Men have the power in everything: journalism, acting, direction;

Host: The theater was empty, yet alive with echoes — faint footsteps, the creak of wood, the whisper of velvet curtains that swayed in the faint draft. The stage lights were dim, leaving a soft golden haze that clung to the dust in the air, shimmering like the remnants of forgotten applause.

Jeeny sat on the edge of the stage, her legs crossed, her hair falling freely over her shoulders. She was tracing the outline of a discarded script, the pages crinkled from old rehearsals. Jack stood in the aisle, his hands in his pockets, looking up at her as though studying a painting he didn’t understand.

Outside, the city rumbled faintly — car horns, voices, a symphony of movement — but inside, the silence had weight.

Jeeny: “Monica Bellucci once said, ‘Men have the power in everything: journalism, acting, direction; in banks, finances, schools. All the laws are made by men. Men think that women, when they’re not able to procreate any more, become old. That is not true — they are still amazing.’”
Her voice carried softly through the theater, steady, but burning. “She’s right, Jack. The world still measures women by fertility, by beauty, by how much they give — not who they are.”

Jack: (exhaling slowly) “You think men designed that on purpose?”
His tone was skeptical, almost tired. “History made the rules long before we knew better. Power just… stuck where it landed.”

Jeeny: “Convenient, isn’t it? When power sticks to you and you get to call it history.”

Host: The light shifted slightly, illuminating Jeeny’s face — fierce, yet fragile, her eyes shimmering with something between sorrow and defiance. Jack’s shadow stretched long across the seats, fractured by the light like a confession.

Jack: “You talk like every man’s an oppressor. Most of us just live inside the system — we don’t write the script.”

Jeeny: “But you perform it,” she shot back. “You benefit from it. And sometimes pretending you didn’t write it is how it keeps running.”

Jack: (leaning against a seat) “That’s unfair, Jeeny. You think I wanted this imbalance? That I believe women lose worth with age? My mother worked three jobs till she was sixty. She’s the strongest person I know.”

Jeeny: “Then imagine the world looking at her and deciding she’s past her prime just because she can’t bear children anymore.”
Her voice trembled, not with weakness but with fury. “That’s what Monica meant. We celebrate women’s beauty when it’s youthful — and ignore their wisdom when it ripens.”

Host: The light dimmed further as if the theater itself leaned closer to listen. Dust motes floated in the golden air, glowing like fireflies caught in a memory.

Jack: “You can’t deny biology, Jeeny. Nature itself favors the young. That’s not patriarchy — it’s evolution.”

Jeeny: (snapping) “Evolution doesn’t decide who’s beautiful, Jack — people do! And they’ve been told by centuries of male voices what to desire, what to value, what to discard. Even aging became political.”

Jack: (quietly) “You think men can change that?”

Jeeny: “They have to. Because women already are.”
She rose, stepping down from the stage, her heels clicking like punctuation marks in the silence. “Look at the world — Helen Mirren still commanding screens, Jane Campion redefining direction, women in their fifties and sixties leading movements, art, nations. The only ones who still need convincing are the ones who can’t imagine women being powerful without youth.”

Host: She stopped in front of him. The distance between them was a breath, a heartbeat. The light from the stage haloed her silhouette, sharp and golden, like a goddess sculpted from rebellion.

Jack: “You make it sound simple — as if respect can be legislated. But society worships what sells. Youth sells.”

Jeeny: “Only because people like you keep buying it.”
Her words landed like a slap — but not cruelly, more like an awakening. “You’re smart, Jack. But you’ve let logic blind you to empathy. Don’t you see the tragedy? Women spend their lives being told they’re flowers — only to be punished when they bloom too long.”

Host: A single light flickered above them, casting their faces in uneven shadow — his marked by hesitation, hers by flame.

Jack: (softly) “I never thought about it that way.”
He looked down, his jaw tight. “I just… I don’t know how to fix something that big.”

Jeeny: “You don’t fix it. You listen. You challenge the quiet assumptions. You look at an older woman and see the story, not the expiry date.”

Host: Her voice broke then, the emotion trembling like a note held too long. The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was heavy with everything unsaid.

Jack: “You think men can learn to see that?”

Jeeny: “They already do — when they love their mothers, their teachers, their daughters. They just forget to extend that reverence to the rest of us.”

Host: Jack took a slow step forward, the old floorboards groaning under his boots. His eyes searched hers, the skepticism giving way to something deeper — a realization, fragile and unguarded.

Jack: “Maybe it’s not about women aging. Maybe it’s about men refusing to grow up.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Now you’re getting it.”

Host: The lights shifted again, spilling warm gold across both of them. The stage behind Jeeny glowed softly, as if applauding the confession.

Jack: “You know,” he said, almost shyly, “when I was younger, I thought Monica Bellucci was the definition of beauty. But seeing her speak about aging — that fire — that made her more beautiful. Maybe that’s what I missed all along. The power isn’t in youth. It’s in presence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And when women stop apologizing for existing beyond the age men find convenient, that’s when we become unstoppable.”
Her eyes softened. “It’s not about replacing men. It’s about evolving together — you growing wiser, and us refusing to shrink.”

Host: The air warmed between them. The theater — once filled with echoes of applause — now pulsed with quiet revelation.

Jack: “So what do we do now?”

Jeeny: “We unlearn. We build new scripts. We teach our daughters that beauty isn’t time-stamped — and our sons that respect doesn’t expire.”

Host: Outside, a distant church bell tolled — slow, resonant — as if marking the death of an old illusion. Jack reached out, touching Jeeny’s hand, his usual coldness replaced by a hesitant reverence.

Jack: “You make me believe the world could change.”

Jeeny: “It already is. You just have to look past the noise — like music in a crowded station.”
Her smile was quiet, but triumphant.

Host: The lights began to fade, the theater settling into shadow once more. But the glow around them remained — not from bulbs or stagecraft, but from understanding. Two souls — one logical, one luminous — standing in the ruins of the old order, building something gentler, stronger.

As the last beam of light dimmed, Jeeny’s voice lingered — soft as a prayer, sharp as truth:

Jeeny: “Women don’t grow old, Jack. They just grow undeniable.”

Host: And in that final silence, the theater — ancient, patient, feminine — seemed to exhale, as though it had been waiting centuries to hear those words spoken aloud.