I'm an orphan. But the public has adopted me, and that has been

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving a thin mist over the city. Streetlights flickered like fading fireflies, and the pavement glistened with pools of amber light. A small café, half-hidden between two old buildings, glowed with the warm hum of late-night chatter and jazz from a crackling speaker.
Jack sat near the window, his hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee, eyes staring into the wet reflection of passing headlights. Jeeny arrived quietly, umbrella dripping, her coat damp from the storm, her expression soft but thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You look like a man who’s haunted by more than just the weather.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Maybe by the illusion of family, Jeeny. I was reading something earlier… Eartha Kitt once said, ‘I’m an orphan. But the public has adopted me, and that has been my only family. The biggest family in the world is my fans.’ I can’t decide whether that’s beautiful or tragic.”

Host: The words hung between them like smoke, curling upward with the steam from their cups. The rainwater on the window began to slide, creating rivers of light from the street below.

Jeeny: “It’s both, Jack. Beautiful because it shows how a person can be loved by the world despite having no one. Tragic because the world can’t hold you when you break.”

Jack: “But that’s the thing, isn’t it? The world doesn’t really love you. It admires, it uses, it projects its own desires onto you. Eartha’s ‘family’ wasn’t really a family. It was an audience. A crowd doesn’t know you; it only knows what it wants to see.”

Jeeny: “You underestimate the human heart, Jack. People can love without knowing every detail. Think of artists who have changed lives through their work — they never met those they touched, yet the connection was real. Isn’t that a kind of family?”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking, the low jazz tracing the edges of their silence. His grey eyes reflected the light of a passing car, sharp, almost metallic.

Jack: “A family built on admiration and consumption. You see it in every celebrity who becomes a product. Fans want to believe they’re part of something intimate, but it’s an illusion. When you’re on stage, they cheer. When you fall, they scroll.”

Jeeny: “That’s a cynical way to see connection. Maybe you’re right about the crowd, but not about the individuals within it. For every fan who’s shallow, there’s one who’s deeply moved, who changes their life because of what you’ve shared.”

Jack: “And yet, they don’t know you. They love the idea of you. When Eartha said the public was her family, she was confessing to a loneliness disguised as gratitude. It’s like saying, ‘The world has adopted me,’ but really meaning, ‘No one ever truly did.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly what makes it so human. We all create families where there were none. Some find it in blood, others in music, or in the faces of strangers who listen. Isn’t that what we do, too, Jack? Sitting here — finding a kind of belonging in a conversation?”

Host: The rain began again, softer this time, like a heartbeat returning after a long pause. Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he tapped his finger against the cup. His voice, when he spoke, carried the weight of something old — a memory perhaps.

Jack: “You know what it reminds me of? Chaplin. He made the world laugh, but died alone in Switzerland. The crowd loved him, but that didn’t stop the silence from filling his house every night. Fame doesn’t erase solitude, it amplifies it.”

Jeeny: “But Chaplin’s laughter still echoes, Jack. That’s his family now — every soul that still smiles because of him. Maybe legacy is just another word for adoption by time.”

Jack: “Legacy is a myth to comfort the dying. The living need touch, voices, eyes that see them, not just names remembered by strangers. Eartha Kitt found a crowd to cheer, but who whispered her name when the lights went out?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe she whispered it herself — and the echo answered. Isn’t that what every artist does? They send their voice into the void, hoping it finds an ear, a heart. Even if it’s not in the same room, it’s still heard. That’s a kind of love, Jack — distant, but real.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened, catching the neon reflection from the window, a faint tremor in her voice. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for a moment, the defense in his posture eased.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That love can exist through distance? Through a screen, a stage, a song?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because I’ve felt it. When I was younger, there were voices that kept me alive, people I’d never met, but who spoke something true. Like Eartha. Like anyone who’s ever turned their pain into art.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the public, in its chaos, can become a kind of home?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not the kind with walls, but one with echoes. A home built from recognition, not proximity. You can be an orphan, but still be seen — and that might be enough.”

Host: The sound of a train in the distance cut through the night. The café had emptied; only the barista, half-asleep, was wiping down the counter. The clock ticked softly — 12:47 a.m. The rain turned into a steady whisper against the glass.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s never been left behind.”

Jeeny: “I talk like someone who has — and learned that the world sometimes answers back. You just have to listen.”

Host: Jack stared into his coffee, the surface trembling slightly as the door opened and a gust of cold air swept in. A couple walked past, laughing, arms linked. He watched them, then sighed.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we all just want to be heard — even if by strangers. Maybe that’s the only family that can’t abandon us.”

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. A family that doesn’t depend on names or blood, but on connection. When you speak, and someone feels less alone because of it — that’s the adoption Eartha meant.”

Jack: “And yet it’s still lonely, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “It is. But it’s a shared loneliness. The kind that binds, not isolates.”

Host: The words settled, like dust after a storm. Jeeny reached out, her hand brushing Jack’s — a gesture so small it might have been missed, but it shifted the room. Outside, the rain had stopped again. A thin beam of moonlight pierced through the clouds, catching on the wet pavement.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? Maybe that’s why people create art. To build families out of echoes.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why people listen — to remember that even echoes mean someone once spoke.”

Host: The moonlight brightened, washing the café in a silver glow. The city, once loud and restless, seemed to pause — as if listening too. Jack and Jeeny sat in that silence, two souls briefly connected by a truth neither could deny:
That love, in all its forms, is never truly orphaned — it simply changes homes.

And outside, the world — vast, indifferent, and yet somehow tender — kept turning, its streets full of strangers, each one quietly searching for the same adoption.