The attitude among the people I knew was, 'Fleur wants to be a

Host: The streetlights flickered in and out of rhythm, throwing long amber streaks across the cracked pavement of a forgotten neighborhood. The air carried the faint hum of the city beyond — taxis, laughter, music leaking through thin apartment walls. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, twice, then fell silent again.

A narrow music studio, tucked between an old laundromat and a bakery that hadn’t opened in weeks, glowed from within — a tiny box of light against the dark. Inside, Jack sat by the mixing console, headphones resting around his neck, his grey eyes fixed on the blinking waveform on the screen. Jeeny sat on the other side of the glass, microphone in hand, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, her voice trembling with warmth and exhaustion.

Pinned to the corkboard behind Jack was a torn magazine clipping, the headline faint but legible:

“The attitude among the people I knew was, ‘Fleur wants to be a singer’ but it was never, ‘Go for it. You can do it.’ Everyone was cynical because we’d never seen anyone where we came from do it.” — Fleur East

Jeeny: taking a breath, setting the mic aside “You know, every time I read that quote, it feels like she’s talking about me. About all of us, really.”

Jack: leans back, arms crossed “Yeah. I know that tone — the kind that doesn’t crush you outright, but clips your wings just enough so you forget what flying feels like.”

Jeeny: quietly “That’s it. It’s not hate. It’s disbelief. People love you — they just don’t believe in what you dream of.”

Jack: half-smiling “Because belief takes imagination. And most people ran out of that before they turned twenty.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Or before life turned it into a bill.”

Host: The studio light flickered above them, humming faintly. The smell of coffee and burnt dust filled the room — the scent of long nights and small hopes.

Jeeny fiddled with the edge of the lyric sheet, her hands restless, her voice lower now.

Jeeny: softly “You know, when I told my family I wanted to sing, my uncle said, ‘That’s cute. But what’s your backup plan?’”

Jack: snorts “Yeah. Because practicality always sounds wiser than courage.”

Jeeny: smiling bitterly “Exactly. Nobody ever says, ‘Make the impossible happen.’ They just say, ‘Be realistic.’”

Jack: quietly, thoughtful “It’s strange, isn’t it? Cynicism sounds smart because it’s safe. It costs nothing to doubt.”

Jeeny: nods slowly “And dreaming costs everything.”

Jack: leans forward, resting his elbows on the console “That’s why Fleur’s words hit hard. It’s not just about singing. It’s about being the first to believe when no one else does.”

Jeeny: looking down “You ever think belief’s contagious?”

Jack: smiling faintly “It is. But someone has to get infected first.”

Host: The music software beeped softly, the waveform pulsing like a heartbeat. Jeeny looked up, eyes glimmering in the soft light. The unspoken history between them — all the late nights, failed demos, and small victories — hung heavy in the air.

Jeeny: softly “You know what scares me most? Not failing. It’s proving them right.”

Jack: gently “That’s what keeps you going, though. The fear of becoming the story they expected.”

Jeeny: after a pause “You mean the one where the girl tries, fails, and settles.”

Jack: nods “Yeah. That’s the tragedy people accept because it’s tidy.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “But real life’s never tidy.”

Jack: quietly “Neither is success.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping against the glass in soft rhythm — a counterbeat to the quiet in the room. Jeeny turned back toward the mic, eyes soft but resolute.

Jack pressed a key. The backing track began — slow, low, pulsing like memory.

Jeeny: into the mic, her voice trembling slightly “You ever notice how dreams sound different when nobody’s clapping?”

Jack: watching her through the glass “That’s when they’re real. When it’s just you and the echo.”

Jeeny: pauses, then sings softly — a few lines, raw, pure, unfinished.

Host: The sound filled the small space, fragile and full at once — like something sacred that didn’t need permission to exist. Jack closed his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him.

When the last note faded, there was silence — not awkward, but reverent.

Jack: quietly, through the intercom “That… that’s it. That’s the sound of defiance.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You mean survival.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe they’re the same thing.”

Jeeny: softly “I think that’s what Fleur meant — being brave enough to try when everyone’s too afraid to imagine.”

Jack: nods “Yeah. The first dreamer always looks foolish. Until they win.”

Jeeny: grinning “Then they call you lucky.”

Jack: chuckling “Luck is what they name other people’s courage.”

Host: The light from the mixing board reflected off Jack’s face — tired but alive, the kind of look you see in someone who’s finally remembered why they started.

Jeeny set the headphones down gently, walking into the control room.

Jeeny: softly “You ever think maybe we’re supposed to be proof?”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “Proof of what?”

Jeeny: smiles “That someone from nowhere can still make something worth hearing.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. Maybe that’s our job — to show the next kid from nowhere that cynicism isn’t prophecy.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. Doubt’s only destiny if you stop trying.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, the rhythm becoming steadier, steadier — a song of its own. Through the window, the city glowed in its tired beauty — neon, rain, motion.

Jack and Jeeny stood in the warm hum of the studio, both quiet for a long while. The silence didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt like the space right before the next verse.

And as the camera pulled back, the studio became a small beacon in the night — one flicker of belief surrounded by the vastness of disbelief.

Hanging above the desk, the quote from Fleur East caught the glow of the lamp — her words whispering louder than any song:

That dreams begin in doubt,
that faith often sounds foolish,
and that the greatest rebellion is hope.

Because where no one has done it,
the brave must do it first —
not to be the first to win,
but to be the first to believe.

The music started again, low and soft,
and for once, the echo felt like applause.