My ultimate dream is to become a famous star because I love to

Host: The stage was dark except for a single spotlight burning like a lonely sun. Rows of empty seats stretched out into the shadows, their silence heavy with the echo of forgotten applause. A faint humming came from somewhere near the microphone, soft and uncertain, like the whisper of a dream not yet born.

Jeeny stood at the center of the stage, her long hair loose, her hands trembling slightly around the mic. Jack leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, a cigarette glowing faintly in his hand, its smoke curling into the cold air.

The rehearsal hall smelled of dust, wood, and the bittersweet memory of old music. The city lights blinked through the high windows, watching silently.

Jeeny: “You know what Lucy Hale said once? ‘My ultimate dream is to become a famous star because I love to sing.’”

Host: Her voice was fragile but bright — like the first note of a song trying to rise above fear.

Jack: “Famous star, huh?” He flicked ash to the ground. “The old fantasy — fame born of passion. The two things that never stay married for long.”

Jeeny: “You sound so bitter, Jack.”

Jack: “Not bitter. Realistic. People chase fame thinking it’s sunlight, but it’s just a neon sign that burns you if you get too close.”

Host: His eyes, grey and tired, held a strange mix of mockery and sadness. Jeeny looked at him — a man who once had his own dreams buried under the noise of the world.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in dreams anymore?”

Jack: “I believe in work, in sweat, in reality. Dreams are just excuses to avoid them.”

Jeeny: “You used to sing once, didn’t you?”

Jack: “That was a long time ago.”

Host: A faint echo of laughter drifted in from the street below — young voices, alive with possibility. Jeeny turned toward the microphone, her eyes glimmering with defiance.

Jeeny: “Lucy Hale didn’t say she wanted fame for fame’s sake. She said she loved to sing. The fame was just the echo of that love.”

Jack: “And that’s the problem, Jeeny. People don’t want to sing anymore — they want the echo.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But without that echo, how do you reach the hearts that are listening in the dark?”

Jack: “You reach them by truth. Not by spotlight.”

Host: The light shifted, bathing her in gold. For a moment, it looked like the universe itself had chosen her as its instrument.

Jeeny: “Tell that to every child who sang into a hairbrush, dreaming someone out there would listen. Dreams may be foolish — but they’re fuel. And not everyone wants to live in your kind of realism.”

Jack: “Realism is survival.”

Jeeny: “No — survival is just existing. Dreaming is living.”

Host: The microphone squealed faintly, as if responding to the tension in the room. Jeeny stepped closer to Jack, her eyes burning.

Jeeny: “Why are you so afraid of people who still believe in something pure?”

Jack: “Because purity doesn’t last. The world devours it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe purity’s not meant to last. Maybe it’s meant to light the way while it burns.”

Host: Her words struck like chords — sharp, sincere, alive. Jack looked at her, the corner of his mouth twitching — not a smile, but something close.

Jack: “You really think love is enough to survive this world?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has. Look at the Beatles, Whitney, Freddie Mercury — they didn’t sing for fame. They sang because it was all they knew how to be. Fame came chasing after their truth.”

Jack: “And it destroyed them in the end.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least they lived on their own terms. They set fire to the sky, Jack — not everyone gets to say that.”

Host: The rain outside began to fall — soft, rhythmic, like applause from heaven.

Jack: “So what — you want to chase a dream that might eat you alive?”

Jeeny: “I want to chase what makes me feel alive, even if it eats me.”

Host: The air thickened with silence. Jack stared at her — really stared — as if seeing not the young dreamer on the stage, but the ghost of his own lost self.

Jack: “You think it’s that simple. You think loving something saves it.”

Jeeny: “No. But it gives it meaning.”

Jack: “And if fame takes that meaning away?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll find it again in the song itself. That’s the thing about love — it doesn’t need the world’s approval. It just needs a voice.”

Host: Jeeny lifted her chin and began to sing. Her voice was unpolished, trembling at first, but it carried the raw warmth of truth — the sound of someone standing naked before their dream.

Jack’s cigarette burned out in his hand. He didn’t move. He just listened.

Her song wasn’t about fame. It was about the ache of wanting to be heard — the same ache that had once lived in him, before life hardened the melody out of his bones.

When she finished, the last note lingered in the air like a soul refusing to die.

Jack: “You’re going to get hurt chasing this, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “I know.”

Jack: “And you’ll still do it?”

Jeeny: “Because I love to sing.”

Host: The words fell softly, but they hit him like thunder. He turned away, hiding the flicker of pain behind a slow exhale.

Jack: “Then maybe that’s your kind of truth.”

Jeeny: “And what’s yours?”

Jack: “I stopped believing truth could survive applause.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you were listening to the wrong song.”

Host: A faint smile crossed his lips — weary, reluctant, but real. He looked at her one last time before walking toward the exit, his footsteps echoing down the empty aisle like the retreat of an old dream.

At the doorway, he paused.

Jack: “Sing for yourself, Jeeny. If you ever sing for the world, it’ll break you. But if you sing for the song — it’ll save you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what fame really is — when the song saves someone else, too.”

Host: Jack didn’t reply. He simply stepped out into the rain, his shadow swallowed by the streetlights. Jeeny turned back toward the stage, her heart full, her eyes wet, her dream — still burning.

The spotlight dimmed, leaving only her voice, echoing softly into the empty space.

It wasn’t fame yet. But it was beginning.

And sometimes, that’s all a dream needs — a single, trembling note of love, refusing to fade.