The love of the famous, like all strong passions, is quite

Host: The night was cold, the kind of cold that crept into your bones and refused to leave. In a small apartment overlooking the city, the hum of the streets below was like the steady beat of a distant heart. The flickering glow of the television cast long, uneven shadows on the walls, where pictures of long-gone celebrities seemed to watch over the room. On the coffee table, a pile of books lay scattered, half-read and forgotten, their pages yellowing with time.

Jack sat on the couch, his feet propped up, a half-drunk beer in his hand. His eyes were fixed on the screen, but his mind was far away — somewhere, lost in a thought he couldn’t quite grasp. Jeeny sat across from him, her legs tucked beneath her, flipping through an old magazine. There was a quiet tension between them, a space filled with the weight of words unsaid.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how people love famous people, Jack? I mean, really love them. Like… really love them.”

Jack: (chuckles) “Yeah, I think it’s a bit of a joke, isn’t it? I mean, how can you love someone you’ve never even met? It’s like buying a piece of a person, not the person itself.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers paused on the page, her eyes drifting to Jack. Her expression was curious, but something more lay beneath — a question she wasn’t sure how to ask.

Jeeny: “But isn’t there something to it? The way people obsess over celebrities. There’s this passion, this intensity. They don’t even know the person, yet they’re completely consumed.”

Jack: “Passion is a dangerous word, Jeeny. It’s like the abstract concept of love — all emotion with no real connection. You get caught up in the idea of someone, not who they actually are. Famous people are images, not humans.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the point. Love for the famous isn’t about the person. It’s about the idea they represent — the fantasy we project onto them. We want to believe they’re perfect, that they can give us something we can’t find anywhere else.”

Jack: (snorts) “That’s not love, that’s infatuation with a concept. It’s like how people used to swoon over movie stars in the 50s. Humans don’t need gods to worship, Jeeny. We need real people to connect with.”

Host: The air in the room seemed to stiffen as the conversation shifted, a certain sharpness creeping into the tension. The magazine in Jeeny’s hands was now folded, her thumb tracing the edge of the cover. The light from the TV flickered, casting glances of bright, cold clarity on her face.

Jeeny: “But you’re missing something. There’s an emotion in that kind of love, Jack. You can measure it. It’s mathematical — how far people are willing to go to admire, to worship, to believe. The intensity doesn’t depend on the person themselves. It’s about what they represent. What we need them to represent.”

Jack: “And that makes it real to you?”

Jeeny: “I think it does. Maybe the object of the love doesn’t matter — it’s the feeling that does. Fame becomes a way for people to invest in something greater than themselves. They attach meaning to someone, anyone, who can embody what they want the world to be.”

Jack: (pauses, frowning) “You’re saying people don’t even care about who the person really is? That all they care about is the image?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that how most of us love, Jack? I mean, look at the way people view politicians, celebrities, even heroes. The more distance there is between you and them, the more intense your feelings become. The closer you get, the more you see their flaws — the cracks in the illusion. So you keep them at a distance, at arm's length, and you fall in love with the image.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around the bottle, the glass giving a faint, hollow sound in the silence that followed. His gaze dropped, and for a moment, it seemed as if he was lost in the flickering lights of the TV, the faces on screen flashing in and out of focus.

Jack: “You really think that’s what love is? A fantasy that makes us feel important?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s necessary, Jack. We need heroes to dream about, to inspire us, even if they’re just figments of our imagination. If we didn’t have that, we’d have nothing to reach for.”

Jack: “It’s still abstract. Like worship without a god. People get obsessed with fame, but it doesn’t fill the hole inside them. It only makes it deeper.”

Jeeny: “But you’re forgetting something. Passion like that can push people to do the impossible. Think about it: the entire entertainment industry, sports, even politics. They thrive on that kind of abstract love. They sell us the idea of perfection, and we buy it, over and over.”

Jack: “And then we get disappointed when we realize it’s just a show. That’s the problem with fame — it’s built on illusion. It’s not about people anymore. It’s about what we want them to be.”

Host: The silence stretched between them, thick and full of unspoken truths. The cameras on the TV flashed by, capturing a world of perfection on screen, while in the room, everything seemed to slow down.

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the point, Jack. It’s not about them. It’s about us. About what we need to believe in. We create the love for them, because we need it to be real.”

Jack: “So, we lie to ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the lie is the truth.”

Host: The city outside was quieter now, the lights dimming as the night deepened. The conversation had settled into a stillness, a kind of peace between them. The magazine was forgotten now, lying discarded on the table, its pages fluttering gently with the air. Jack’s hand was still wrapped around the beer, but his eyes had softened, no longer focused on the TV.

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny… It just seems so pointless. All this worship of people we don’t even know. It’s like putting all your faith in a mirage.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Maybe, but sometimes, even a mirage can make you believe in something greater. Maybe that’s the truth of love — it’s not about the object, but the intensity of the feeling. And that’s real, even if everything else is a dream.”

Host: The screen flickered, casting a final glow over them as they sat in the quiet, their thoughts still tangled in the conversation. Outside, the lights of the city shimmered, reflecting the intensity of their debate — as abstract as the love they had just discussed. And somewhere in the distance, a star blinked out, leaving only the dark sky.