I'm always amazed at anyone's interest in what I have to say.

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets slick and shimmering under the amber city lights. A faint mist curled from the pavement, rising like the ghost of steam from an invisible orchestra. Inside a small bookstore café, Jack and Jeeny sat surrounded by stacks of novels, half-drunk coffee cups, and the soft hum of a record playing somewhere in the back — an old Leonard Cohen song that sounded like it had learned heartbreak firsthand.

Jack leaned against the worn leather couch, his posture loose, eyes distant. Jeeny, across from him, was absorbed in the spine of a book, fingers tracing the title absently as if it were a line of poetry.

Jeeny: (glancing up) “You know what Orlando Bloom once said? ‘I’m always amazed at anyone’s interest in what I have to say.’”

Jack: (smirks) “A rare case of celebrity honesty.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Or humility.”

Host: A bus passed outside, its lights flashing across their faces, distorting their reflections in the window glass. The rainlight turned their table into a mirror of flickering gold.

Jack: “Humility? Maybe. Or maybe it’s the luxury of being heard so often you start to find your own voice irrelevant. He’s not amazed; he’s fatigued.”

Jeeny: “You think fatigue is the same as humility?”

Jack: “They often look alike. Especially when someone famous says it.”

Host: The record hissed in the background — that delicate, nostalgic imperfection that made every silence feel intentional.

Jeeny: “You’re cynical even about humility. Don’t you ever just… believe someone might mean what they say?”

Jack: “I believe in motives, Jeeny. Not miracles. Celebrities talk about being amazed when people listen to them, but they live off that very attention. It’s like a fish being amazed by water.”

Jeeny: (leans back, crossing her arms) “Or maybe it’s like a fish realizing the water isn’t guaranteed. You assume fame makes you immune to loneliness. But maybe it makes you hungrier for sincerity.”

Host: A drop of rain slid down the windowpane, distorting the city lights into smears of amber and blue. The room seemed to shrink with their silence, their words heavy in the air.

Jack: “You think fame can feel lonely?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Everyone listens to your voice, but no one actually hears your silence.”

Jack: (a small laugh, half-painful) “That’s poetic. And depressing.”

Jeeny: “Truth usually is.”

Host: The barista clattered dishes in the back, the sound echoing briefly before fading under the soft hum of rain against glass.

Jack: “But come on, Jeeny. Orlando Bloom — a man adored by millions — saying he’s amazed people care what he says? That’s irony, not honesty. You don’t get to be that famous and then act surprised when people listen.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly why he’s surprised. Because the louder the world gets, the harder it is to believe anyone’s listening for the right reasons.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, each word deliberate, like she was building a bridge between doubt and empathy.

Jeeny: “Imagine it, Jack. Every sentence you say dissected, quoted, twisted into headlines. Every emotion turned into currency. Wouldn’t you start doubting if anyone cared about the truth underneath the noise?”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe. But I’d trade that doubt for the comfort of being heard.”

Jeeny: “You say that now. But being constantly heard isn’t the same as being understood. Sometimes silence is the last sanctuary you have.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lowered to his cup — the coffee gone cold, a thin film of oil catching the light.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That silence is some kind of holy refuge?”

Jeeny: “I believe it’s where truth waits. Fame is loud, but understanding is quiet.”

Jack: “So, what — you pity him? A millionaire movie star amazed that people care about his words?”

Jeeny: “Not pity. Recognition. Everyone, no matter who they are, lives with a version of that same surprise — the shock that someone sees them, really sees them, and listens anyway.”

Host: The record skipped, just once, then found its groove again — a small imperfection that somehow made the moment feel more alive.

Jack: “You make it sound like being heard is a gift.”

Jeeny: “It is. We take it for granted. You speak every day, hundreds of words — and how many of them actually land in someone’s heart?”

Jack: (thoughtfully) “Not many, I guess.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. So when someone does listen — really listens — it’s amazing, no matter who you are. That’s what he meant. Not fame. Not irony. Gratitude.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, a hint of reflection shimmering in the dim light. Jack’s expression changed — something unguarded flickering across his face, like a memory brushing the edge of consciousness.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know… my father used to say the same thing. He’d talk for hours about history, about politics, and at the end, he’d always say, ‘You probably don’t care about any of this, do you?’ But I did. I always did.”

Jeeny: “Did you tell him that?”

Jack: (shakes his head) “No. I thought he knew.”

Host: The silence thickened, full of everything they didn’t say. The rain returned, light and steady, like an old rhythm finding its way back.

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe that’s why this quote hit you. It reminds you of what it feels like to want to be heard and not know if you are.”

Jack: “Maybe.” (He looks at her.) “Or maybe it’s because I’m realizing I’ve been too busy talking to actually listen.”

Jeeny: “That’s the trap, isn’t it? We think being listened to means we matter — but it’s the listening that makes us real.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the air like smoke, drifting and glowing in the faint light of the café’s lamps. Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for his cup, his voice low, almost a confession.

Jack: “So when Orlando Bloom says he’s amazed that people care what he says… he’s not being modest. He’s mourning how rare that feeling truly is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because amazement is the language of gratitude — and of disbelief that connection still exists in a world addicted to noise.”

Host: The record ended, the needle spinning in quiet circles. The barista turned off the light behind the counter, leaving only the glow from the street lamps outside.

Jack: “You ever feel that way? Amazed that anyone cares what you think?”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Every time someone listens. Including you, right now.”

Host: Jack’s eyes met hers, steady, soft, a rare stillness settling between them. The rainlight shimmered through the window, painting both of their faces in a fragile wash of silver.

Jack: (quietly) “Then I guess I’m amazed too.”

Jeeny: “Good. That means you’re human again.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into mist. The streets glowed, reflections pooling under the lamps like liquid gold.

Inside, two voices fell into silence — a silence that didn’t wound but healed.

And as the world outside pulsed onward — fast, loud, unhearing — a simple truth lingered in that small café, gentle and eternal:

To be listened to is a miracle.
To be amazed by it is grace.