Sometimes I just want to be left alone and be a normal kid for

Host: The city was wrapped in a muted haze of neon lights and restless sound. In the corner of a half-empty rooftop bar, the wind played with the edges of a discarded newspaper, whispering the headlines of other people’s lives. Jack sat by the glass railing, a half-drunk whiskey in his hand, the lights of downtown reflected in his cold grey eyes. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her small hands cupped around a steaming coffee mug, her hair stirred gently by the breeze.

A camera flash blinked somewhere below, and both of them turned. For a second, it seemed as if the city itself had taken a photo — freezing two souls in the loneliness of their separate truths.

Jeeny: “Did you see that?”
Jack: “Yeah. Probably some paparazzi shooting the poor bastard from that film last week.”
Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How someone’s face can be everyone’s property. Like their life stopped belonging to them the moment people cared.”

Host: A pause. The wind thickened with the smell of rain and faraway gasoline. A siren echoed through the streets below, sharp and fleeting.

Jack: “That’s the trade, Jeeny. You sell visibility, you buy admiration. But you don’t get to pick which parts of you they look at. That’s the cost of fame.”
Jeeny: “Is it? Or is it just the price others make them pay? I read something Kendall Jenner said once — ‘Sometimes I just want to be left alone and be a normal kid for, like, five minutes. That’s tough when the paparazzi are chasing you.’ She wasn’t talking about selling her soul. She was talking about losing her childhood.”
Jack: “She still chose the stage, didn’t she? No one dragged her into the spotlight kicking and screaming.”
Jeeny: “Do you really think choice is that simple? You grow up in a family where every breath is televised — how do you even know what private means anymore?”

Host: Thunder murmured in the distance. Raindrops began to fall, light at first, then steadier — streaks of silver across the glass barrier. Jeeny didn’t move. Jack tilted his glass and watched the amber liquid tremble.

Jack: “People love to talk about the tragedy of fame. But let’s be honest — most would kill for it. Everyone wants to be seen, even if it means being misunderstood.”
Jeeny: “No, Jack. Everyone wants to be known, not just seen. That’s not the same thing. Being seen is exposure. Being known is understanding. Fame gives you the first and kills the second.”

Host: A flash of lightning broke the clouds, throwing the shadows of their faces across the wet floor — two silhouettes arguing against the noise of the world.

Jack: “Understanding is a luxury. The world doesn’t have time to know everyone deeply. You trade intimacy for influence. The more faces that recognize you, the fewer hearts that actually see you. That’s arithmetic, not tragedy.”
Jeeny: “But it is tragedy. Because it means the very thing we crave — connection — gets corrupted. Marilyn Monroe once said she felt lonely even in a crowd of people who adored her. Doesn’t that tell you something about what fame does to the human soul?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice cracked slightly. Her eyes glistened — not from the rain, but from something quieter, older, hidden behind empathy. Jack’s jaw tightened.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. Monroe’s loneliness wasn’t fame’s fault. It was hers. Everyone’s lonely in their own way. Fame just gives your loneliness a bigger audience.”
Jeeny: “You always reduce everything to numbers and logic, don’t you? You call it trade, arithmetic, transaction. But human life isn’t a contract. It’s a feeling. And sometimes, it’s suffocating when even your feelings become entertainment.”

Host: The rain thickened. Umbrellas below bloomed like dark flowers. A faint song from a nearby street musician rose — something tender, half drowned by thunder. It made the silence between Jack and Jeeny heavier.

Jack: “So what’s your solution? Hide? Pretend the world doesn’t exist? The same people who chase you today will forget you tomorrow. Fame burns fast. It’s not a prison; it’s a flare. You just have to survive the brightness.”
Jeeny: “But why must surviving become the standard? Why can’t living be enough? Why do we have to burn just to be believed?”

Host: The light from the bar’s neon sign flickered, staining the rain with a pulse of pink and blue. Jack leaned back, his grey eyes clouded with a strange fatigue.

Jack: “Because, Jeeny, the world worships spectacle. We feed on the illusion of closeness. Every post, every photo, every interview — it’s the new religion of attention. We don’t want saints anymore. We want selfies.”
Jeeny: “And yet, even in that illusion, people are still searching for something real. The problem isn’t wanting attention. It’s forgetting why we wanted it. Maybe we just want to know that our existence matters — even if it’s through a screen.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tapped the mug, tracing circles like ripples in still water. Jack watched her, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “You think it’s noble, this hunger for mattering. But I think it’s just another form of dependency. The need to be validated — by strangers, by the crowd. That’s not connection, Jeeny. That’s addiction.”
Jeeny: “And what about your addiction, Jack? To control, to cynicism, to always being right? You hide behind logic so you don’t have to feel how cruel it is — to watch someone’s humanity reduced to a headline.”

Host: The air cracked — not from thunder, but from emotion. For a moment, they both looked away. The rain softened, as if the storm itself was listening.

Jack: “I knew someone like that once. My brother. He went viral after saving a kid from a car accident — thirty seconds of heroism on video. For weeks, he couldn’t walk down the street without cameras. Then one day, they stopped caring. He kept waiting for someone to notice him again. When they didn’t… he couldn’t take it.”
Jeeny: (softly) “I’m sorry, Jack.”
Jack: “He thought being visible meant being alive. Turns out, the light that blinds you also burns you.”

Host: Jeeny reached across the table, her small hand trembling slightly, resting near his. Not touching, but close enough for warmth to mean something.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Fame tricks people into believing they’re loved. But love doesn’t chase you with cameras. It sits quietly with you when no one else is watching.”
Jack: “And yet, people still chase the flash. Maybe because silence feels like death.”
Jeeny: “Or maybe because they were never taught that peace is not the same as absence.”

Host: The rain had turned into a whisper. The neon lights below flickered softer now, their reflections scattered like constellations across puddles.

Jack: “So what do we do, Jeeny? If you were famous — if millions watched your every move — how would you find peace?”
Jeeny: “By remembering who I am when the cameras are off. By choosing moments that don’t need applause. You see, freedom isn’t being unseen. It’s being yourself when everyone’s watching.”
Jack: “That’s poetic. But it’s still a dream. The world doesn’t allow that kind of purity anymore.”
Jeeny: “Then maybe purity isn’t what’s required. Maybe it’s courage.”

Host: Jack let out a quiet laugh, low and broken. He stared at the sky, now clearing slightly, the clouds parting to reveal the bruised edge of dawn.

Jack: “Courage to be normal, huh? That’s the irony. People climb to the top of the world just to wish for five minutes of normal.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Because fame doesn’t elevate you — it isolates you. Sometimes, the higher you rise, the harder it is to hear your own voice.”
Jack: “And yet… that voice, even faint, is all that keeps you human.”

Host: They sat there for a long while. The rain stopped. The city hummed back to life — cars moving, lights steady, voices distant. Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes on the horizon.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s what Kendall meant. Not just the wish to be left alone. The wish to remember what ‘normal’ even feels like.”
Jack: “Maybe. Maybe we all want that — a few minutes of silence in a world that won’t shut up.”

Host: The first light of morning spilled through the clouds, soft and forgiving. It touched their faces gently — two people no longer arguing, just existing. The storm had passed, but something else had begun to clear — the air between them, the silence inside them.

Jeeny: “We can’t stop the cameras, Jack. But we can stop letting them define the picture.”
Jack: “And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: The sun broke through, turning the droplets on the glass into threads of gold. Below, the city blinked awake — unaware of the quiet revelation above it.

And for a fleeting moment, both of them — a cynic and a dreamer — sat in stillness, as if the world had finally looked away.