It's very difficult today for girls to become supermodels. There

Host: The night hummed softly above the city, its lights flickering like tired stars caught in the reflection of wet streets. A billboard across the square flashed the image of a model — perfect skin, hollow eyes, lips caught between smile and emptiness. Inside a dim bar, tucked away from the noise of the crowd, Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other, a single candle trembling between them.

Jack’s jacket hung loosely over his shoulders, his grey eyes fixed on the moving image outside. Jeeny rested her chin on her hand, her long hair catching the light of the candle like black silk. The air smelled faintly of rain and cigarette smoke, the kind that lingers when words want to escape but can’t.

Jeeny: “You know,” she said softly, “Claudia Schiffer once said, ‘It’s very difficult today for girls to become supermodels. There’s a lot more competition, a lot of countries in the East have opened up, so there are many more models than there were in the Nineties. Now they have to compete with famous actresses but also with, say, reality stars to be on the magazine covers.’ She was right. It’s not just about beauty anymore. It’s about visibility, about being everywhere.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, his finger tapping rhythmically on the table. The flame flickered, catching his expression — a blend of skepticism and quiet resentment.

Jack: “Visibility,” he echoed, the word carrying a hint of irony. “That’s just another name for marketing. Models, actresses, influencers — they’re all products now, Jeeny. The difference isn’t about talent, it’s about who can sell themselves better. The world doesn’t want beauty, it wants attention.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that what it’s always been, Jack? Even in the Nineties, when Claudia ruled the catwalks — it was about charisma, not just beauty. People saw something human in her, something alive. Today, I think we’ve just expanded the stage. It’s not only supermodels anymore — it’s everyone.”

Host: The barista clanged a cup in the background, the sound slicing through their silence like a sharp note of realism. A group of young women laughed at a nearby table, their phones glowing like small stars.

Jack: “Expanded stage? No, Jeeny. It’s a circus. Everyone’s performing, pretending, posing. You scroll through social media, and every second girl looks like she’s auditioning for a magazine cover. But behind the filters, they’re breaking down — anxiety, comparison, hunger for likes. That’s not expansion; that’s decay.”

Jeeny: “But, Jack,” she said gently, leaning forward, “don’t you see the other side? There’s freedom in that too. Before, only a handful of women could be seen — a few from Paris, London, Milan. Now a girl from Seoul, Nairobi, or Hanoi can reach the world. Isn’t that beautiful? Isn’t that progress?”

Host: Jack gave a small laugh, low and dry, the kind that tastes of disbelief.

Jack: “Progress? Sure. But at what price? You think that girl from Hanoi is competing on equal ground? She’s chasing an algorithm, not a dream. The same machine that gives her a chance will crush her the moment she slows down. It’s a race with no finish line — and no one wins.”

Jeeny: “That’s too cynical. Look at someone like Liu Wen — she became the first Chinese model to walk the Victoria’s Secret runway, to appear on the cover of Vogue. She didn’t come from privilege, but she changed the industry. She opened doors for others.”

Jack: “Liu Wen is an exception. Every system needs a token to prove it’s fair. She’s the proof the system points to while it keeps grinding everyone else into dust.”

Host: The rain began tapping against the window, a delicate rhythm that filled the pauses between their words. Outside, a girl stood under an umbrella, staring at the same billboard of the model — perhaps dreaming, perhaps despairing.

Jeeny: “You sound like you don’t believe in dreams anymore.”

Jack: “I believe in work, Jeeny. Hard, brutal, unglamorous work. Not in dreams packaged and sold as hashtags. Every young woman who enters that world today — she’s not chasing beauty, she’s chasing validation. And validation is the most dangerous addiction we’ve ever created.”

Jeeny: “Addiction? Maybe. But it’s also connection. You can’t deny that people today — models, artists, even those so-called reality stars — they share their lives, their struggles, their stories. There’s something honest in that.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. The candle’s flame bent under the breath of tension that filled the space between them.

Jack: “Honest? You really think the Internet is honest? Every story is edited, every confession curated. Even their pain has lighting and filters. You call that connection? I call it performance.”

Jeeny: “Then what do you call your world, Jack? The so-called world of realism and logic? Corporations sell identities, politics sells emotions. You think you’re immune to that? You just wear a different kind of mask.”

Host: His hand froze on the glass, his reflection trembling on the wet surface of the table. The anger in his eyes softened, just slightly — like a cloud shifting to let through a small, reluctant sunbeam.

Jack: “Maybe I do wear a mask,” he admitted quietly. “But at least I know it’s there. The tragedy, Jeeny, is that they don’t. They think it’s them.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even through those masks, some light still gets through. Look at those girls out there — they’re not all chasing fame. Some are just expressing themselves, creating something real out of a shallow system. Maybe it’s not the industry that’s broken. Maybe it’s us — the viewers, the ones demanding perfection.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming against the glass, blurring the billboard until the model’s face melted into streaks of light and shadow.

Jack: “You think we can fix that? That the viewers will ever change?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But every time one person chooses to see a real story instead of a perfect image — every time someone admires courage over beauty — something shifts. It’s slow. But it’s there.”

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in redemption.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because even in the ugliest systems, there’s a heartbeat of truth somewhere. You just have to listen for it.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The candle burned low, its flame small but stubborn, holding its place against the creeping darkness. Outside, the girl with the umbrella was gone. Only the reflection of neon and rain remained — shimmering like fragments of a broken mirror.

Jack: “You know,” he murmured, “maybe Claudia was right. It’s harder today — not because of competition, but because the battlefield has changed. It’s not about beauty anymore. It’s about surviving visibility.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the point, Jack. The ones who survive visibility aren’t just the most beautiful — they’re the most real. And maybe real will be the new revolution.”

Host: The rain began to ease. The lights of the bar softened, and a faint warmth crept through the air. Jack leaned back, his eyes less sharp now, and Jeeny smiled — small, tired, but sincere.

Beyond the window, the billboard flickered once more, then went dark. For a brief, fragile moment, the city stood still — as if holding its breath for a world that might, finally, begin to see.

FADE OUT.