In fact, I'd just like to own something. Everyone thinks I'm

Host: The streetlights flickered against the wet pavement, throwing trembling halos across the alley. Somewhere, in the quiet back corner of the city, a small recording studio pulsed with the soft glow of red and amber. The walls, covered with faded acoustic foam, looked like they’d been through wars of sound and silence alike.

Inside, a single lamp spilled its weary light over a table cluttered with notebooks, empty coffee cups, and a tangle of wires that snaked toward a humming recording console.

Jack sat slouched in a worn leather chair, his hands running through his hair, his eyes focused on the tiny blinking light on the audio meter. He looked like a man half-buried under the weight of his own music. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the wall, barefoot, her coat still damp from the rain. She was watching him — not like a critic, not like a fan, but like someone who had seen the truth behind the noise.

Jeeny: “You’ve been sitting there for hours.”

Jack: “Hours don’t count when they sound like failure.”

Jeeny: “That’s poetic. Tragic. Maybe both.”

Jack: dryly “It’s just Tuesday.”

Host: She walked toward him slowly, the sound of her footsteps soft against the worn rug. The room smelled faintly of dust, vinyl, and loneliness — a musician’s cologne.

Jeeny: “I saw that interview you did last week. You said fame doesn’t feel like what you thought it would.”

Jack: chuckling darkly “It doesn’t. Dido said it better: ‘Everyone thinks I’m glamorous, rich, and famous, but all I’ve got is some recording equipment and a battered old BMW.’”

Jeeny: “You forgot the most important part.”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “She also said, ‘I’d just like to own something.’”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. I feel that.”

Host: The rain outside began again, soft and insistent. The sound threaded through the cracks in the windows, becoming part of the music that wasn’t playing.

Jeeny sat down opposite him, pulling one of the notebooks closer, flipping through page after page of scrawled lyrics — confessions, heartbreaks, half-built melodies.

Jeeny: “You’ve written about everything — love, loss, chaos — but not about this.”

Jack: “About what?”

Jeeny: “The emptiness that comes after getting what you thought you wanted.”

Jack: “Because it’s embarrassing.”

Jeeny: “So is fame.”

Host: He laughed then, not because it was funny, but because it was true. The sound was soft — like glass cracking.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? Everyone assumes I’ve made it. They see me on the posters, the shows, the streams — and they think it must feel like winning. But most days, I just feel... untethered.”

Jeeny: “Like success bought your silence?”

Jack: “Like success rented my soul.”

Host: The lamp flickered, and for a moment the room was painted in shadows — both of them framed like figures in an unfinished story.

Jeeny: “What did you think it would feel like?”

Jack: “Freedom. Stability. Maybe happiness. Turns out, it just feels like being known by strangers and forgotten by yourself.”

Jeeny: “You miss the struggle, don’t you?”

Jack: “I miss the purpose. When I was broke, every note meant something. Every gig felt like defiance. Now… it just feels like noise with better lighting.”

Jeeny: “That’s because back then, you were hungry for something. Now you’re just hungry for yourself.”

Jack: quietly “And I don’t even know where to look.”

Host: The rain thickened against the glass, steady, rhythmic, like an old metronome marking the tempo of lost time. A single guitar leaned in the corner — dusty, forgotten, the first one he ever owned.

Jeeny noticed it and smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “You still have that thing.”

Jack: “Yeah. I thought about selling it once.”

Jeeny: “Why didn’t you?”

Jack: “Because it’s the only thing I actually own. Everything else is borrowed — rented, sponsored, temporary.”

Jeeny: “Even your peace?”

Jack: looking up at her “Especially my peace.”

Host: The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. There was no music in them, no melody — just truth. The kind of truth that doesn’t sell records but saves pieces of a person.

Jeeny: “You know, people think fame means freedom. But it’s really just another kind of cage.”

Jack: “A shiny one.”

Jeeny: “Worse. One you build yourself.”

Host: A soft crackle came from the old speakers. Jack turned a dial absently, as though searching for something invisible — a frequency of honesty that had been lost in all the noise of ambition.

Jeeny: “You could walk away, you know. Take a break.”

Jack: “And then what?”

Jeeny: “Start again. This time not for them — for you.”

Jack: “I wouldn’t know how.”

Jeeny: “You start small. You start by owning something real.”

Jack: “Like what? A house? A new car?”

Jeeny: “No. A moment.”

Jack: “That sounds like a lyric.”

Jeeny: “Then write it down.”

Host: He smiled then — tired, but sincere. The rain softened again, almost as if giving permission. He reached for a pen, found a fresh page, and began to write. The scratch of ink was the only sound, steady and deliberate, like a pulse coming back to life.

Jeeny watched him for a moment, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack?”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “You don’t want to be famous. You just want to feel seen. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I just want to feel heard.”

Jack: “Guess that makes us both artists.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the rain tracing long streaks down the window, the faint orange glow of the city beyond. Inside, two figures sat at a table littered with fragments of music and memory, the quiet hum of creation filling the space like forgiveness.

Jack put the pen down, looked at her, and smiled — the kind of smile that carries both apology and understanding.

Jack: “You know, Dido was right. Everyone sees the surface — the stage lights, the applause. But they never see the quiet part. The part where you’re just a person trying to feel like you belong somewhere.”

Jeeny: “So where do you belong?”

Jack: looking at the page he’s written “Here, maybe. In the music. In the trying.”

Host: The lamp light glowed warmer now, softer, like the world had decided to forgive him for being human. The rain eased to a hush, and in its stillness, the sound of the pen scratching paper began again — the sound of rebuilding from the inside out.

As the camera panned toward the window, the neon reflection of the studio sign read faintly against the glass — ON AIR.

And over it, Dido Armstrong’s words seemed to echo gently in the night:

“Everyone thinks I’m glamorous, rich, and famous, but all I’ve got is some recording equipment and a battered old BMW.”

Host: The scene faded slowly — not into silence, but into the soft sound of a man finally remembering that owning something real isn’t about property or fame.

It’s about reclaiming the pieces of yourself you once gave away for applause.