OK, so I'm not famous for the right reasons.

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city slick and shimmering under the flicker of neon lights. A small, dimly lit karaoke bar sat tucked between two shuttered stores, its sign barely buzzing with life. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, cheap whiskey, and the lingering hum of forgotten songs.

At a corner booth, Jack sat with a half-empty glass of bourbon, his fingers tracing circles on the wet table. His grey eyes stared toward the stage, where a lone microphone waited under the blue glow. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair damp, her eyes soft and curious, a faint smile playing at her lips.

A TV on the wall replayed an old clip — William Hung singing She Bangs on American Idol, his voice off-key, his smile unwavering. The crowd laughed. The judges smirked. But he kept singing.

Jeeny: “You know what he said later? ‘OK, so I’m not famous for the right reasons.’”

Jack: gruffly, without looking up “Yeah. At least he knew it.”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter, the faint sound of glass against wood filling the silence. Outside, a taxi honked — a lonely, echoing sound swallowed by the night.

Jeeny: “But he wasn’t wrong, was he? People still remember him. Maybe not for what he wanted, but… he made them feel something.”

Jack: “He made them laugh, Jeeny. That’s not the same as inspiring them.”

Jeeny: leaning forward, her voice steady “Are you sure? Sometimes the world doesn’t need perfect voices. Sometimes it just needs someone brave enough to stand on the stage.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flicked toward the screen again, watching Hung’s face — awkward, earnest, but fearless. There was something strangely pure in it.

Jack: “You call that bravery? I call it naivety. The guy became a meme, a punchline. The industry chewed him up and spat him out. He didn’t even realize they were laughing at him.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t care.”

Host: A faint smirk crossed Jack’s lips — the kind that hides both amusement and pain.

Jack: “You really think that’s something to admire?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the world laughs at everyone who dares to be unpolished. But he still sang. He still showed up. Do you know how many people never even make it to that stage because they’re too afraid of being ridiculed?”

Host: The music from the jukebox shifted to an old Elton John song — I’m Still Standing. The lyrics hung in the smoky air, echoing the tension between them.

Jack: “You make it sound heroic. But it’s not. It’s just blindness — refusing to see your own limits. There’s nothing noble about embarrassment.”

Jeeny: sharply “You think failure is embarrassing? Maybe that’s your problem, Jack. You’re so afraid of looking foolish, you’ve forgotten how to live.”

Host: Her words cut through the haze. Jack’s hand froze mid-air, his glass halfway to his lips. For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

Jack: “You don’t know what it’s like to have your work, your effort, your passion — turned into a joke.”

Jeeny: “Don’t I?” Her voice trembled slightly, then steadied. “You think I haven’t been laughed at? Every artist has. Every dreamer. You think Van Gogh wasn’t mocked? Or Tesla? Or Chaplin when he first acted in silence while the world demanded sound?”

Host: The room grew quiet, save for the soft crack of ice melting in their glasses. A faint buzz came from the sign outside, the word “Open” flickering like a fading heartbeat.

Jack: “Yeah, but they had talent. They had something real.”

Jeeny: “So does everyone — if they believe in it long enough. Maybe William Hung wasn’t a great singer, but he was a great symbol — of what it means to keep going, even when the world laughs.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the lines around his eyes softening. The light caught the faint trace of regret that lived there, the memory of dreams once chased and long abandoned.

Jack: “You think the world needs symbols more than it needs greatness?”

Jeeny: “I think the world needs honesty more than perfection. We’re all just trying to be seen, Jack. And sometimes the ones who look the most foolish are the ones who are most free.”

Host: The bartender turned down the volume on the TV. The stage light flickered back on, bathing the microphone in a lonely glow. A few drunk patrons clapped, calling for another song.

Jack: “You’re not suggesting—”

Jeeny: smiling mischievously “Why not? You’ve been hiding behind your own criticism long enough. Get up there. Sing.”

Jack: “I don’t sing.”

Jeeny: “Neither did he.”

Host: The challenge hung in the air like static. Jack’s heart thudded — not from fear of the crowd, but from the mirror Jeeny had held up before him. Slowly, he rose. The chair scraped the floor like a reluctant confession.

He walked to the stage, the floorboards creaking under his boots. The microphone felt cold in his hands. The spotlight hit his face — exposing every flaw, every hidden tremor.

Jack: quietly, to himself “OK… so I’m not famous for the right reasons.”

Jeeny: from the table, softly “Maybe that’s exactly the right reason.”

Host: The music began — soft, uncertain. Jack’s voice, rough and imperfect, cracked through the first verse. A few heads turned. Some smiled. A couple laughed. But Jeeny didn’t. She just watched, her eyes glistening with quiet pride.

As the song went on, something shifted. The mockery faded. The laughter softened. There was only the sound of a man singing — flawed, unguarded, real.

When the last note fell, a strange silence filled the room. Then came applause — small, hesitant, but sincere.

Jack returned to the table, his cheeks flushed, his hands shaking slightly.

Jeeny: “See? It’s not about being the best. It’s about being honest.”

Jack: smiling faintly “That felt… terrifying.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you did it.”

Host: The lights dimmed further, the bar slowly emptying as the night gave way to early morning. Outside, the pavement gleamed with the memory of rain.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe being laughed at isn’t the worst thing.”

Jeeny: “No. The worst thing is never being seen at all.”

Host: The camera lingers on the two of them — their faces lit by the fading neon, their voices fading beneath the hum of an old jukebox.

And as the scene dissolves, William Hung’s voice echoes faintly through the speakers again — imperfect, offbeat, but undeniably human.

Sometimes, the wrong kind of fame is the right kind of truth.