I've wanted to perform my entire life. I found a paper I wrote in

Host: The stage lights were off, but the smell of dust, wood, and velvet curtains lingered in the air like memory itself. Rows of empty seats stretched into the shadows — silent witnesses to the thousands of lives, dreams, and heartbreaks that had once flickered across that very stage.

In the dim glow of a single work light, Jack sat on the edge of the stage, staring out into the emptiness, hands clasped, a faint echo of old applause whispering through his mind.

Jeeny stepped quietly out from behind the curtain, carrying two paper cups of coffee. Her steps were soft, reverent, like someone entering a cathedral of ghosts.

She handed him one, then sat beside him, their feet dangling over the edge.

Jeeny: “Heather Morris once said, ‘I've wanted to perform my entire life. I found a paper I wrote in kindergarten class about what I wanted to be when I grew up — and I wrote "a famous singer!"’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “A famous singer. Every kid’s dream — to be seen, heard, loved by strangers.”

Host: The sound of a distant door closing echoed through the old theatre. A single beam of moonlight broke through a crack in the roof, cutting across the stage like a divine spotlight.

Jeeny: “You make it sound shallow. But maybe it’s not about being famous — maybe it’s about being felt.”

Jack: “Fame’s the illusion that feeling can be measured. Number of fans, followers, streams — a scoreboard for the soul.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But don’t you think there’s something beautiful about a child who already knows what calls them? She wasn’t saying ‘I want to be rich.’ She was saying, ‘I want to sing.’ That’s the difference.”

Jack: “Yeah, but look where that dream takes people. They start singing because it fills them — and end up performing because it empties them.”

Jeeny: “Only if they forget why they started. The dream gets corrupted when applause becomes oxygen.”

Host: The light from the moonbeam shifted slightly as clouds passed. Jack’s eyes reflected its glow, sharp and tired, like a man who had once dreamed loudly but learned to whisper instead.

Jack: “You ever think about how fragile that is? The dream of being seen. It starts innocent — a kid in kindergarten scribbling hope — and ends with adults chasing validation through a screen.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy and the miracle of it, isn’t it? The same hunger that ruins people is also what creates art. You can’t want to be seen without risking yourself.”

Jack: “And you can’t risk yourself without getting hurt.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? Art’s just the wound singing back.”

Host: The theatre’s silence thickened. A faint hum from the lights echoed in the rafters, almost like an unseen orchestra tuning before a performance that would never begin.

Jack: “You know what I remember most about performing?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “The seconds right before stepping out. The noise of the crowd, the heat of the lights behind the curtain — that electric dread. The knowing that whatever happens next, you can’t undo it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not dread, Jack. That’s life condensed into a single heartbeat. That’s the moment Heather was talking about — when dream meets reality.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Even if the song falls flat, even if no one claps — the courage to try is holy.”

Host: A small gust of wind slipped through the cracks in the wall, making the old curtains sway. The faint rustle sounded like applause from ghosts.

Jack: “When I was six, I told my mom I wanted to be a magician. She laughed — said, ‘You already are. You disappear every time someone looks too closely.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s your act, Jack — to vanish so others can see themselves.”

Jack: (quietly) “You make it sound noble. It just feels lonely.”

Jeeny: “That’s what all artists feel — loneliness dressed as purpose.”

Host: The moonlight grew brighter for a moment, catching the dust in the air, each mote glowing like a tiny stage light suspended mid-performance.

Jeeny: “But that’s why I love Heather’s story. There’s something sacred about remembering where the dream began. It keeps you honest — it keeps you human.”

Jack: “You think remembering the beginning can save you from the ending?”

Jeeny: “Not save you. But remind you that the dream wasn’t about applause — it was about expression. About wanting to touch something eternal.”

Jack: “So, singing to be known… turns into singing to connect?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because connection is just recognition. We sing so someone else can say, ‘I’ve felt that too.’ That’s all art ever was.”

Host: A single light bulb above the stage flickered, humming faintly, the sound mingling with the rain outside. The theatre seemed to breathe with them — alive again, if only in memory.

Jack: “You know… I used to think performers were narcissists — desperate souls chasing attention. But maybe they’re just people brave enough to live out loud what the rest of us keep silent.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Performance is confession disguised as beauty.”

Jack: “And fame?”

Jeeny: “Fame’s just the echo. The song is what matters.”

Host: They sat there for a while, listening to the ghostly stillness. Somewhere, a drop of water fell from the ceiling onto the stage, marking time.

Jack: “You ever wish you’d chosen something easier?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But ease never moved anyone. Not me, not the audience. Struggle’s what gives the song its pitch.”

Jack: “You make pain sound productive.”

Jeeny: “Pain is productive — when it turns into music.”

Host: The moonlight dimmed as clouds swallowed it again. The world grew soft, blue, infinite.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about Heather’s words?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That she remembered her five-year-old self — not her fame, not her career, but that child’s certainty. The purity of saying, ‘I want to sing,’ without fear, without doubt. That’s the kind of honesty grown-ups spend decades trying to recover.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe we never grow out of our first dreams. We just keep trying to find the adult version of them.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes, when we’re lucky, we do.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly now — the empty seats, the dust motes, the two figures sitting beneath the lone bulb’s glow, small yet infinite in the silence of the old theatre.

Outside, the rain began to ease, the sound fading into stillness.

Jack lifted his gaze to the balcony above, where shadows of the past seemed to lean over the railing, listening.

Jeeny: (softly) “Every performer begins as a child who just wanted to be heard. And every artist, in the end, just hopes that someone, somewhere, is still listening.”

Host: The light above them flickered once, twice — then went out completely.

And for a heartbeat, in the total dark, you could almost hear it —
a faint applause from the unseen,
a whisper of eternity saying,

“Keep singing.”