The only reason I became the singer in the band is because I sang

Title: The Reluctant Star

Host: The backstage corridor smelled of sweat, rosin, and the faint echo of last night’s applause. A single light bulb buzzed overhead, painting long, tired shadows on the concrete walls. Beyond the stage door, the distant murmur of a crowd tuning its energy for another show pulsed like a heartbeat.

Jack sat on a wooden crate, his guitar leaning against the wall beside him. His hands were steady, but his eyes — cool, grey, and tired — carried that look of a man who had learned to smile for cameras and bleed for soundchecks.

Across from him, Jeeny perched on the edge of a stool, her notebook open, a recorder on the table between them. The little red light blinked rhythmically. She wasn’t here as a fan. She was here to understand him — the man behind the volume.

The clock above the dressing room mirror ticked quietly, measuring moments instead of minutes.

Jeeny: “Adam Levine once said — ‘The only reason I became the singer in the band is because I sang the best. It wasn’t out of some desire to be a star or be a famous singer. It’s not like I love interviews.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Heh. That’s honesty, right there. Most people would dress it up with something poetic about destiny. Not him — just practicality and discomfort.”

Host: His voice was low, edged with irony, but underneath it lingered a quiet truth — the kind that doesn’t shout, only sighs.

Jeeny: “You relate to that, don’t you?”

Jack: “Too much. I never wanted the spotlight either. It just... found me. Or maybe I was standing too close when it went off.”

Jeeny: “So you didn’t want to be the face of your band?”

Jack: “No. I wanted to be the sound. The heartbeat. The invisible pulse behind the melody.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re the one everyone remembers.”

Jack: “Yeah. Funny how anonymity becomes impossible once you start telling the truth loud enough.”

Host: The faint sound of a guitar being tuned echoed down the hallway — strings rising to pitch, one note at a time, like a memory trying to find its key.

Jeeny: “So why did you sing in the first place?”

Jack: “Because no one else could. We were kids — drunk on ambition, broke on talent. I just had the least-bad voice in the room.”

Jeeny: “And that made you a frontman.”

Jack: “It made me a target.”

Jeeny: “Target?”

Jack: “Yeah. Fame’s like gravity. You fight to rise, but the higher you get, the more it pulls. The crowd lifts you, but they also expect you to stay suspended — forever performing, never landing.”

Host: He picked up a pick from the table and began turning it between his fingers — slow, mechanical, as if trying to keep rhythm with his thoughts.

Jeeny: “So you didn’t want to be famous.”

Jack: “No. I wanted to be good.”

Jeeny: “You think those two things can’t coexist?”

Jack: “Not for long.”

Host: The stage lights beyond the door flickered briefly — a signal that soundcheck was about to begin. But Jack didn’t move. The conversation had become its own kind of rehearsal, quieter and far more dangerous.

Jeeny: “You ever regret it? Taking that microphone?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Every night. And every morning after, I thank God I did.”

Jeeny: “That sounds like contradiction.”

Jack: “It’s survival. I hate the fame. But I love the music. I hate the noise. But I need the sound. It’s like standing in the middle of a storm that you created — and realizing it’s the only place you feel alive.”

Host: The bulb above them flickered, buzzing like a nervous thought. The shadow of Jack’s guitar stretched across the wall, its neck cutting through the dim light like a fragile line between peace and purpose.

Jeeny: “So you love music but not attention.”

Jack: “Attention’s a drug. Music’s oxygen. The problem is, people think they come in the same bottle.”

Jeeny: “Do they?”

Jack: “Not really. The drug kills you slower.”

Jeeny: “Then why keep taking it?”

Jack: (quietly) “Because withdrawal hurts worse.”

Host: His words hung in the air — fragile, flammable. The rain outside began to fall, pattering gently against the metal roof, like applause that had forgotten its enthusiasm.

Jeeny: “You know, Adam Levine said he didn’t want to be a star, but the world made him one anyway. You think that’s inevitable — that the spotlight always finds whoever can carry a tune?”

Jack: “No. The spotlight finds whoever looks like it can sell salvation.”

Jeeny: “So music becomes the new religion.”

Jack: “Exactly. And the singer becomes the preacher. But the preacher’s faith dies faster than his followers’.”

Jeeny: “You think fame kills faith?”

Jack: “It taxes it. Every song costs a piece of what you once meant. Every interview turns poetry into soundbites. And soon you’re left defending what you once said instead of creating what you still feel.”

Jeeny: “And people call that art.”

Jack: “They call it content.”

Host: The word content rolled from his tongue like an insult. The flickering light caught the brief tightening of his jaw — the way a man looks when confessing something that’s been caged for too long.

Jeeny: “You sound angry.”

Jack: “Not angry. Just tired. You try pouring your soul out for an audience that claps without listening.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what performance is — giving even when they don’t understand?”

Jack: “No. That’s martyrdom with good lighting.”

Jeeny: (half-smiling) “And yet you’ll walk out there again tonight.”

Jack: “Because the music still deserves to be heard — even if I don’t.”

Host: He leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. The sound of the rain deepened — heavier now, rhythmic, almost musical.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Levine meant. The best singers aren’t chasing fame; they’re trapped by competence. They didn’t crave the spotlight — they just couldn’t step away from the song.”

Jack: “Exactly. Sometimes talent feels like punishment. You’re chosen, but you never volunteered.”

Jeeny: “And yet you sing.”

Jack: “Because silence hurts worse.”

Jeeny: “So, you sing for yourself?”

Jack: (after a pause) “No. I sing for the kid I used to be — the one who played in garages and believed sound could save him. I owe him the truth, even if the crowd doesn’t deserve it.”

Host: The door to the stage opened slightly. A thin beam of light spilled in — warm, golden, alive. The hum of amplifiers vibrated through the floor, calling him like a distant heartbeat.

Jeeny: “Do you ever find peace in it? Even for a moment?”

Jack: “When the lights hit just right, and I lose myself in the chord — yeah. In that moment, I’m nobody again. Just a voice in the dark. That’s peace.”

Jeeny: “And when the applause starts?”

Jack: “That’s when the peace ends.”

Host: He stood, slinging his guitar over his shoulder. The strap creaked against the leather of his jacket. Jeeny closed her notebook but didn’t stop watching him — her eyes soft, filled with something like admiration, something like sorrow.

Jeeny: “So why do you keep doing it, Jack?”

Jack: “Because the song’s honest — even when I’m not.”

Jeeny: “And that’s enough?”

Jack: “It has to be.”

Host: He moved toward the door, his silhouette framed by the glow of the stage. The faint murmur of the waiting crowd swelled, becoming a wave. He paused, hand on the doorknob, his back to her.

Jack: “You know, everyone thinks fame makes you visible. Truth is, it makes you transparent. Everyone sees through you, but no one really looks.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why you need people like me — to remind you you’re still solid.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Or to tell me when I sound crazy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: He turned the knob, and the golden light poured over him. The noise of the crowd surged. For a brief moment, his figure looked like that of a man walking into fire — and maybe, in a way, he was.

Host: And as the door closed behind him, Jeeny sat alone in the silence that followed — the kind of silence that hums with truth.

From the stage beyond came the first chord, rich and low, and the crowd erupted. But beneath the roar, something more honest trembled — a voice, unpretending, unstarred, still reaching for meaning through sound.

And in that moment, Adam Levine’s words found their echo:

That fame is not born of desire,
but of circumstance —
that art is not ambition,
but obligation —
and that sometimes,
the truest voices belong to those
who never wanted to be heard.

The lights blazed.
The music rose.
And somewhere in the noise,
a soul kept singing just to stay real.