That term's definitely got a negative aura to it, because people

Host: The stage was empty now, but it still glowed—faintly, softly—as if it remembered. The last notes of the rehearsal had already faded, yet the air hummed with a kind of electric silence, the kind that follows beauty when it’s been fully spent.

Rows of velvet seats stretched before the empty spotlights, dark and watchful, like sleeping witnesses of art. A single microphone still stood in the center, catching stray beams of golden light that slipped through the half-open curtains.

Jack sat at the edge of the stage, his hands clasped, grey eyes thoughtful and skeptical as always. Beside him, Jeeny paced, her heels clicking softly against the floor, still vibrating from the thrill of her last song. Her voice—somewhere between silk and steel—had filled the room minutes earlier, leaving behind something that still lingered, like the echo of sunlight through stained glass.

Pinned to the wall by the stage door was a page torn from a magazine interview:

“That term’s definitely got a negative aura to it, because people think a diva is somebody with an attitude who demands things all the time. Of course there is that type of diva, but my idea of a diva has always been a singer—whether male or female—who gets on that stage and captivates you with their presence and their voice.” — Jordin Sparks

Host: The words hung there in the low light, like a definition waiting to be defended.

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “You know, she’s right. Everyone uses that word like an insult now. But it used to mean something sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred? Come on, Jeeny. It means difficult, self-absorbed, impossible to work with.”

Jeeny: “Only if you’ve never seen a real one.”

Jack: “A real diva?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Someone who walks out under the lights, opens their mouth, and for three minutes makes the world stop breathing. That’s not ego. That’s devotion.”

Jack: “Devotion? I call it performance.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve never seen a performance that was a prayer.”

Host: The light from the stage flickered, reflecting in her eyes like stars caught in water.

Jack: “So you think there’s holiness in show business now?”

Jeeny: “Not in the business. In the being. In the risk it takes to stand there—raw, exposed, human—and still demand to be heard.”

Host: She walked toward the microphone, her steps echoing in the empty hall. The faint dust rose around her, caught in the light like a memory resurrected.

Jack: “You talk like singing’s a calling.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every time I walk onto that stage, it feels like standing before judgment. Every song asks: Who are you, really? What are you willing to give?”

Jack: “And the applause? That’s salvation?”

Jeeny: “No. That’s just proof I survived the offering.”

Host: She touched the microphone, her fingers light, reverent. It wasn’t a tool to her—it was a confessional.

Jeeny: “People think divas demand attention. But it’s not about attention—it’s about presence. The kind that doesn’t ask permission.”

Jack: “You mean power.”

Jeeny: “No. Surrender. The kind of surrender that turns into power.”

Host: He watched her, his expression caught between cynicism and awe.

Jack: “You really think that’s what people see when they hear ‘diva’? They see a saint on stage?”

Jeeny: “No. They see headlines. Drama. Demands. But the real divas—the ones I grew up listening to—never had to scream to be heard. They became the silence before the note.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But most people don’t want saints. They want spectacle.”

Jeeny: “Spectacle fades. Soul doesn’t.”

Host: The lights above them dimmed, leaving only one soft spotlight that framed her where she stood. The microphone in her hand caught the glow, and for a moment she looked more symbol than person—an echo of every woman who ever turned pain into melody.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? The real diva doesn’t demand things from others. She demands everything from herself.”

Jack: “Until she breaks.”

Jeeny: “No. Until she transcends.”

Host: He tilted his head, studying her like a man trying to understand fire without getting burned.

Jack: “You sound like you’re defending yourself.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Maybe I am. You’ve called me a diva before.”

Jack: “You threw a mic stand at me before.”

Jeeny: “It missed.”

Jack: “Barely.”

Jeeny: “See? Control. I’m a disciplined diva.”

Host: They both laughed, but beneath it was something truer—something fragile. He’d seen her on stage, seen how she turned pain into pitch, fear into volume. She wasn’t wrong. What she did wasn’t ego—it was exposure.

Jack: “Alright. I’ll bite. What’s your definition of a diva, then?”

Jeeny: “Someone who can turn heartbreak into harmony. Who can walk through fire and still sing in tune.”

Jack: “Sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It is. But it’s the kind of exhaustion that feels like flight.”

Host: The silence between them deepened, warm now, not heavy. From somewhere outside came the faint rumble of thunder, distant but approaching—a storm passing over the city, the same one that always seemed to follow her when she sang.

Jack: “You know, I used to think you performed for validation.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think you perform because it’s the only time you feel whole.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s what Jordin Sparks meant. A true diva isn’t about attitude—it’s about alignment. Voice, heart, presence—all in the same key.”

Jack: “Then maybe the word shouldn’t scare people anymore.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t scare me. It reminds me I’m still alive enough to command the air around me.”

Jack: “And the world listens?”

Jeeny: “For a moment, yes. And that’s enough.”

Host: She turned back to the microphone, took a breath, and began to sing—not for an audience, not for praise, but for something higher. The note that filled the air wasn’t loud—it was honest, trembling, like the voice of someone daring to be seen without armor.

Jack watched, every argument falling silent in the face of truth made audible.

Host: The lights warmed her from above, outlining her in soft gold. The room, though empty, listened. Even the storm outside seemed to pause.

When she finished, the last note hung, fading, then disappeared completely—leaving behind only the echo of something immortal.

Jack: “You were right.”

Jeeny: “About what?”

Jack: “About divas.” He smiled faintly. “They don’t demand anything. They just remind you how alive silence can feel when it’s broken by the right voice.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re learning.”

Host: The thunder outside rolled, soft, approving. The lights began to dim, the stage returning to its slumber.

As they walked off, her voice still lingered in the air, unseen but undeniable—like a soul refusing to leave its cathedral.

And above the piano, Jordin Sparks’ words remained, printed in ink but spoken now through sound and truth:

“My idea of a diva has always been a singer—whether male or female—who gets on that stage and captivates you with their presence and their voice.”

Host: Because not every storm destroys.
Some storms sing.
And in that singing, the world learns again what it means to feel alive.