My heroes are guys like Tom Hanks, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Matt

Host: The rain had just stopped. Steam rose from the pavement like the last breath of a dream. A small café, tucked between two forgotten theatres, glowed with the soft, amber light of late evening. Inside, the air carried the scent of coffee, wet asphalt, and hope — that fragile, unspoken kind that lingers after failure.

Jack sat by the window, his jacket still damp, his eyes fixed on the reflection of passing cars. His fingers tapped the table restlessly, a habit born from years of unmet ambition. Across from him, Jeeny watched him quietly, her hands folded around a cup, the steam curling against her cheek like memory itself.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring out that window for ten minutes, Jack. What’s on your mind?”

Jack: “Just a thought I came across earlier. Dylan O’Brien said, ‘My heroes are guys like Tom Hanks, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Matt Damon... I’m just in awe of their careers.’”

He took a sip, the bitterness of the coffee cutting through his words. “Made me wonder, Jeeny — why are we always in awe of other people’s lives instead of living our own?”

Host: The neon sign outside flickered, its light dancing across the table like a heartbeat caught between cynicism and belief.

Jeeny: “Because admiration isn’t the same as envy, Jack. To be in awe of someone’s journey is to recognize what’s possible. It’s a way of saying — I still believe in greatness.”

Jack: “Or it’s a trap,” he snapped, his voice low, almost regretful. “A way of worshiping what we’ll never be. Look around — every actor, every artist, every kid wants to be the next DiCaprio or Hanks. They end up chasing ghosts, forgetting who they are.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what growth looks like — chasing until you find yourself in the run. Do you think DiCaprio became DiCaprio by not chasing anyone? He once said he watched De Niro in This Boy’s Life and it changed his path. Inspiration isn’t slavery, Jack. It’s a spark.”

Host: A car passed outside, its headlights slicing through the mist. The light fell briefly on Jack’s face, revealing the tiredness in his eyes — not from work, but from wanting too much and believing too little.

Jack: “A spark, sure. But what happens when the spark becomes a fire that burns your own identity? I’ve seen it — actors who imitate instead of create. They end up copies, not artists. That’s the danger of awe — it blinds you to your own possibility.”

Jeeny: “And what’s the alternative? Cynicism? To stop believing in the idea of heroes? You think the world would be better if no one looked up to anyone?”

Host: The rain began to drizzle again, a thin, melancholic curtain against the glass. Jack watched it, the drops like questions he didn’t want to answer.

Jack: “Maybe the world would be more honest. We build statues, we write biographies, we call them legends, but what we never see are the failures, the loneliness, the nights they wanted to quit. We idolize their success and ignore their scars.”

Jeeny: “That’s not awe, Jack. That’s ignorance. True admiration includes their struggle. That’s why it’s so beautiful. You don’t stand in awe of perfection — you stand in awe of endurance.”

Host: The wind rattled the sign, and for a moment, the café felt like a stage suspended between dream and truth. The sound of the rain was their only audience.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But tell me — how many people admiring these ‘heroes’ actually endure anything? They want the glory, not the grind. They quote the names, not the nights. It’s all surface, Jeeny. A mirage.”

Jeeny: “That’s not the fault of the hero. That’s the choice of the viewer. But the fact that people still believe, still aspire, means something’s still alive in them. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t fill your stomach, Jeeny. It doesn’t pay the rent. The world rewards results, not dreams.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every result you’ve ever admired began as someone’s dream. Tom Hanks was once a theatre kid sleeping on friends’ couches. Matt Damon wrote Good Will Hunting in a basement with no money, just faith. And look at them now — not because they had connections, but because they believed.”

Host: The air between them thickened — a silence not of anger, but of recognition. Jack’s jaw tightened; Jeeny’s eyes shimmered with quiet defiance.

Jack: “You always make it sound so romantic, Jeeny. But not everyone who believes makes it. For every Hanks, there are a thousand who fade into nothing.”

Jeeny: “And yet those thousand still matter. Because they tried. Because they felt something worth failing for. Do you really think the point is to be famous? The point is to be real — to live with awe, even if no one’s watching.”

Host: A pause. The rain softened, turning into a gentle murmur. Jack looked at her — not as an opponent, but as a mirror he’d been avoiding.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is, it’s not about becoming them... it’s about believing like them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t have to be Tom Hanks. You just have to be someone who cares as deeply, works as honestly, fails as bravely. That’s what awe should lead to — not imitation, but integrity.”

Jack: “That’s a nice thought. But it still hurts, Jeeny. To look at the greatness of others and feel your own smallness.”

Jeeny: “That’s the price of being awake, Jack. To see greatness and still choose to try. That’s the courage Dylan O’Brien was talking about — not in claiming he’ll be like them, but in admitting he probably won’t, and trying anyway.”

Host: The lights in the café dimmed as the barista began to clean up, the sound of chairs scraping against the floor marking the end of the night. But neither Jack nor Jeeny moved. Their conversation had become a confession.

Jack: “You know, I used to admire those guys too. I’d watch Saving Private Ryan and think — if I could just have a moment like that on screen, I’d be happy. Then I got older, and realized how far that mountain really is.”

Jeeny: “But you’re still climbing, aren’t you?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve been resting too long on the rocks, staring at the summit.”

Jeeny: “Then get up, Jack. Not because you’ll reach it — but because climbing itself is sacred.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like music, quiet but unforgettable. Jack’s eyes softened, the edges of his cynicism blurring into something almost tender.

Jack: “You always have a way of making failure sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it is. Every failure is just a note in the song of becoming. And maybe... maybe our heroes aren’t the ones who made it to the top — they’re the ones who kept singing when no one listened.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. The sky began to clear, revealing a faint moon above the rooftops. The streetlights glowed, and for the first time that night, Jack smiled — not out of certainty, but out of acceptance.

Jack: “Maybe being in awe isn’t about being less than someone else. Maybe it’s about remembering what’s possible.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Awe isn’t about comparison. It’s about connection.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — through the window, past the reflections, into the street, where the puddles mirrored the stars. Two souls, one conversation, and a truth — that awe, at its purest, is not submission to greatness, but recognition of what we share with it.

And as the city breathed, quiet and alive, Jack and Jeeny sat in that fragile, beautiful silence, their hearts not resigned, but awake.