It is more interesting to be compared to someone famous, because

Host: The evening air was soft and dusty, the kind that held onto the warmth of the day but promised a cool hush to come. The café terrace buzzed with the hum of conversation, glasses clinking, and the faint notes of a street guitarist drifting through the open window.

The city around them pulsed with neon reflections and half-told stories—faces that looked like other faces, names that reminded people of others.

At a corner table, under the flicker of a weak streetlight, sat Jack and Jeeny. Between them, a folded newspaper with a celebrity headline no one would remember by morning.

Arthur Smith’s words lingered between them, printed at the bottom of an interview:
“It is more interesting to be compared to someone famous, because it lets you gauge what perceptions people have about your appearance.”

Jack stirred his coffee, watching the swirl of the liquid like it was trying to tell him something about himself. Jeeny leaned forward, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes tracing the soft outline of his face.

Jack: (half-smiling) So, apparently, we only exist through comparisons now. You’re not you—you’re the “someone you remind people of.” Maybe that’s all identity is—a mirror made of other people’s reflections.

Jeeny: (gently) Or maybe it’s a conversation, Jack. A reflection isn’t always imitation—it’s recognition. When people say you look like someone famous, they’re telling you what kind of story they see when they look at you.

Jack: (snorts softly) A story they invented. And one that probably has nothing to do with me.

Host: The café lights flickered, catching the gleam in Jack’s eyes—sharp, ironic, slightly wounded. The guitarist outside changed chords, the melody bending with the sound of the wind.

Jack: You ever notice how people crave patterns? They can’t stand originality—it scares them. So they find a box to put you in. “You look like DiCaprio.” “You remind me of my cousin.” It’s never you. It’s always a version they’ve already filed away.

Jeeny: Maybe it’s not fear. Maybe it’s comfort. The mind reaches for what it knows. It’s human. We map the world through resemblance—faces, voices, gestures. It’s not about stealing identity, Jack; it’s about making sense of it.

Jack: Making sense? Or flattening it? The moment they compare you, you stop being yourself. You become a reference point.

Jeeny: (softly) But isn’t that what all identity is—a reference? Your clothes, your job, your tone of voice—they’re all languages that tell people what kind of person you might be.

Host: The sound of rain began faintly in the distance, tapping like a nervous whisper on the rooftops. The crowd around them grew quieter as if the whole world were leaning closer to hear.

Jack: (leaning back) You’re saying identity’s just a performance, then. Just branding with better lighting.

Jeeny: (smiling) Not branding—expression. You perform, yes, but not to deceive—to connect. The performance isn’t fake; it’s how you bridge the space between yourself and others.

Jack: (skeptical) So what, I’m supposed to be grateful when someone says I remind them of George Clooney?

Jeeny: (laughs) Maybe not grateful. But curious. What does that comparison reveal? What projection do they see? Is it charm? Distance? Sadness? People don’t compare faces—they compare feelings.

Host: A pause. Jack looked out through the rain-streaked glass, his reflection splitting into fractured pieces. For a moment, he seemed both amused and haunted.

Jack: You sound like you believe perception is truth.

Jeeny: (quietly) No, I think perception is a truth. Everyone carries a different mirror. The image may distort you, but sometimes it reveals something you didn’t know was there.

Jack: (low) Like what?

Jeeny: Like the way people see your strength when you only see your cracks. Or your aloofness when you thought you were being kind. Mirrors don’t always lie—they just speak a different language.

Host: The rain thickened now, turning the city into a watercolor of movement and light. The café’s awnings shivered under the weight of it, and the guitarist packed up his instrument, leaving the sound of the storm to fill the silence.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, the gesture unguarded, almost tender.

Jack: Funny, though. The moment someone compares me to someone else, I start to become it. Like I’m infected by the idea. If enough people say you look like a villain, you start to act the part.

Jeeny: That’s not infection, Jack. That’s suggestion. And it’s dangerous only if you forget that you’re the author of your reflection.

Jack: (bitterly) Easy for you to say. You’ve always been comfortable in your own skin.

Jeeny: (quietly) You think so? You think I never questioned how I was seen? When I was younger, people told me I looked “too serious,” “too intense.” So I tried to smile more. Speak softer. Blend in. But one day I realized—every time I tried to fit their image, I disappeared a little more.

Host: The air between them grew heavier, not with anger, but with memory. The rain outside blurred everything except the faint reflection of their faces in the window—two silhouettes caught between self-perception and the world’s endless need to define them.

Jack: (softly) So how do you know which reflection is real?

Jeeny: You don’t. You just keep choosing the one that feels honest. That’s the only control you ever have.

Jack: (smiling faintly) That sounds exhausting.

Jeeny: (grinning) So is pretending.

Host: A small laugh passed between them, like a crack of sunlight through the storm. The rain slowed, turning into a soft patter that blended with the city’s heartbeat.

Jack: You know, maybe Arthur Smith was right—it is interesting to be compared. Not flattering, but revealing. People show you the frame they use to see the world.

Jeeny: Exactly. Every comparison is a confession. When someone says, “You remind me of someone famous,” they’re not just describing you—they’re revealing what kind of myth they need to believe in.

Jack: (thoughtfully) So maybe it’s not about how we’re seen, but what that seeing says about them.

Jeeny: (nodding) And how we respond to it says who we are.

Host: The rain stopped. The streets glistened like molten glass, and the reflections of neon signs rippled across puddles, stretching into infinite copies of color and motion.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence for a long moment, watching their own faces shimmer and distort in the window’s reflection. Neither perfect. Neither fixed.

Jack: (softly) I guess the trick isn’t to reject the mirror—it’s to stop mistaking it for the whole picture.

Jeeny: (smiling) Exactly. The mirror doesn’t define you—it just reminds you that you’re visible.

Host: The camera would pull back slowly now, through the rain-soaked glass, past the warm glow of the café, and into the restless city beyond. Two figures remained inside—small, imperfect, seen and unseen all at once.

The world outside kept shimmering, full of reflections and echoes, each one trying to name the other.

And somewhere between the mirrors and the meanings, the truth of being oneself quietly survived—unborrowed, unmeasured, and free.