That willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which

Host: The theater was empty now. Rows of worn red velvet seats stared silently at the stage, where a single spotlight hung suspended in the dusty air, a cone of faint gold cutting through the dark. The echo of rehearsal still lingered — footsteps, laughter, the hum of a piano half-closed. Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows, steady, hypnotic.

In the middle of the stage, Jack sat cross-legged, his hands resting on the wooden floorboards, feeling the faint vibration of the world beneath him. Across from him, Jeeny perched on an overturned crate, a script in her lap, her hair unpinned, loose as her thoughts.

On the first page, scrawled in her small, looping handwriting, was the quote:

“That willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.” — Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Jeeny: (softly) “You know what I love about that line, Jack? It’s a confession. Coleridge was admitting that art isn’t truth — it’s a shared illusion. And yet we agree to believe in it anyway.”

Jack: (smirking) “So art’s a lie we pay to feel good about?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a truth wrapped in a lie. A mirror that shows us something real by pretending to be something else.”

Host: The light above them flickered, and the shadows shifted across the stage, stretching and folding like living things. A faint draft whispered through the curtains, carrying the ghost scent of old paint, dust, and applause.

Jack: “You really think belief can be chosen? You either see through the illusion, or you don’t.”

Jeeny: “Of course it can be chosen. We choose it every day — when we love, when we forgive, when we keep faith in people who’ve disappointed us. That’s all suspension of disbelief, Jack. That’s poetic faith in real life.”

Host: Her voice echoed slightly in the empty hall, the words soft but sharp enough to land. Jack looked at her, his expression unreadable — caught somewhere between irony and awe.

Jack: “So you’re saying life itself is theater.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? We play our parts, we hide our cues, we pretend not to see the stage lights. The only difference is — in art, at least, we admit it.”

Jack: “And faith?”

Jeeny: (pauses, eyes lifting toward the light) “Faith is when the curtain falls and you still believe the story mattered.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick — not awkward, but reverent, like the pause between acts. The rain grew louder, tapping a rhythm that sounded almost like applause from an unseen audience.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But belief’s dangerous, Jeeny. It’s what lets people follow tyrants, trust false prophets, fall for illusions that destroy them.”

Jeeny: “That’s not belief — that’s blindness. Coleridge wasn’t asking for ignorance. He was asking for courage — the courage to believe while knowing it’s make-believe.”

Jack: “That sounds like madness.”

Jeeny: “No. It sounds like love.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the air, trembling with the echo of truth. She leaned forward, the light catching her eyes, and for a brief moment, she looked less like a woman and more like the embodiment of the line itself — half dream, half reality.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know, I used to come here as a kid. Sneak into the balcony during rehearsals. My mother said this place was sacred — not because of the actors, but because for two hours, people forgot who they were. She said that was the closest thing to grace she ever felt.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “That’s poetic faith, Jack. To let go of your disbelief long enough to feel something impossible — and call it beautiful.”

Host: The spotlight dimmed slightly, its glow warmer now, softer. The theater felt smaller, more intimate. The world outside — the politics, the noise, the rush — faded, replaced by that fragile communion between illusion and understanding.

Jack: “But what happens when the illusion ends? When the lights go out?”

Jeeny: “You carry it with you. That’s the secret. Art doesn’t die when the curtain closes — it lingers. Like a song you can’t stop humming, even when you don’t remember why.”

Host: She stood slowly, walking to the edge of the stage, her steps quiet against the wood. She looked out at the empty seats, as though the ghosts of the audience still lingered, waiting for another scene.

Jeeny: “People think belief is about being sure. But maybe it’s about being willing — willing to stand in the dark and say, ‘Yes, I still believe there’s light.’”

Jack: (gazing up at her) “You sound like someone who’s never lost faith.”

Jeeny: “On the contrary. I lose it every day. But I find it again — in art, in people, in moments like this. That’s why I come back to the theater.”

Host: The spotlight dimmed further until only the faintest circle of light remained around her. Jack stood too, walking into the edge of her glow, their shadows overlapping, merging.

Jack: “So maybe Coleridge wasn’t talking about art at all.”

Jeeny: “No, he was talking about the human condition. About how we survive.”

Jack: “By pretending?”

Jeeny: “By believing as if pretending could make it real.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the old doors, and for a heartbeat, the light flickered out — plunging the room into darkness.

Then — slowly — it came back, faint and golden again.

Jack: (quietly) “For a second there, I thought it was over.”

Jeeny: “It never really ends. That’s what makes it faith.”

Host: The camera widened its frame — the stage, the light, the two figures small and luminous in the vast emptiness of the hall. The rain outside had softened to a drizzle, the world holding its breath.

And there, beneath the tired light of an old stage, Jack and Jeeny stood — two believers in the impossible, suspended in that fragile, holy moment where disbelief turns willingly into wonder.

Host: Perhaps that is what Coleridge meant all along: not that we must forget reality, but that we must dare to imagine it otherwise.

The light faded, leaving only the echo of footsteps, the quiet hum of rain, and a lingering sense that, for one fleeting instant, the world had believed.