I've learned to stay away from publicity addicts, people who want

Host: The night was thick with the buzz of the city, a thousand lights flickering against the wet asphalt like a restless pulse. A neon sign blinked over the entrance of a small, almost-forgotten bar tucked between a tattoo parlor and a shuttered bookstore. Inside, the air was smoky, the smell of gin and dust mingling like two strangers who’d met too often.

Jack sat at the counter, his coat still dripping from the rain. His grey eyes were distant, tired, watching the reflection of the bartender’s movements in the mirror. Jeeny entered quietly, her umbrella folding, hair damp and dark, her eyes soft, but alert — the kind of alertness that comes from years of reading people more than words.

Jeeny: “You always find the quietest places in the loudest cities.”

Jack: “Noise outside doesn’t bother me. It’s the noise inside that I’m hiding from.”

Host: She smiled, sitting beside him, her coat brushing his arm. The bartender poured her a small glass of red wine without a word — he knew her kind of silence.

Jeeny: “I read something tonight — Paz de la Huerta said it. ‘I’ve learned to stay away from publicity addicts, people who want to be famous for no reason.’”

Jack: “Ah. The gospel according to fame.”

Host: He smirked, but there was an edge in his voice, a weariness that made the smile feel like a mask.

Jack: “Everyone wants to be seen, Jeeny. That’s not new. It’s just that now, everyone has a camera pointed at themselves while they’re doing nothing worth watching.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you hate them.”

Jack: “I don’t hate them. I just don’t trust people who crave applause without art, attention without substance. It’s like… moral inflation. The more we praise nothing, the less meaning praise has.”

Host: His words hung between them like smoke, curling, heavy, true. Jeeny watched him for a long moment, then leaned closer.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that hunger — to be seen, to matter — just another form of pain? Maybe they’re not addicted to fame. Maybe they’re starving for love.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t need followers. Or hashtags.”

Jeeny: “Neither did Van Gogh. But he still wanted someone to look at his stars.”

Host: Jack looked up, his eyes catching hers — a flicker of irritation, but also recognition. He tapped his finger on the bar.

Jack: “That’s different. He had something to show. He bled for beauty. He earned the right to be seen. I’m talking about the ones who turn emptiness into a brand — who cry into their phones and call it truth.”

Jeeny: “But what if that’s the only truth they know? Their pain might not look like art to you, but maybe it’s the only way they’ve learned to exist — to prove they exist.”

Host: The rain outside softened, the window streaked with silver trails of water, like the city itself was quietly weeping.

Jack: “Existence doesn’t need proof. You’re alive — that’s proof enough.”

Jeeny: “Not when the world tells you otherwise. You’ve seen it, Jack — the people who get ignored until they perform their pain, until their suffering trends. It’s not vanity; it’s survival.”

Jack: “Survival shouldn’t require performance. The moment your life becomes a product, your soul’s already sold.”

Host: He drank, the ice in his glass clinking sharply. Jeeny looked down, fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass, her voice turning softer.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that influencer who took her own life last year? The one with millions of followers — but no one who actually knew her name beyond a username? Everyone mourned online, but they never knew what she wanted. Just what she posted. That’s what I mean, Jack. They’re screaming into the void, hoping it echoes back as love.”

Jack: “And yet, we keep giving them our attention. Feeding the addiction. The cameras, the filters, the applause — they don’t heal. They just hide the emptiness.”

Host: The lights above them flickered, and for a brief second, their faces were mirrored in the bar glass — two souls, one wary, one wounded, both searching for something they could name.

Jeeny: “You talk as if you’ve never wanted to be seen.”

Jack: “I’ve wanted to be understood. That’s different.”

Jeeny: “Is it? Because understanding starts with seeing. You hide from the world like it’s your enemy, but maybe you’re just afraid it won’t clap for the right reasons.”

Host: His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek twitching. She’d struck a nerve.

Jack: “You think I want fame?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you want to matter — but only on your terms. The same disease, just a different symptom.”

Host: The bar had grown quieter, the last few customers drifting out into the rain, leaving the two of them and the sound of a slow blues tune playing in the background.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But it’s not the same. Wanting to matter isn’t the same as wanting to be worshiped.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But both come from the same wound — the fear of being invisible. Fame addicts just choose the wrong medicine.”

Host: Jack laughed, but it was a hollow sound, like something breaking quietly.

Jack: “You really think it’s fear? That all these people chasing fame — they’re not narcissists, they’re just… lonely?”

Jeeny: “Of course they are. Why else would someone turn their whole life into a stage? Why else would they trade privacy for pixels?”

Host: She paused, her eyes glistening under the bar’s dim light.

Jeeny: “We used to have confessionals. Now we have comment sections. Different altars, same yearning.”

Host: Jack stared, his expression softening.

Jack: “You always find a way to make even the ugliest things sound holy.”

Jeeny: “That’s because even the broken things are sacred, Jack — especially them.”

Host: He looked away, smiling faintly, his hand absently rubbing the condensation off his glass.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I can’t stand it — because I see myself in them. The part of me that wanted someone to care, without having to earn it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not weakness. That’s being human.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, the sound like slow footsteps toward honesty.

Jack: “Maybe Paz was right, though. Maybe it’s safer to stay away from publicity addicts. Not because they’re evil — but because they remind us how easily we could become one.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But maybe instead of staying away, we should learn to listen — before the need for love turns into a scream for fame.”

Host: The music shifted, a piano now filling the room with soft, wandering notes. The rain outside had stopped, the streetlights now reflected in small, perfect puddles like a trail of fading stars.

Jack: “So what’s the cure then? Silence?”

Jeeny: “No. Sincerity.”

Host: He nodded slowly, as if tasting the word.

Jack: “You know… sometimes I think the most courageous people are the ones who create in the dark, unseen, unpraised — and still keep going.”

Jeeny: “That’s what faith looks like, Jack. To make beauty without an audience.”

Host: Her hand rested on his arm, just for a moment — not to comfort, but to connect. He looked at her, and something in his eyes shifted — the cynicism giving way to something gentler, older, maybe even hope.

Jack: “Then maybe that’s what we should do — live like no one’s watching, and love like everyone is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And if the world forgets our names, maybe it’s because we finally remembered our souls.”

Host: Outside, a cab passed, its light briefly illuminating their faces — two wanderers, framed in a moment of shared truth. The bar quieted into stillness.

The camera would have pulled back slowly — the neon sign still flickering, the rain now just a memory, the two silhouettes caught between shadow and light — as if the universe itself was whispering: Fame fades. But the unseen hearts keep beating.