One must never assume that a character is sympathetic because of

Host: The theatre was empty — its rows of faded red seats staring into the darkness like patient ghosts. Dust floated in the air, caught by a single spotlight that had been left burning too long. The stage below was littered with scripts, coffee cups, and the faint smell of sawdust and paint.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, hands clasped, head bowed, the script of his new play resting beside him like a wounded animal. Jeeny stood near the footlights, her arms crossed, her expression equal parts curiosity and challenge.

The silence between them was theatrical — deliberate, electric — the kind of pause only two people who love and loathe each other’s truths can share.

Jeeny: “You cut her monologue.”

Jack: “It was indulgent.”

Jeeny: “It was human.”

Jack: “Human doesn’t mean compelling.”

Jeeny: “Compelling doesn’t mean cold.”

Host: Her voice echoed through the theatre, bouncing off the walls, landing in the hollow space between creation and criticism. Jack looked up, his grey eyes catching the faint glow of the spotlight.

Jack: “Melissa Rosenberg once said, ‘One must never assume that a character is sympathetic because of either the actor playing them or the fact that they’re a lead. That’s a recipe for failure, actually, because if they become unsympathetic, you lose your audience.’”

Jeeny: “And you think that means what? That people can’t love someone complicated?”

Jack: “No. I think it means you can’t expect them to. Audiences are fickle. They come to feel seen, not challenged.”

Jeeny: “Then why write at all?”

Jack: “Because I’d rather lose the audience than lie to them.”

Host: A door creaked open in the back, letting in a sliver of streetlight and the faint sound of traffic. Then it closed again. The world outside remained indifferent, while inside the air thickened with unspoken ideas.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. The best stories do challenge the audience — they make you care about someone you shouldn’t. Breaking Bad, Joker, Gone Girl — we don’t watch because we approve. We watch because we recognize something ugly that feels true.”

Jack: “And how many people walked away hating those characters? Or worse — misunderstanding them? Art isn’t a therapy session. It’s a contract. If the lead breaks the bond of empathy, you lose the room.”

Jeeny: “Maybe losing the room isn’t failure. Maybe it’s honesty.”

Jack: “Honesty doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cowardice.”

Host: The spotlight above them buzzed, flickering as if the theatre itself disapproved. Jack stood, his shadow stretching across the stage, cutting through the light that fell on Jeeny.

Jack: “You want every character to be lovable. That’s sentimentality.”

Jeeny: “No. I want them to be understandable. There’s a difference. Even monsters have motives.”

Jack: “And what if the motive isn’t enough?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s your fault as the writer — not theirs. It means you didn’t dig deep enough.”

Jack: “Or maybe some people just aren’t meant to be redeemed.”

Jeeny: “Everyone is redeemable in their own story. You just have to find the crack where light gets in.”

Host: A gust of wind slipped through the old ventilation grate, shivering through the room. The scripts rustled on the floor like whispers.

Jeeny stepped closer, her voice softening but her gaze sharp as glass.

Jeeny: “You remember that scene in Jessica Jones — Kilgrave walking through the city, controlling people with his voice? Rosenberg didn’t ask us to like him. She asked us to understand the horror of what happens when charm meets power. That’s not sympathy — that’s insight.”

Jack: “And that’s fiction. Real life doesn’t forgive monsters. It buries them.”

Jeeny: “But fiction isn’t about forgiveness — it’s about confrontation. When we see the monster up close, we start asking what part of us could have become him. That’s the mirror no one wants, but everyone needs.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher for ambiguity.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man afraid of his own reflection.”

Host: The light above them dimmed further, the edges of the room dissolving into shadow. Only the two of them remained visible — two figures caught in the eternal argument between creator and conscience.

Jack: “You think unsympathetic leads make people better?”

Jeeny: “No. They make people awake. They force us to admit that good and evil aren’t opposites — they’re twins fighting for control.”

Jack: “And when the audience stops rooting for either?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe they’re finally rooting for themselves.”

Jack: “You believe in catharsis. I believe in clarity. Audiences need a direction, a moral compass.”

Jeeny: “And I think the best stories hand them a broken compass and whisper, ‘Now find your own way.’”

Host: Jack walked toward center stage, picking up the fallen pages of his script. His fingers trembled slightly — not from anger, but from recognition.

He looked at Jeeny, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “You know why I hate unsympathetic characters? Because they remind me too much of the people I’ve been.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why you should write them.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m tired of writing about failure.”

Jeeny: “Then write about redemption. But don’t force the audience to love someone they shouldn’t. Make them decide if they can.”

Jack: “That’s a dangerous game.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only one worth playing.”

Host: The spotlight flickered again, then steadied. Dust swirled around them like gold fragments suspended in a beam of faith.

Jeeny: “The audience isn’t there to be comforted, Jack. They’re there to be seen. To see the truth reflected back — ugly, trembling, human. Rosenberg understood that. It’s not sympathy that keeps people watching. It’s recognition.”

Jack: “Recognition of what?”

Jeeny: “Themselves. Their contradictions. Their quiet cruelty. Their buried tenderness. If you make them love a perfect hero, they’ll forget him. But make them question a flawed one, and they’ll never stop thinking.”

Host: Jack sat back down, the pages of the script now resting in his lap like a confession waiting to be signed. He exhaled, the weight in his shoulders easing, though his eyes still carried stormlight.

Jack: “You think stories can still do that — make people change?”

Jeeny: “Not people. Moments. One scene, one line, one look — that’s enough. Change isn’t a revolution. It’s a quiet realization.”

Jack: “And if the audience walks out?”

Jeeny: “Then you let them. Because art that pleases everyone teaches no one.”

Jack: “And if they hate me?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve finally made them feel something real.”

Host: The clock above the stage struck midnight — one sharp chime, echoing through the hollow space. The light softened, bathing both of them in the same quiet glow.

Jeeny reached for one of the fallen pages, her fingers brushing against Jack’s.

Jeeny: “You don’t need to make them love your characters, Jack. Just make them understand them. That’s the only kind of immortality art can promise.”

Jack: “And what about us? The ones who write the flawed ones — do we get understood too?”

Jeeny: “Only if we’re brave enough to write without asking for sympathy.”

Host: The theatre fell still again. Somewhere outside, the city exhaled — the faint sound of traffic, the heartbeat of life continuing, imperfect, unedited.

On stage, two souls stood — one fighting to protect truth, the other fighting to reveal it.

And in that fragile balance — between sympathy and understanding, between audience and artist — the story itself was born.

The spotlight dimmed, leaving only the echo of a voice that belonged to neither of them, but to every creator who’s ever dared to risk honesty:

“You don’t owe them love — only truth. And the courage to let them decide which is which.”