Southern California, they have been amazing. They're totally with

Host: The night air in Los Angeles was thick with the hum of celebration — the scent of perfume, champagne, and desert wind drifting through an open rooftop terrace above the theater district. The city stretched beneath them in waves of light, shimmering like molten gold, each street an artery pulsing with music and movement.

Host: A small afterparty was underway. The kind that happens not for fame, but for survival — for artists to remind each other they’re still real, still burning. Jack stood by the railing, a glass of whiskey in hand, looking out toward the Hollywood hills, their shapes fading into the smog-soft sky.

Host: Jeeny sat on a lounge chair nearby, barefoot, her heels kicked aside. A bouquet of roses lay beside her, the petals bruised but fragrant. Her makeup was smudged, her laughter soft — the exhaustion of someone who has given everything on stage.

Host: From the speakers near the bar, a news clip played briefly — Chita Rivera, radiant and sharp-eyed, speaking after a performance decades ago:

“Southern California, they have been amazing. They’re totally with us.” — Chita Rivera

Host: The quote floated across the night air like a spark — simple, joyous, yet somehow aching with something larger: the need to be seen, to be with.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You hear that? She said it like she was surprised. Like she didn’t expect them to be.”

Jack: grinning “Maybe she didn’t. Crowds are fickle. One night they adore you, the next they forget your name.”

Jeeny: shaking her head “No. That’s not what she meant. She wasn’t talking about adoration — she was talking about connection. That moment when you feel a room breathing with you.”

Jack: takes a sip “You think crowds breathe?”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. When you’re on stage and it’s right — it’s not just you performing. It’s everyone living the same heartbeat. You move, they move. You pause, they hold their breath. You laugh, they exhale. That’s what it means when she said, ‘They’re with us.’”

Host: The city wind picked up, tugging at her hair, carrying the distant sound of a saxophone from a street corner below. Jack’s face, half-lit by the amber of the rooftop lights, softened — the kind of soft that only comes when cynicism meets memory.

Jack: “I used to think applause was fake. Just noise. People clapping because they’re supposed to.”

Jeeny: looking at him “And now?”

Jack: after a pause “Now I think maybe it’s gratitude. The only way strangers can say ‘I felt that.’”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. That’s the ‘amazing’ she was talking about.”

Jack: “And yet, people think artists are the ones who get the gift.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The real gift is the audience. They give you their silence, their laughter, their attention. Without that, you’re just shouting into a void.”

Jack: softly “Maybe I’ve been shouting too long.”

Host: The music shifted — a slow, sultry melody, almost wistful. The lights of L.A. twinkled below, an artificial constellation that somehow still felt celestial.

Jeeny: leaning back, eyes closed “You know what’s strange? I’ve performed in so many cities — New York, Chicago, even Paris. But there’s something different about Southern California. They don’t just watch you; they join you. It’s like they believe art is a conversation.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Or maybe they’re just chasing light in every form they can find.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound cynical.”

Jack: “It’s not cynicism. It’s longing. That’s what L.A. is — a desert full of people searching for warmth that feels real.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe that’s why they understand us so well.”

Host: Her words lingered like perfume — delicate, fading, but impossible to ignore.

Jack: after a pause “You ever think about what keeps performers going? It’s not money, or fame — God knows it’s not stability.”

Jeeny: nodding “It’s moments like this. When you realize people still care. When you walk off stage and someone’s eyes are wet because you reminded them they’re alive.”

Jack: “And then it’s over. Curtain falls. Lights die. Silence comes.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “That’s the price of connection, Jack. You can’t hold it. You can only return to it.”

Jack: staring into his glass “And what happens when the world stops clapping?”

Jeeny: gently “Then you learn to listen for the quieter applause — the one that happens in people’s hearts long after you’re gone.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of laughter from another table — young artists, still bright-eyed, full of dreams not yet bruised.

Jack: watching them “You think they’ll still feel this ten years from now?”

Jeeny: “If they’re lucky. If they don’t mistake validation for love.”

Jack: “That’s what you think this is, then? Love?”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. The only kind that doesn’t ask for anything back. The love between a performer and the world — fleeting, fragile, but honest.”

Jack: smiling sadly “You always find poetry where I find exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “Because I still believe in people. Even the ones sitting in the dark, waiting to be moved.”

Jack: gently “And you think they’re amazing.”

Jeeny: “They are. Every single one of them who shows up — even if they don’t understand, even if they forget later. They’re with us, Jack. That’s the miracle.”

Host: The city below shimmered, endless and alive. The music faded, leaving only the hum of streetlights and the pulse of traffic far below. Jack turned toward her, studying the way her eyes reflected the skyline — tired, luminous, certain.

Jack: quietly “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe it is. Maybe applause is just another form of prayer.”

Jack: “Prayer?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Gratitude made audible. A confession that something inside us still believes in wonder.”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened, his cynicism cracking under the quiet truth of her words.

Host: A final gust of wind blew through the terrace, fluttering napkins and the scent of champagne. The sky above them had cleared now — a vast bowl of stars shimmering above the sprawl of city lights.

Jeeny: looking up “You know, people call this city shallow. But look at it.” She gestures to the glittering expanse. “It’s just full of people trying to glow in the dark.”

Jack: softly “And somehow, they still do.”

Jeeny: smiling “Southern California. They’ve been amazing, Jack. They’re totally with us.”

Jack: quietly, almost to himself “Yeah. For tonight, at least.”

Host: Jeeny looked at him then, and for a moment — the kind of moment that defies cynicism — he understood what she meant. It wasn’t about geography. It was about gratitude. About the magic of being seen and seeing back.

Host: The camera pulled back, revealing the two of them under the vast, glittering sprawl of Los Angeles — a city forever on the edge of illusion and truth.

Host: And somewhere between their laughter and the starlight, the words of Chita Rivera found their quiet echo:

that being with others — truly, wholly —
is the most extraordinary standing ovation of all.