I'm not a fitness model; I'm just a singer. If people focus on

Host: The rehearsal studio was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the stage lights warming up. Empty microphone stands leaned like tired sentinels, and the faint echo of earlier music still hummed in the air — ghost notes of ambition, sweat, and something holy. The piano in the corner wore a dusting of sheet music, edges curled, pages annotated in pencil.

Host: Jack sat on the edge of the stage, his hands clasped, elbows on his knees, staring out at the rows of empty seats as if they were judging him. His grey eyes had the dull shine of a man who’s seen his own reflection in too many screens. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, her hair loose, her expression soft but precise — the look of someone who understands the weight of being seen.

Host: Between them lay a printed quote, creased and smudged from being read too often:

“I'm not a fitness model; I'm just a singer. If people focus on that, that's what I care about.”
— Alessia Cara

Host: The words glowed faintly in the dim light, both an assertion and a plea.

Jack: “You know,” he said after a long silence, “it’s wild how someone has to defend being what they are. Like, imagine needing to remind the world that being a singer means singing.”

Jeeny: “That’s the world we built,” she said softly. “One where art isn’t enough unless it looks good doing it.”

Jack: “Yeah. Talent’s not currency anymore — image is.”

Jeeny: “Because image is easier to digest. You can scroll past a photo in a second. But a song? That asks you to feel. And feeling takes time.”

Host: The light from the stage flickered, a hum from the soundboard filling the air like a low heartbeat.

Jack: “You ever wonder,” he said, “when did being yourself start needing PR?”

Jeeny: “Probably around the time the world got cameras,” she said. “We stopped performing on stage and started performing in life. Even honesty needs editing now.”

Jack: “And people call it authenticity,” he muttered.

Jeeny: “Authenticity’s the hardest costume to wear,” she said. “Because it means showing what people don’t want to see — the parts that don’t sell.”

Host: He looked down at the paper again, at the simplicity of Alessia Cara’s words.

Jack: “She says, If people focus on that, that’s what I care about. That’s not just defiance. That’s faith — faith that the right audience still exists.”

Jeeny: “It’s also exhaustion,” she said gently. “It’s someone saying, ‘I can’t be everything to everyone — so I’ll be what’s true.’”

Jack: “And risk being ignored for it.”

Jeeny: “Or remembered for it,” she said. “That’s the gamble of art — truth might not make you famous, but it makes you free.”

Host: The sound of the city outside drifted in — sirens, laughter, the endless hum of the restless and the unreal.

Jack: “You know,” he said quietly, “I used to think fame was validation. Now I think it’s corrosion. The brighter the spotlight, the faster you rust.”

Jeeny: “Unless you know who you are before it hits you,” she said. “Then it’s just light — not fire.”

Host: He chuckled softly, rubbing his hands together. “You talk like you’ve stood in it.”

Jeeny: “We all have,” she said. “Different stages. Different audiences. Every time you try to prove your worth to someone who wasn’t even asking, that’s the same spotlight — just invisible.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, comfortable — the kind of silence artists share when words have already done their job.

Jack: “You know what I love about that quote?” he said finally. “It’s humble, but fierce. ‘I’m just a singer.’ That’s enough. It’s not self-deprecation — it’s self-definition.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “The most radical thing you can say today is, ‘I’m enough as I am.’”

Jack: “But the world doesn’t believe that,” he said bitterly. “They want the singer to be a brand, the poet to be an influencer, the dancer to sell sneakers.”

Jeeny: “And still,” she said, “the real ones — the ones who actually feel — keep showing up anyway. Because art isn’t about applause. It’s about resonance. Cara doesn’t need followers. She needs someone who listens.”

Jack: “And not just to the music.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To the person.”

Host: The stage lights dimmed to a low glow, a soft halo surrounding them. Somewhere above, a vent hummed — steady, rhythmic, like breath.

Jack: “You think it’s possible anymore? To just be what you are — without performance?”

Jeeny: “It’s rare,” she said. “But possible. You just have to care more about the song than the selfie.”

Jack: “And the ones who don’t?”

Jeeny: “They burn out,” she said. “Because you can’t fake meaning forever.”

Host: Jack leaned back, letting his head rest against the stage curtain behind him. His voice softened to something almost reverent.

Jack: “Cara’s generation — they’re fighting the hardest war of all. Not for fame, not for fortune. For focus. To be heard above the noise.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why her words matter,” she said. “Because she’s not asking for perfection. She’s asking for permission — to just exist as what she loves.”

Host: The room grew quiet again, but it wasn’t empty. The stillness was full — of honesty, of unspoken agreement, of the quiet defiance of two souls who still believed in meaning.

Host: The camera widened slowly, framing the stage, the piano, the open quote glowing faintly in the light of truth:

“I'm not a fitness model; I'm just a singer. If people focus on that, that's what I care about.”

Host: And as the scene faded, the last flicker of light caught on their faces — Jack lost in thought, Jeeny watching the world through compassion, the air between them alive with the hum of art and integrity.

Host: Because in a world obsessed with how things look, the bravest act is still to sound like yourself. To choose creation over curation. And to sing, not to be seen — but to be heard.