My fans love me; they've made me this sex symbol. I don't feel I

Host: The night hung over the city like a velvet curtain, heavy and trembling with music. From the cracked-open door of the backstage lounge, the sound of a thousand voices spilled in—a pulsing wave of adoration, applause, and need. The air smelled of sweat, perfume, and faint cigarette smoke.

Jack sat slumped on a battered sofa, his shirt half-unbuttoned, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his temples. His grey eyes stared into the mirror opposite him, where a dozen fragmented reflections stared back.

Jeeny stood near the door, her arms crossed, watching him. She had come straight from the crowd, her hair damp, her eyes wide with something between awe and disappointment.

On the table between them lay a crumpled printout of a quote:

“My fans love me; they’ve made me this sex symbol. I don’t feel I am, but they feel that way. They find me attractive, like I’m a sexy dude. I try my best to make them believe the illusion.” — Romeo Santos

Host: The music outside faded into a low hum, as if the world itself had pressed its ear to their door, waiting to listen.

Jack: (exhales, lighting a cigarette) That line... it’s the most honest thing I’ve read in months. “I try my best to make them believe the illusion.” That’s all fame is, Jeeny. A well-maintained lie.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe it’s not a lie, Jack. Maybe it’s just another kind of truth—the one people need to believe.

Jack: (chuckles darkly) That’s poetic, but naïve. You really think illusion and truth can coexist? Santos just admitted it—he doesn’t feel like what they see. But he acts like it, because it keeps them happy. That’s not truth; that’s performance.

Jeeny: (steps closer, her voice gentle) And what’s wrong with performance if it makes someone feel alive? Music, love, faith—they’re all illusions too. We pretend something’s eternal even when we know it’s not. But that pretending gives us meaning.

Jack: Meaning built on lies doesn’t last. When the lights go off and the crowd disappears, what’s left? Just a man staring at himself in a mirror, wondering if anyone ever saw him at all.

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered toward his reflection again, and for a fleeting second, even his own image seemed like a stranger—an actor in someone else’s movie.

Jeeny: (sits beside him) You think truth is always honest, Jack, but truth wears masks too. Romeo Santos didn’t say he loved being the illusion—he said he tries his best to make others believe it. That’s compassion. He’s not lying; he’s protecting their dream.

Jack: (grimly) Protecting? Or selling it? You ever notice how the industry worships the image more than the music? It’s not about art—it’s about branding. Sex, fame, control. They build idols out of insecurity and then call it inspiration.

Jeeny: But maybe that’s what people want—something to worship. Even if it’s flawed. Especially if it’s flawed. The illusion gives them something bigger than themselves to hold onto.

Jack: (leans forward, voice sharper) That’s exactly the problem. The illusion becomes the cage. Look at Elvis—died alone surrounded by fame. Marilyn—devoured by her own image. Even Santos, he admits it—it’s their belief, not his. He just keeps feeding it because it’s what’s expected.

Jeeny: (raising her voice slightly) And yet, they changed the world, Jack! Their illusions moved people, lifted them, healed them. Isn’t that real enough? You think truth has to be pure, but maybe truth is simply what reaches the heart, even if it’s made of smoke.

Host: The room thickened with tension. The lightbulb above them flickered, as though the argument had weight enough to disturb the electricity itself.

Jack: (coldly) You’d justify anything if it came with applause, wouldn’t you?

Jeeny: (snaps) And you’d dismiss anything beautiful if it came from imperfection.

Host: Silence crashed into the room like thunder. The rain began outside—hard, relentless, drumming against the windows.

Jack: (after a moment, quieter) Do you know what it’s like to fake your reflection for years? To walk on stage, smile, flirt, perform—and know they don’t love you? They love a projection. A version that doesn’t bleed.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe that version does bleed, Jack. Just differently. You call it fake, but maybe the illusion is just another self—one that gives more than it takes.

Host: Jack turned his head, the smoke curling from his lips like a ghost escaping confession.

Jack: You make it sound noble, but what if the illusion starts consuming the person behind it? Every compliment feels counterfeit. Every gaze feels like surveillance. Fame is just loneliness in high-definition.

Jeeny: (gently touches his hand) And yet, people keep chasing it. Because deep down, everyone wants to be seen—even if it’s through the wrong lens.

Jack: (bitterly) Being seen isn’t the same as being known.

Jeeny: Maybe not. But being known rarely saves anyone either.

Host: Her words landed like quiet stones. The music outside had stopped completely. The crowd had gone home. All that remained was the hum of neon and the faint heartbeat of the city.

Jack: (after a pause) So you think illusion is a kind of mercy.

Jeeny: I think illusion is a bridge. Between what we are and what we dream to be. Between the artist and the audience. Between fear and faith.

Jack: (nods slowly) And what if the bridge collapses?

Jeeny: Then we build another one. Because that’s what humans do—we keep creating illusions until one of them finally feels like home.

Host: Jack looked at her then—really looked. The weariness in his face softened into something fragile.

Jack: You really believe that, don’t you? That the illusion itself can be love.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Maybe it’s not love’s opposite. Maybe it’s love’s language.

Host: Outside, the rain eased, becoming a soft mist that traced patterns down the glass. The city lights shimmered through it—blurred, seductive, unreal.

Jack: (murmurs) “I try my best to make them believe the illusion.” Maybe that’s all any of us are doing, every day. Pretending to be better, stronger, happier than we are.

Jeeny: (nods) And maybe that’s not deceit—it’s survival. Maybe pretending is how we learn to become what we pretend to be.

Host: A quiet smile crossed Jack’s face, the kind that hides both pain and understanding. He stubbed out his cigarette, stood, and faced the mirror once more.

Jack: (softly) You know... maybe he wasn’t talking about fans at all. Maybe he was talking about himself.

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) Aren’t we all?

Host: The mirror caught their reflections—two figures framed in gold light, both half-real, half-shadow. For a brief moment, they seemed less like people and more like echoes—performers caught between truth and illusion, flesh and myth.

Host: Beyond the glass, the first light of dawn crept through the rain clouds, thin and silver. The city, stripped of its glamour, looked almost honest.

Host: Jack turned away from the mirror, his face calm, his eyes clear. Jeeny followed him toward the door, where the faint noise of the waking world began to rise.

Host: And as the camera lingered, the mirror reflected the empty room—only the ghost of smoke, the faint echo of applause, and a single whispered truth:

Host: The illusion was never the enemy. It was the only way we ever dared to be seen.