I'm doing a new musical on Broadway, which opens in October

Host: The lights of Broadway burned like golden suns, shimmering against the wet pavement of a New York night. The air smelled of rain, popcorn, and the faint tang of electricity — that strange, restless pulse of dreams and despair that only theater streets could carry. Posters clung to brick walls, their colors half-faded but still defiant, names glowing in neon halos above the crowds.

It was October, the season of smoke, scarves, and second chances. Inside a small diner tucked behind the Imperial Theatre, Jack and Jeeny sat in a corner booth, a window between them and the blur of passing taxi lights. The hum of distant music from a rehearsal across the street seemed to wrap around their conversation like a heartbeat.

Jack: stirring his coffee absently “You know, Hugh Jackman once said he was doing a new musical called The Boy from Oz, where he played Peter Allen — became famous in America for marrying Liza Minnelli.”
Jeeny: tilting her head, intrigued “You bring that up like it’s more than trivia, Jack.”
Jack: “It is. I’ve been thinking about it — how strange it is that people remember him for that. Not for his music, his talent, his energy — but because of who he married. Sometimes fame doesn’t celebrate who you are, but who you’re attached to.”

Host: The diner’s light flickered, catching the glint of a ring on Jeeny’s finger, a small reflection that seemed to echo Jack’s words. A waitress passed, the hiss of a coffee machine filling the air like soft applause.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s just the price of being seen. The world loves a story more than a soul.”
Jack: “That’s the problem. Everything becomes a story — even lives that weren’t meant to be performances.”
Jeeny: “And yet, we all perform, don’t we? Every day. We curate our faces, our words, our images. Whether it’s Broadway or social media, the stage just changes shape.”

Host: The rain started again, tracing thin silver rivers down the windowpane. The city’s reflections danced like restless ghosts — billboards, headlights, and the faint blur of a theater marquee glowing “Opening Night Tonight.”

Jack: “Peter Allen was brilliant, but the world only saw him through someone else’s spotlight. That’s what I fear — living in someone else’s definition of who I am.”
Jeeny: “Isn’t that what we all fear? But tell me, Jack, who defines you now?”
Jack: smirking slightly “Maybe no one. Maybe that’s the problem.”

Host: The sound of distant music drifted through the rain — a faint echo of piano keys, an unseen singer rehearsing somewhere nearby. The melody was raw, unfinished, beautiful in its imperfection.

Jeeny: “Peter Allen wrote ‘Don’t Cry Out Loud.’ You know that song?”
Jack: “Yeah. ‘Just keep it inside, and learn how to hide your feelings.’” He laughed softly. “That sounds like the motto of my life.”
Jeeny: “It’s tragic, isn’t it? That art tells us to hold our hearts back — even when art itself is born from what we can’t contain.”

Host: The rain grew heavier. Jack leaned closer, his eyes shadowed but alive with something deeper — a mixture of defiance and longing.

Jack: “He sang about living bold, but he died of AIDS. People mourned him for being tragic, not for being brave. The world loves martyrs more than survivors.”
Jeeny: “Or maybe the world loves truth — even when it breaks them. He didn’t die a symbol; he lived a human being who burned bright in his own voice.”
Jack: “And yet, it’s the tragedy people remember.”
Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the point, Jack. Tragedy doesn’t erase beauty — it magnifies it. Broadway was built on heartbreak turned into music.”

Host: A sudden clap of thunder rolled above, and for a moment, the lights flickered. The diner glowed dimly, the rain tapping harder against the glass. Jack’s face was half-shadow, Jeeny’s eyes luminous with the reflection of the city.

Jack: “You sound like one of those idealists who thinks every scar sings.”
Jeeny: “Maybe every scar does sing, if you listen hard enough.”
Jack: “You really believe there’s nobility in struggle?”
Jeeny: “Of course. Look at Peter Allen — he was flamboyant, fragile, fierce. He refused to hide who he was. That kind of courage turns pain into art.”
Jack: “Or into spectacle.”
Jeeny: “Spectacle is what the world calls truth when it’s too afraid to face it.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from weakness, but conviction. The music from across the street swelled louder — a rehearsal crescendo, as if the city itself was joining in her defense.

Jack: softly “You know, I used to dream of performing. Of standing on a stage like that. But I realized something — the applause never lasts. It dies faster than it’s born.”
Jeeny: “Applause isn’t the point, Jack. Expression is. Even if no one claps, the song still matters.”
Jack: “And if no one listens?”
Jeeny: “Then you sing louder.”

Host: The neon light outside flared red against the wet street, glowing like a heartbeat. Jack stared out the window, his reflection overlapping the poster of The Boy from Oz. He traced the outline of the words absently with his finger, lost in thought.

Jack: “Maybe we all want to be remembered for the wrong things. Fame. Love. Legacy. But maybe it’s enough to just live — and let someone else tell the story.”
Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of every performer, Jack. They spend their life being seen, and yet, they’re desperate to be known.”
Jack: “And what about you? What would you rather be — seen or known?”
Jeeny: “Known. Always known. Even if it means being forgotten by the crowd.”

Host: The rain eased, turning into a soft mist. The city lights shimmered gentler now, as though the night had finally taken a deep breath. Jack’s eyes softened; the cynicism in them seemed to melt, revealing something quieter — almost tender.

Jack: “You think Peter Allen found peace?”
Jeeny: “I think he found himself — on the stage, in the spotlight, in the heartbreak. Maybe peace isn’t about stillness. Maybe it’s about being brave enough to shine, even when you’re breaking.”
Jack: “That sounds exhausting.”
Jeeny: “It is. But it’s also the only honest way to live.”

Host: A waitress refilled their cups, the steam curling between them like the ghost of something sacred. Outside, a group of dancers hurried past in rehearsal jackets, laughing, their shadows quick and free. The city pulsed again — full of stories, full of sacrifice.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what I missed. Maybe the point isn’t to be perfect, or remembered, or adored. Maybe it’s just to perform — to exist fully while you can.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. The boy from Oz didn’t live to be eternal — he lived to be alive. There’s a difference.”
Jack: “You always make it sound so simple.”
Jeeny: “Because truth usually is. It’s just buried under noise.”

Host: The rain stopped, and through the window, a ray of light broke across the pavement, catching a puddle that reflected the glowing marquee: “Now Playing — The Boy from Oz.”

Jack: “You ever wonder if our lives are just smaller versions of these stories? Our pain, our love, our hope — all waiting for the right spotlight?”
Jeeny: smiling softly “Maybe. But the light’s not what makes it real. The living does.”

Host: The music from the theater soared one last time — a note held long, trembling, and true. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, their coffee cooling, their reflections merging in the glass — two souls suspended between the ordinary and the extraordinary, between anonymity and art.

Outside, the city applauded in its own way — through the whisper of wind, the hum of streetlights, the heartbeat of life that never really stops performing.