It's funny - nowadays people that are famous get chased by

Host: The night was bright with flashbulbs. A thousand tiny suns exploding and dying in a heartbeat, leaving only ghosts of light behind. On the other side of the velvet rope, the city pulsed — cameras clicking, voices shouting names, the rhythm of obsession masquerading as admiration.

Jack and Jeeny stood just outside it all, in the half-shadow cast by a streetlight, watching the circus unfold. They were close enough to see the chaos, but far enough to breathe.

The air smelled of perfume, asphalt, and the faint burnt sweetness of flash powder.

Jeeny: “Matt LeBlanc once said, ‘It’s funny — nowadays people that are famous get chased by paparazzi. They have this fame, but they don’t have the money to hide from it.’”
She smiled sadly, her eyes reflecting the flicker of another flash. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Fame used to mean freedom. Now it’s a cage made of glass.”

Host: A limousine door slammed in the distance, followed by a chorus of shutters snapping like a thousand insect wings. The crowd surged, and the light flashed again, washing everything in sterile white.

Jack: “Fame’s never been freedom, Jeeny. It’s just another contract — written in attention, signed in exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “But people still chase it. They still think fame is a kind of immortality.”

Jack: “Immortality’s overrated. You don’t live forever — you just get remembered for the wrong reasons.”

Host: A paparazzo brushed past, his camera hanging like a weapon. He didn’t look at them; they were invisible, and that, somehow, was a kind of safety. The streetlight flickered, throwing their shadows long across the cracked pavement.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why people want to be seen so badly?”

Jack: “Because it’s easier than being known.”

Jeeny: “And you think that’s what fame does? It lets you be seen without being known?”

Jack: “Exactly. Fame’s just loneliness with better lighting.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint echo of laughter from the other side of the barricade — that brittle, hollow kind of laughter that always sounds like it’s afraid to stop.

Jeeny: “Maybe LeBlanc meant something more practical though — not just metaphorical. You know how it is now: fame without fortune. People go viral, get millions of followers, and can’t pay rent.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s the democratization of delusion. Everyone’s famous, but nobody’s safe.”

Jeeny: “Safe from what?”

Jack: “From being forgotten. That’s the real fear, isn’t it? Not death — irrelevance.”

Jeeny: “So, you think the paparazzi are the new priests of that religion?”

Jack: “Priests, prophets, and vultures. Take your pick.”

Host: A flash went off again, catching Jack’s profile in stark light — the hard line of his jaw, the glint of tired irony in his eyes. He looked like someone who’d stood on the stage once, then walked off before the applause ended.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve known that world.”

Jack: “We all have, in some form. Social media made sure of that. Fame’s no longer reserved for the gods — it’s a game for mortals now. The only rule? You can’t log off.”

Jeeny: “But you can choose not to play.”

Jack: “Can you? The moment you exist online, you’re a performer. Every post is a performance, every silence is a statement. Even invisibility has an audience.”

Host: The crowd roared as someone — an actor, a singer, a someone — stepped out of a car. The flashes strobed, lighting up the night like lightning without rain. Jeeny watched quietly, her face soft but pensive.

Jeeny: “Do you ever feel sorry for them?”

Jack: “For who?”

Jeeny: “The famous. The ones who can’t go anywhere without being hunted.”

Jack: “No. They built the spotlight. They can’t complain about its heat.”

Jeeny: “But not all of them chose it. Some people just wanted to do something beautiful — to act, to sing, to create. They didn’t ask for their lives to become public property.”

Jack: “Then they should’ve written poetry. Nobody chases poets.”

Jeeny: “You say that like anonymity’s a blessing.”

Jack: “It is. The world doesn’t notice you until it decides to own you.”

Host: The music from the event began to drift across the street — deep bass lines, the muffled heartbeat of excess. The skyline glowed like a screen, and for a moment, the city looked like an enormous stage, everyone performing, no audience left.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Fame is just amplified insecurity. Everyone’s trying to prove they matter. And the louder they shout, the less they seem to believe it.”

Jack: “So what’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “Silence. Privacy. Letting the world forget you long enough to find out who you are when no one’s watching.”

Jack: “That sounds terrifying.”

Jeeny: “It’s supposed to be.”

Host: The rain began, fine and silver, the flashes dimming as the paparazzi scattered for cover. The sound softened the edges of everything — the noise, the lights, even their words.

Jack: “You know what’s funny about LeBlanc’s line? The irony. He was one of the most famous faces on television, but he vanished when he wanted to. He hid not with money, but with choice.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Real freedom isn’t about what you can buy. It’s about what you can walk away from.”

Jack: “So fame’s not a curse. It’s a test.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And most people fail because they mistake attention for affection.”

Host: A car splashed through a puddle, sending up a spray that glistened under the streetlight. The paparazzi’s cameras hung limp now, their flash batteries dead, their prey gone.

Jack: “You think fame still matters?”

Jeeny: “Not the kind they sell. Not the kind that blinds. Maybe there’s another kind — quiet, invisible. The fame of living well. Of being remembered by one person, deeply, instead of by millions, vaguely.”

Jack: “That kind doesn’t pay.”

Jeeny: “No. But it lets you sleep.”

Host: Jack looked at her, a slow, genuine smile breaking through the cynicism like sunlight cracking cloud. The streetlight flickered, casting them in half-light — a pause between spectacle and stillness.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real irony — fame wants to be seen. Peace just wants to disappear.”

Jeeny: “And in the end, only one of them survives the flash.”

Host: The rain eased, the city exhaled, and the last of the cameras went quiet. Jack and Jeeny walked away, their footsteps merging with the rhythm of falling water.

Behind them, the lights of the red carpet dimmed, the crowd dispersed, and the world reset to its quieter pulse — the hum of ordinary lives, unrecorded but still radiant.

And somewhere, in that contrast between the famous and the free, the truth lingered —
that the brightest lights are often the first to burn out,
and the real wealth lies not in being seen,
but in having the choice to hide.