It's amazing marrying someone who wants nothing to do with

Host: The night lay heavy over the Los Angeles hills, the kind of darkness that hides more than it reveals. The distant city lights flickered like a constellation built by ambition, every window a quiet confession of dreams too bright to sleep. Down below, in a small house overlooking the endless glitter of Hollywood, two people sat on the balcony — one with a glass of whiskey, the other with a cup of tea.

Jack leaned back in his chair, the smoke from his cigarette curling into slow ghosts that drifted toward the stars. Jeeny sat cross-legged beside him, her hair loose, her face half-lit by the quiet orange glow of the lantern.

Host: It was one of those rare Los Angeles nights when the wind carried a trace of silence, and even the city seemed to pause to listen.

Jeeny: “Nicolas Cage once said, ‘It’s amazing marrying someone who wants nothing to do with Hollywood.’”

Jack: “Yeah, because that’s the only way you survive it.”

Host: He said it with that dry, low voice, each word rolling out like an echo of exhaustion and irony.

Jeeny: “You think that’s what he meant? Survival?”

Jack: “Of course. Hollywood isn’t a dream; it’s a machine. It eats people who forget who they are. Find someone outside of it — that’s not romance, that’s oxygen.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s love — the kind that reminds you of who you were before the cameras started rolling.”

Jack: “Love’s just another script here. Everyone’s acting, even when the cameras are off.”

Jeeny: “Not everyone.”

Jack: “You sure? I’ve watched people reinvent themselves just to stay relevant. I’ve watched truth get traded for lighting, emotion edited for applause. Even sincerity gets packaged now — ‘authenticity’ is just another brand.”

Host: The lantern flickered, catching the tired gleam in Jack’s eyes. Jeeny looked at him — that familiar mixture of compassion and defiance flickering across her face.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve stopped believing in real people.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. I stopped believing that real people survive this place. Hollywood doesn’t destroy you with lies — it destroys you with attention.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why Cage called it amazing — because when someone doesn’t want the spotlight, you finally see light that’s real.”

Jack: “You mean like you?”

Jeeny: “Like anyone who loves you for the man behind the performance.”

Host: Jack gave a quiet laugh — the kind that isn’t about humor, but disbelief. The city below blinked like an audience refusing to look away.

Jack: “You think it’s that easy? To separate who you are from what you do?”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s necessary.”

Jack: “Then tell me — what happens when the person you love wants to stay in the shadows while you’re built to chase light?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn to turn the light off sometimes.”

Host: The wind brushed against them, carrying the faint sound of a distant siren, the soft hum of the city’s sleepless heartbeat.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s never tasted fame.”

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s been living off its poison.”

Jack: “Poison?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that looks beautiful in the glass but burns when it goes down. Fame gives, but it never gives enough. It feeds on your need to be seen — until you forget what being known actually feels like.”

Jack: “And you think love can fix that?”

Jeeny: “Not fix. Heal.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes steady, soft, fierce. The moonlight traced her cheek like a delicate brushstroke.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? People think Hollywood is about stories. But the real tragedy is how it steals the story of the people inside it.”

Jack: “So you stay outside and judge?”

Jeeny: “No. I stand outside and remember.”

Jack: “Remember what?”

Jeeny: “That the world doesn’t end at Sunset Boulevard.”

Host: The lantern’s flame wavered again. Jack stared at her for a long moment, then out toward the city — its beauty and ugliness fused into one shimmering mirage.

Jack: “You know, when I first came here, I thought this city would save me. I thought if I worked hard enough, shined bright enough, I’d become someone. Turns out I just became more hollow.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you mistook visibility for meaning.”

Jack: “What’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Visibility is how many eyes see you. Meaning is who still sees you when you disappear.”

Host: A silence stretched between them, delicate but charged — like the quiet just before truth finds the courage to speak.

Jack: “So you think Cage was right — that it’s amazing to marry someone who wants nothing to do with Hollywood?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s amazing to love someone who isn’t seduced by illusion. Someone who doesn’t fall in love with your reflection, but with the parts the mirror can’t hold.”

Jack: “You mean the broken parts.”

Jeeny: “Especially those.”

Host: Jack exhaled slowly, watching the smoke twist into the night. Somewhere below, a car horn blared, then faded. The city moved on — restless, glittering, pretending not to age.

Jack: “You ever think maybe I’m too much of this place to walk away from it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be human inside it.”

Jack: “Being human doesn’t sell.”

Jeeny: “Then stop selling.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they cracked something open. Jack turned toward her, really looking — not through her, not past her, but at her. For the first time that night, his expression loosened — a flicker of something like surrender.

Jack: “You know what scares me most?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That I don’t know who I am without the applause.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s exactly who you need to find.”

Host: The night deepened, and for a moment, all of Los Angeles seemed to fade — its noise, its hunger, its endless neon pulse dimming against the quiet honesty on that balcony.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. But it’s real. And real — in this city — is the most rebellious thing you can be.”

Jack: “You think love can survive rebellion?”

Jeeny: “If it’s love, it thrives on it.”

Host: A long silence. The kind where everything unspoken becomes heavier than air. Jack set his glass down, his eyes still searching hers.

Jack: “You ever wish you wanted Hollywood — just a little?”

Jeeny: “Never. The world already has too many people trying to be stars. I’d rather be the quiet place someone comes home to when the lights go out.”

Jack: “That’s the most dangerous kind of beauty, you know.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because it’s the kind that lasts.”

Host: The lantern burned lower, the flame shrinking but steady — like the truth they’d been circling all along. Below them, the city still glittered, desperate to be loved. But up here, on that small, trembling balcony, something truer pulsed — the quiet defiance of two souls refusing to be performed.

Jeeny: “You said Hollywood eats people, Jack. Maybe that’s true. But not everyone gets devoured. Some people walk through the fire and come out remembering their name.”

Jack: “And you think love is what keeps them from burning?”

Jeeny: “No. Love is the fire. But it burns clean.”

Host: The wind rose once more, carrying the smell of the city — a mix of dreams and gasoline. Jack leaned closer, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Jack: “Then maybe I’ve been chasing the wrong kind of fire all this time.”

Jeeny: “Then stop chasing. Let yourself be found.”

Host: The camera would have lingered there — the two figures framed against the vast city, its light reflecting in their eyes, neither hero nor cynic now, just two people learning to exist outside the performance.

Somewhere below, Hollywood kept on glowing — endless, hungry, false.

But on that balcony, in the fragile stillness of the night, Jack and Jeeny had found something it could never script —
something unmarketable, unfilmed, and utterly real.

And that, as Nicolas Cage had once said,
was truly amazing.