When I was younger, before every debate, before every interview, I used to shake. My hands, my voice, everything. I thought it meant I wasn’t good enough. So I taught myself to stop caring. It worked. I don’t shake anymore.”

Jeeny: “But you stopped feeling too, didn’t you?”

Jack: “Maybe. But it’s easier that way.”

Jeeny: “Easier doesn’t mean better, Jack. Look — the greatest artists, the best performers — they all get nervous. Van Gogh doubted every stroke. Chaplin rehearsed his laughs until his fingers bled. They weren’t weak; they cared. That’s what made their art human.”

Host: Her eyes glimmered in the dim light, and something inside Jack — some long-suppressed ember — flickered in response.

Jack: “You really believe nerves make you better?”

Jeeny: “Not by themselves. But they mean you still want something to matter. That’s rare these days. Most people are numb. They go through life like spectators, never trembling, never risking. Nerves mean you’re still in the arena.”

Jack: “The arena.” (He chuckles softly.) “Sounds romantic when you say it. But you know what happens to people in arenas, Jeeny? They bleed. They lose.”

Jeeny: “They live.”

Host: Silence. The word hung in the air, fragile and fierce at once. Jeeny stepped forward, standing under the spotlight. The light caught in her hair like strands of black silk.

She took a deep breath — trembling, visible, human.

Jeeny: “I used to think being nervous meant I wasn’t ready. Before my first job interview, before my first performance, before I told someone I loved them. I’d feel it in my throat — that tightening, that fear. But every time I pushed through it, something changed. Maybe not the world — but me.”

Jack watched her, something shifting behind his eyes.

Jack: “So you think fear’s the proof of life?”

Jeeny: “I think fear is the sound of your soul knocking. Reminding you that something’s worth it.”

Host: Jack’s breathing slowed. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, as if trying to loosen an invisible chain. The light flickered once more, bathing the empty seats in soft, uneven waves of gold.

Jack: “You know… before my father died, he told me something similar. He said, ‘If your hands shake before you speak, it means your words are real.’ I didn’t understand it then. I do now.”

Jeeny: “He was right.”

Jack: “Yeah. I just spent too long trying to be steel when I should’ve just been human.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, gentle and unguarded.

Jeeny: “There’s strength in trembling too, Jack. It’s just a different kind.”

Jack: “And what kind is that?”

Jeeny: “The kind that means your heart’s still working.”

Host: The stage light dimmed slightly, the edges of their shadows merging on the floor. Outside, a rain began to fall again — soft, rhythmic, the kind that made the world seem cleaner, quieter.

Jeeny stepped closer, resting her hand on his shoulder.

Jeeny: “Maybe tomorrow, when you walk out there, let yourself be nervous. Let it remind you that you care.”

Jack: “And what if I fail?”

Jeeny: “Then at least it mattered.”

Host: The clock in the hallway struck one. The sound echoed through the empty theater, like the heartbeat of something waiting to come alive. Jack stood slowly, the tension in his shoulders softening. He looked at the rows of empty seats, at the faint glow of the stage, and then back at her.

Jack: “You’ll be there?”

Jeeny: “Front row.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — a rare, unguarded thing — and for a brief second, the weight he carried seemed to lift.

As he walked offstage, the light followed him until he disappeared into the dark, leaving Jeeny alone beneath the spotlight. She stood still, letting its warmth bathe her, then whispered into the empty theater:

Jeeny: “If you’re nervous, that means you care.”

Host: The light flickered once more, then steadied — glowing brighter, almost golden, as though the theater itself was listening.

And in that stillness, where fear and faith met like two notes in perfect harmony, something quiet and eternal was understood:

That nerves are not weakness — they are the body’s way of saying, this moment matters.
That trembling is not failure — it’s love wearing its truest face.

And as the rain fell softly beyond the walls, the stage waited — ready to begin again.