I've also just finished filming the role of Robert Brown in 'Just

Host: The fog drifted like pale ghosts through the streets of London, wrapping itself around lampposts and the edges of old brick buildings. The city breathed in gray, exhaled light. A theatre marquee, half-lit and humming, glowed weakly against the damp night: “COMING SOON — JUST WILLIAM, BBC One CHRISTMAS SPECIAL.”

Inside a narrow pub nearby, the air was thick with talk, laughter, and the faint scent of spilt ale and worn leather. The fireplace crackled, fighting the chill that crept through the cracks of the door.

Jack sat at the far corner table, his coat draped over the back of his chair, his eyes fixed on the television above the bar where a clip from an upcoming show played silently. Jeeny joined him moments later, her hair still glistening from the drizzle, her cheeks flushed with cold and anticipation.

Host: The pub noise faded, replaced by the quiet rhythm of two hearts returning to an unfinished conversation.

Jeeny: “Did you see that?” (nodding toward the screen) “Harry Melling—he said he’s just finished filming Just William. Said it’s due to transmit on BBC One this Christmas.”

Jack: “Yeah. The kid who played Dudley Dursley in Harry Potter, right?”

Jeeny: “That’s him. Imagine that—going from spoiled brat to Robert Brown in a classic British story. Feels like life’s got a strange sense of symmetry.”

Jack: “Or irony.” (sips his beer) “Funny how actors live a thousand lives and still end up chasing one that feels like their own.”

Host: The firelight flickered, throwing shadows across their faces. Jack’s was half-lit, carved in realism. Jeeny’s, softer—dreaming, reflecting warmth where his carried weight.

Jeeny: “You say that like pretending isn’t real work.”

Jack: “Oh, it’s work. Just not the kind that builds anything permanent.”

Jeeny: “You think stories don’t build?”

Jack: “Not the way bridges do.”

Jeeny: “Bridges rust. Stories don’t.”

Host: Her voice landed like a soft challenge. Jack looked at her—half amused, half curious.

Jack: “So you think acting is noble, then? Playing make-believe while the rest of the world bleeds?”

Jeeny: “I think acting is remembering. Remembering what it means to feel something deeply and letting other people feel it too. That’s not escape—that’s communion.”

Jack: “Communion?”

Jeeny: “Yes. When an actor brings a character to life, they lend the audience a piece of their soul. Even for a moment, they help someone remember who they are. Or who they could be.”

Host: Outside, the rain returned, gentle, tapping against the windows like an old rhythm. Inside, the fire popped, and a couple laughed near the bar. Yet here, between Jack and Jeeny, the world had shrunk to quiet thought.

Jack: “So what? You think Harry Melling doing a Christmas special on the BBC is some kind of spiritual act?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe not spiritual. But cultural, yes. He’s part of something that outlives him. For a few nights, families will sit together, warmth in the room, and they’ll see his face—his work. They’ll laugh, maybe cry. That’s connection. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “It’s temporary.”

Jeeny: “So is everything worth feeling.”

Host: The words fell between them like soft embers, glowing even as they cooled.

Jack leaned back, staring up at the TV again, where a still from Just William flickered—a boy in a cap, standing in the snow, eyes defiant, grin full of mischief.

Jack: “Maybe. But I don’t buy the idea that playing pretend changes anything. It’s comfort, not revolution.”

Jeeny: “Comfort can be revolutionary when the world is cold.”

Host: The firelight shifted again, licking the edges of their glasses, glinting off the gold ring on Jeeny’s finger—a small reminder of something constant.

Jeeny: “Look, think about it. Art doesn’t have to fix the world—it just has to remind us why it’s worth fixing.”

Jack: “So every actor’s a philosopher now?”

Jeeny: “Every artist is, whether they know it or not. They just speak in light and shadow instead of words.”

Jack: “And you think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Because if we stop telling stories, who will remember what kindness looks like? What courage sounds like?”

Host: He said nothing. The clock above the bar ticked, slow and solemn, as if timing the space between their beliefs.

Jack: “You ever think maybe actors do it because they’re running from themselves? Living someone else’s life feels safer than facing your own.”

Jeeny: “Of course. But isn’t that what we all do in some way? Hide behind our roles—the worker, the cynic, the realist, the dreamer. Acting just makes it visible.”

Jack: “So it’s therapy, then.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s truth disguised as fiction. That’s what makes it dangerous.”

Host: The fire cracked, sending a small spray of sparks up the chimney. Outside, a bus hissed to a stop, doors opening to spill out tired Londoners into the damp.

Jack: “You know, I saw Melling once. In a play—Peddling, I think it was called. He was brilliant. Raw. Nothing like his film work. You could see his past fighting to get out of him. The actor and the child he’d been—it was like they were sharing the same body.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the real kind of art. When you stop pretending and start revealing.”

Jack: “So acting isn’t escape—it’s confession.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every performance is a prayer for understanding. And the audience? They’re the ones who answer.”

Host: The pub lights dimmed slightly as the night deepened, and the sound of the rain softened to a hush. Jack reached for his drink, but his eyes stayed on the window, on the street beyond it.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about permanence. Maybe it’s about presence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The moment itself—the heartbeat shared between performer and watcher—that’s what makes it sacred.”

Host: The bartender called last orders. The fire burned low. Somewhere, faint Christmas lights twinkled through the misted glass.

Jack: “So in the end, what’s the point of it all? Acting, art, all this performance?”

Jeeny: “To make people remember they’re alive.”

Jack: (smiling) “Even for just a moment.”

Jeeny: “Especially for just a moment.”

Host: The camera pulled slowly away from their table—the pub now smaller, but somehow infinite in its stillness. Outside, the fog wrapped around the city like a story still being written.

Through the window, the sign across the street glowed brighter for a heartbeat: “BBC One — Christmas Special — Just William.”

Host: And as the light flickered against the glass, it seemed to whisper the simplest truth: every performance, no matter how small, is a piece of eternity pretending to be now.