Living in L.A., everyone likes to mold you and change you. I

Host: The sunset bled over the Los Angeles skyline, staining the glass towers in streaks of orange, rose, and gold. The city hummed — a neon heartbeat pulsing through billboards, engines, and dreams that refused to sleep. On the rooftop of an aging studio building, Jack and Jeeny sat facing opposite horizons. Between them, two half-drunk cups of coffee cooled beside a stack of screenplay drafts fluttering in the evening wind.

The air smelled of rain on asphalt and smoke from distant fires — the scent of creation and decay interwoven.

Jack stared at the city lights with a tired, steel-gray gaze, while Jeeny’s hair caught the dying sun like black silk lit from within.

Jeeny: “Jessica Alba once said, ‘Living in L.A., everyone likes to mold you and change you. I don't care about fame, I don't care about being a celebrity. I know that's part of the job, but I don't feed into anyone's idea of who I should be.’”
(voice quiet, thoughtful) “I’ve been thinking about that all week. Isn’t that the curse of this city? Everyone trying to rewrite your soul like a script they didn’t even read?”

Jack: (chuckling, dryly) “That’s L.A., Jeeny. You sell your face before your faith, your name before your nature. The moment you walk into an audition, they’re already deciding which version of you they want — and if they don’t get it, they’ll build it anyway.”

Host: The sky darkened, streetlights flickered on one by one, like stars rehearsing for fame. The city below murmured — sirens, laughter, the faint throb of bass from a club three blocks away.

Jeeny: “But that’s the problem, Jack. Everyone becomes an actor — even when they’re not on stage. People here change their voices, their faces, their truths just to belong. Isn’t that a kind of violence too?”

Jack: (leaning forward, his voice husky) “It’s survival. You call it violence; I call it adaptation. Nobody lasts here being themselves. Look around — the pure ones vanish, the pliable ones rise. Darwin wrote that species survive by adapting to their environment. Well, this city’s no different — only the predators are beautiful.”

Jeeny: (eyes narrowing) “So you’d rather be a chameleon than a human being?”

Jack: “Better a living chameleon than a dead idealist.”

Host: The wind picked up, scattering a few pages from their stack into the air. They spiraled away like paper ghosts, carrying fragments of forgotten dialogue across the city. Jeeny watched one page drift over the edge of the roof, then disappear into the glow of passing headlights below.

Jeeny: “You always sound so certain — as if the only choices are to bend or break. But isn’t there something sacred in holding onto your own shape, even when the world keeps trying to press its fingerprints into you?”

Jack: “Sacred doesn’t pay rent in this town. You think Jessica Alba survived on stubbornness alone? No — she learned to play the game, smile for the cameras, and still keep a corner of herself untouched. That’s not rebellion, that’s strategy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s defiance. Maybe it’s saying — you can photograph me, but you’ll never own the light that made me glow.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, just for a second, like a man caught between admiration and memory. The city’s glow shimmered across his face — a mosaic of neon pinks and electric blues, making him look half made of light, half made of regret.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe there’s a self that can’t be bought.”

Jeeny: “Don’t you?”

Jack: (after a pause) “I used to.”

Host: The sound of helicopters sliced through the night air, a reminder of something restless always circling above this city. Jeeny pulled her jacket tighter, her eyes reflecting the billboard across the street — a model’s face, flawless and hollow.

Jeeny: “I met a girl once — a makeup artist, sweet and sincere. She moved here from Kansas. Within six months she stopped talking the same, stopped smiling the same. She told me one day, ‘I’m learning how to be likable.’ It broke my heart, Jack. As if her real self was some mistake to be corrected.”

Jack: “Or maybe she finally understood how the world works. People don’t want your truth; they want your reflection — something that flatters their own illusion.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s left of us? If everyone’s reflecting everyone else, who’s still real?”

Host: A long silence. The wind died down. The city hum became a distant heartbeat. For a moment, it was as if even Los Angeles itself paused — listening.

Jack: (quietly) “Real doesn’t sell.”

Jeeny: (fierce now) “Then maybe we shouldn’t sell at all!”

Host: Her voice rose, carrying through the night air, startling a flock of pigeons from a nearby ledge. They burst upward, scattering through the neon glow — black silhouettes against electric color.

Jack: “You think you can live untouched by all this?” (gesturing toward the skyline) “Every billboard screams perfection. Every conversation’s a pitch. Even rebellion here gets monetized. You think you’re immune?”

Jeeny: (softly, but steady) “Immunity isn’t the goal. Integrity is.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, then relaxed. The moonlight caught the faint stubble on his chin, the kind of detail a director’s camera would linger on to show fatigue — or honesty.

Jack: “You know, I once wrote a script about a painter who stopped painting because the gallery told him what color to use. He said he’d rather starve than compromise. He did starve. That’s the ending no one wants to watch.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because the world’s not ready to see what real sacrifice looks like.”

Jack: “Or maybe because it’s stupid. Starving for principles doesn’t make you a saint; it just makes you gone.”

Jeeny: “And conforming doesn’t make you wise; it just makes you forgettable.”

Host: The tension between them felt like a live wire, humming. Their eyes locked — his cold, hers aflame — two philosophies clashing in the electric heartbeat of the city that promised both everything and nothing.

Jack: (after a beat) “So what, Jeeny? You’d rather fade unknown than bend?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather fade myself than live someone else.”

Host: A sirens’ wail cut through the distance, fading into the hills. A few raindrops began to fall again, cool and sharp. The city lights blurred, refracted through the thin veil of water. It was as if the world itself couldn’t decide whether to cleanse or conceal.

Jack: (quiet now) “You know, when I first came here, I wanted to write truth. But every producer I met told me to make it more ‘relatable.’ Which meant — less real. More pretty. I told myself I’d change the system from within.” (he laughs softly) “Guess who changed first.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of L.A. It doesn’t destroy you — it seduces you. Until you start mistaking their mirror for your face.”

Jack: (looking at her) “And what if it’s too late to remember your own?”

Jeeny: (reaching for his hand) “Then you start again. Even if all you have left is a whisper of who you were.”

Host: The rain thickened, soft but insistent, drumming on the rooftop metal, tracing lines down the neon reflection of the skyline. Their hands touched, the gesture small, but defiant — two fragments of truth refusing to be dissolved by the city’s flood of illusions.

Jack: (barely audible) “Maybe Alba was right. The job’s the mask. The choice is whether you let it fuse to your skin.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fame isn’t the problem — forgetting is.”

Host: The camera would pull back now, slowly — the two figures silhouetted against a rain-soaked city, their voices fading into the sound of the storm.
The lights below flickered like fragile stars, trying desperately to outshine their own reflection.

And above them — the real stars, quiet, unadvertised, and untouchably themselves — burned on.