It's really easy to avoid the tabloids. You just live your life

Host: The morning light was grey, almost tired, spilling through the window blinds of a small café tucked away from the bustling main street. Outside, rain had left the sidewalks slick, and the sound of distant car horns bled into the hum of espresso machines. The smell of coffee, wet coats, and warm pastries lingered in the air—the kind of comfort only normalcy could offer.

Jack sat at a corner table, a newspaper folded beside him, his hands rough, his eyes steady, the faintest trace of sarcasm on his mouth. Jeeny arrived moments later, her hair damp from the rain, her eyes bright but tired, clutching a phone that still glowed with a headline she’d just read.

She set it down and read aloud, softly:
"It's really easy to avoid the tabloids. You just live your life and don't hang out with famous people who are in the tabloids. Don't do anything controversial and be a normal person. Have friends. And get a job and keep working." — Amanda Seyfried.

Jeeny: “It sounds so… simple, doesn’t it? Just be normal. But I don’t think the world lets people be normal anymore.”

Jack: “That’s because normal doesn’t sell, Jeeny. Drama does. People love a good downfall, especially if it’s someone they once admired.”

Host: A server brought their coffee, steam curling upward like whispers between them. The windows were fogged, turning the city outside into a blurred watercolor of motion and noise.

Jack’s tone was matter-of-fact, almost cynical, while Jeeny’s carried the kind of quiet ache only idealists bear.

Jeeny: “But Amanda’s right, in a way. You can choose peace. You can step back, work, stay grounded. Why do so many people run straight into the spotlight knowing it’ll burn them?”

Jack: “Because, Jeeny, the spotlight isn’t a trap—it’s a drug. You get a taste of being seen, and suddenly silence feels like death. The tabloids? They’re not the problem. They’re the mirror—we just don’t like what they reflect.”

Jeeny: “That’s too pessimistic. Not everyone wants to be famous. Some just want to create something that matters, and the attention follows whether they ask for it or not.”

Jack: “Yeah, but once it follows, it changes them. You can’t unlearn being watched. It’s like living in a glass room—even when no one’s there, you act like they are.”

Host: Jeeny looked at him then, her brow furrowed, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup. Her reflection in the window looked distant, like someone caught between two worlds—one of ideals, one of truth.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why her words feel so human. Amanda’s saying: ‘It doesn’t have to be that way.’ You can just… choose quiet. Work, love, live small. There’s dignity in that.”

Jack: “Sure, but that’s easy to say when you’ve already got your name on the screen. Once you’re visible, invisibility isn’t a choice anymore. You’re chased even when you hide.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the illusion? We act like fame is a flood that can’t be stopped, but maybe it’s just ego that keeps the gates open.”

Jack: “Ego? Or survival? The moment you stop feeding the world’s attention, it forgets you. Maybe that’s fine for some people—but not for everyone. Some folks need the noise to feel real.”

Host: The rain picked up again, soft drumming against the window glass, each drop sliding down like a line of thought. Jack reached for his newspaper, then stopped, studying Jeeny instead. There was a quiet defiance in her eyes, as if she were guarding something precious from the world’s greed.

Jeeny: “You know, I think about my grandmother sometimes. She worked her whole life at a laundry, never in a headline, never on a screen. But everyone in her neighborhood knew her. She’d sit on her porch, talk to kids, feed stray cats. And when she died, the whole block came out for her funeral. She didn’t need tabloids. She had a life.”

Jack: “That’s rare, Jeeny. The world doesn’t celebrate that kind of life anymore. It only notices you when you fall.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re looking in the wrong places. Maybe normal people are the bravest ones now. The ones who work quietly, who refuse to perform.”

Jack: “You mean the ones who still have friends, get a job, keep working—like Amanda said.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. There’s something radical about being ordinary these days.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning to a mist, soft and silver in the light. A child laughed outside, chasing a pigeon across the wet street, his boots splashing in puddles. The sound drew a faint smile from Jeeny, and even Jack’s mouth softened, the edges of his cynicism blurring.

Jack: “You think that’s enough, Jeeny? Just living quietly? Not trying to change the world, not trying to be seen?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the change the world needs. People who can exist without announcement. People who don’t need to shout to matter.”

Jack: “But don’t you ever want to be remembered?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But I’d rather be remembered truly than seen falsely.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes flickering between the window and her face, his mind caught between admiration and resistance. Outside, the sky was beginning to clear, and a patch of sunlight broke through the clouds, lighting the street like a promise.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. We talk about fame like it’s a monster, but really, it’s just a magnifying glass. It doesn’t create, it just exposes. Maybe the problem isn’t the tabloids—maybe it’s us.”

Jeeny: “Us?”

Jack: “Yeah. The audience. The ones who click, who scroll, who feed the machine. We’ve all become editors of someone else’s life.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the first step to peace is learning to look away.”

Host: The light shifted, spilling gold across their table, touching the coffee, the papers, their hands. The noise of the city seemed to soften, as if it were listening.

Jeeny reached for her phone, turned it face down, and smiled.

Jeeny: “There. Step one.”

Jack: “And step two?”

Jeeny: “We finish our coffee, go back to work, and try not to make the news.”

Jack: “For once, that sounds like a goal worth keeping.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back slowly then—the café window framing them, two figures surrounded by the ordinary beauty of a morning after rain. No fame, no scandal, just the quiet defiance of two people choosing to live softly in a world that shouts.

The city went on buzzing, the tabloids kept printing, but here—in this small corner of the world—normal had never looked so extraordinary.