People now live their lives like an open wound to be famous -

Host: The night was heavy with neon haze. Billboards flickered over the city, bleeding color across the wet streets like open veins of light. Inside a dimly lit bar, the air smelled of whiskey, rain, and electric despair. The faint hum of a television in the corner replayed the latest viral scandal — another influencer caught in the act of something unforgivable, and somehow, their fame only grew.

Jack sat by the window, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, his grey eyes reflecting the restless glow outside. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands cupped around a steaming glass, her expression somewhere between sadness and defiance.

Jeeny: “Ricky Gervais said it right — people live their lives like an open wound just to be famous. It’s like we’ve mistaken pain for performance, shame for currency.”

Jack: “That’s because it works. Scandal is the new marketing strategy. You want attention, you bleed for it. The world doesn’t care about virtue anymore, Jeeny — it cares about views.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that terrify you, Jack? That we’ve turned our own humiliation into entertainment? That people destroy themselves publicly just to feel seen?”

Host: A thunderclap rolled through the distance, shaking the thin glass panes. Jack’s face caught the strobe of a passing car, his expression unreadable — a man made of logic, but haunted by human decay he could no longer ignore.

Jack: “I don’t see it as destruction. I see it as adaptation. People do what the system rewards. If the algorithm pays for sin, people will sin. If it pays for virtue, they’ll pretend to be saints. It’s not about good or bad — it’s about profit.”

Jeeny: “So we’re just animals in a digital circus now? Dancing, fighting, bleeding — whatever it takes to keep the crowd watching?”

Jack: “Exactly. The crowd is the marketplace, and attention is the currency. Morality doesn’t stand a chance against metrics.”

Jeeny: “You talk like empathy is a commodity that’s gone out of style.”

Jack: “It has. Look around. Fame used to come from achievement; now it comes from infamy. It’s not even new. Think of the Colosseum, Jeeny — Romans cheering while people died for sport. The arena just got a Wi-Fi connection.”

Host: Jeeny’s breath caught. Her eyes glistened with something beyond sadness — a deep, visceral ache for the world she still wanted to believe in. The rain began again, slow and deliberate, as if the sky itself was mourning.

Jeeny: “But back then, people didn’t have a choice. The gladiators were slaves. Now we volunteer. We film our own pain, upload it, caption it, and call it authenticity.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what freedom looks like now — the freedom to exploit yourself before someone else does.”

Jeeny: “That’s not freedom. That’s surrender. It’s like we’ve all become performers in a show we didn’t even audition for. And the crowd — God, the crowd — they’re addicted to watching people fall.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking beneath him. A flicker of lightning cut across the window, illuminating his face — weary, analytical, maybe even a little ashamed.

Jack: “You think you’re immune, Jeeny? You ever scroll through the comments, check the likes, post something just to feel noticed? We’re all feeding from the same machine. The only difference is some of us admit it.”

Jeeny: quietly “I’ve done it. But I’ve also felt the emptiness that follows. That hollow aftertaste of being seen but not understood.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s the price of visibility. You trade authenticity for exposure, depth for reach.”

Jeeny: “And yet we still crave it. Maybe that’s the real disease — not fame, but the fear of being invisible.”

Host: The words hung in the air like smoke, twisting through the dim light. Jack’s eyes softened, his cigarette now just a dying ember, trembling in the ashtray.

Jack: “You know, once, being famous meant you’d done something remarkable. Now it just means you’ve done something memorable — for any reason. We’ve blurred the line between notoriety and achievement.”

Jeeny: “Because shame is easier to sell. Virtue requires effort; scandal only requires a camera.”

Jack: “You think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because truth doesn’t trend, Jack. Decency doesn’t go viral. But outrage — that’s gold. We’ve built a culture that feeds on anger, envy, and pain.”

Host: The bartender turned down the television, leaving only the sound of rain tapping the window. The two sat in the soft dark, their faces lit by the last glow of a dying neon sign outside.

Jack: “So what’s the solution, Jeeny? We can’t all just log off and hope the world finds its soul again.”

Jeeny: “No. But we can remember what it means to be human. To live quietly, to create without the spotlight, to feel without an audience.”

Jack: “You think people will ever go back to that?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not everyone. But some will. They always do. Every age of decadence gives birth to a few souls who refuse to be consumed.”

Jack: “Like who?”

Jeeny: “Like the ones who still write poetry in notebooks, who help a stranger without posting it, who cry alone and don’t film it.”

Host: The rain outside had softened to a mist, the city breathing slower now. A taxi splashed by, scattering tiny droplets that caught the streetlight like shards of glass. Jack watched them fall, and for a brief moment, his expression broke — a flicker of quiet guilt, maybe even hope.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the only real rebellion left is privacy.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Privacy — and integrity. In a world where everyone’s bleeding for likes, the most radical act is to heal in silence.”

Jack: “To not make your pain a performance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The bar’s lights dimmed further. Somewhere in the corner, a jukebox began to play, a slow, forgotten melody from a time before filters and feeds.

Jack looked at Jeeny, then at the rain, and for once, the noise of the world seemed to fade — replaced by something simpler, more real.

The camera would have pulled back then — the two figures framed against the window, their reflections faint but human. Outside, the neon finally flickered out, and in the darkness, there was only the soft sound of rain — and the echo of two souls remembering what it meant to be unseen, yet still alive.