Indeed, wretched the man whose fame makes his misfortunes famous.

Host: The theatre was empty now — its velvet seats lined in silence, its stage lights dimmed, leaving behind only the faint scent of dust, perfume, and yesterday’s applause. The echo of the evening’s performance still trembled faintly in the air, like the aftertaste of glory.

Onstage, Jack sat alone at the edge of the boards, still in costume — the gold buttons of his jacket glinting in the half-light. A glass of whiskey rested beside him. His face, painted for the part, had begun to smudge; the eyes beneath it looked raw, unguarded.

Jeeny entered quietly from the wings, carrying a coat and a silence of her own. She moved slowly, her steps soft — not out of fear, but reverence for what remained of him.

Host: It was one of those late-night hours where success and sorrow finally meet — and can no longer tell each other apart.

Jeeny: “You stayed.”

Jack: “Couldn’t leave. The walls are still clapping.”

Jeeny: “You were magnificent tonight.”

Jack: “Don’t say that.”

Jeeny: “Why not? It’s true.”

Jack: “Because every time someone says I’m magnificent, I feel more hollow.”

Host: She set the coat down, watching him — the performer after the curtain, stripped of illusion, still chasing the echo of his own applause.

Jeeny: “Lucius Accius once wrote, ‘Indeed, wretched the man whose fame makes his misfortunes famous.’ I think he was talking about you.”

Jack: “Ah, the Romans — they always had a quote for suffering.”

Jeeny: “He had a point. You’ve turned pain into performance so many times, I’m not sure you remember where the act ends.”

Jack: “There is no end. That’s the problem. Fame doesn’t stop at the curtain call — it follows you home, crawls into bed, and whispers your failures louder than the applause.”

Jeeny: “Then why chase it?”

Jack: “Because for two hours under these lights, I’m not broken. I’m worshipped. Even the pain bows.”

Host: His voice cracked, not from weakness, but from too many nights of pretending strength.

Jeeny: “But they don’t know you, Jack. They know the mask.”

Jack: “The mask is me now. You can’t peel it off without taking skin.”

Jeeny: “You sound proud of that.”

Jack: “No. Just resigned. Fame’s like a mirror with a memory — it keeps reflecting you even after you’re gone.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to shatter it.”

Jack: “And see what? The man behind it? He’s exhausted, Jeeny. He’s been hiding behind curtain calls and interviews for years.”

Jeeny: “You think hiding in fame makes pain smaller?”

Jack: “No. It just makes it beautiful enough for people to buy tickets.”

Host: The spotlight flickered once, bathing them in pale gold, before dying out completely — as if the theatre itself had sighed.

Jeeny: “Do you know what happens when your pain becomes public property?”

Jack: “You stop owning it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And then when you finally want to heal, you have to ask permission.”

Jack: “Permission from who?”

Jeeny: “From the crowd that bought your misery.”

Jack: “They don’t buy misery. They buy meaning.”

Jeeny: “And you give it to them, even when you have none left for yourself.”

Host: She moved closer, her eyes catching the dim reflection of the stage floor, the ghost of a thousand performances still glittering faintly beneath the dust.

Jack: “You know what I envy? Ordinary pain. The kind that doesn’t trend.”

Jeeny: “You think anonymity would save you?”

Jack: “At least I could grieve quietly.”

Jeeny: “But would you? Or would you still find a way to turn it into art?”

Jack: “That’s the curse, isn’t it? To turn suffering into spectacle. The audience cries, the critic applauds, and you— you just get emptier.”

Jeeny: “Then stop performing.”

Jack: “And become what? Forgotten?”

Jeeny: “Free.”

Host: Her voice trembled on that word — free — as if even she doubted it could exist in his world.

Jack: “You ever notice how people only love tragedy when it’s elegant?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s safer that way. They can sympathize without sharing.”

Jack: “Then I’m their safest drug — pain packaged as poetry.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when the poetry runs out?”

Jack: “Then I become a headline.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Accius meant. Fame doesn’t just magnify success — it immortalizes the fall.”

Jack: “He must’ve known something about falling.”

Jeeny: “He was Roman. They all did.”

Host: He laughed softly, that hollow, familiar laugh — the kind that’s half smoke, half memory.

Jack: “You know what hurts most? The applause feels like forgiveness — but it isn’t.”

Jeeny: “It’s distraction.”

Jack: “Exactly. They clap so I don’t have to hear myself thinking.”

Jeeny: “And you mistake the noise for love.”

Jack: “Don’t we all?”

Jeeny: “Not all of us. Some of us still want to be loved quietly.”

Jack: “Quiet love doesn’t sell tickets.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it saves souls.”

Host: She sat beside him, the two of them now side by side, both staring at the empty seats — rows of ghosts, each one a reflection of expectation.

Jack: “Do you ever think people like me are doomed to bleed publicly?”

Jeeny: “Only if you keep opening the same wound for applause.”

Jack: “You think I can stop?”

Jeeny: “I think you’re the only one who can.”

Jack: “You sound sure.”

Jeeny: “I’m not. But I have to be — because you can’t afford not to believe it.”

Host: The stage lights, now off entirely, left only the faint moonlight coming through the rafters — thin, silver, pure.

Jack: “Do you ever miss the days when no one knew your name?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. There’s peace in obscurity. But there’s also invisibility.”

Jack: “I’d trade anything for peace.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what you’ll have to do.”

Jack: “Trade fame for peace?”

Jeeny: “Trade exposure for authenticity.”

Jack: “You really think they’ll let me?”

Jeeny: “They can’t stop you. You’ve mistaken their gaze for a leash.”

Host: Her words hung, sharp but kind, cutting through the last remnants of his illusion.

Jack: “Maybe Accius was right. Fame doesn’t free a man — it frames him. Every misfortune becomes a mural.”

Jeeny: “Then paint something different.”

Jack: “With what?”

Jeeny: “With silence. With humility. With truth that doesn’t need an audience.”

Jack: “That’s not art.”

Jeeny: “It’s life. Try it sometime.”

Host: A long pause. The kind of pause that feels like a breath before rebirth.

Jack picked up his whiskey, looked at it — then set it down again, untouched.

Jack: “You know, for the first time, the silence feels louder than the applause.”

Jeeny: “Good. That’s how healing sounds at first.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, its rhythm soft but sure, cleansing the city one unseen street at a time.

Jeeny stood, offered her hand. He hesitated — then took it.

Together, they stepped down from the stage, leaving behind the ghosts, the echoes, the masks.

As they walked toward the exit, the moonlight pooled across the floorboards, tracing their shadows — a duet between loss and liberation.

And somewhere in the distance, in the memory of an ancient language, Lucius Accius whispered again:

Indeed, wretched the man whose fame makes his misfortunes famous.

Host: But tonight, Jack began to understand —
it is not fame that curses,
but forgetting how to live beyond it.

And in the quiet theatre, stripped of applause,
he finally took his first bow as himself.