The people I want are very famous and very rich, and all I can

Host: The studio lights flickered like a restless pulse, humming with electric tension. Outside, through the wide glass of the backstage corridor, the city night glimmered — rain slicking the streets, neon reflections trembling on the pavement. Inside, the air carried the faint smell of makeup powder, coffee, and anticipation.

Jack sat slouched on a folding chair, tie loosened, eyes heavy but awake. His hands drummed idly against the armrest, a rhythm of restlessness. Across from him, Jeeny stood by the mirror, fixing her hair, the lightbulbs around it casting a halo glow over her face.

A television monitor in the corner played a talk show rerun — the host laughing, the audience roaring, celebrity smiles flashing like a carousel of masks.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how strange it is? The way we worship fame. Graham Norton once said, ‘The people I want are very famous and very rich, and all I can offer them is a bit of exposure on TV and a bit of cash, so it’s a miracle we get any guests at all.’”

Jack: (smirks) “He’s right. It is a miracle. These days, fame’s the only god left that people still believe in.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you envy it.”

Jack: (shrugs) “Not envy — just observation. People don’t pray anymore; they scroll, follow, like. The new heaven is a feed, and the saints are verified.”

Host: The sound of rain tapped against the window, soft but persistent, like a whisper trying to remind them of something real beyond the studio walls.

Jeeny: “And yet, Graham’s quote — it’s humble, isn’t it? He knows he’s part of the illusion, but he’s not blind to it. There’s something human in that — admitting that the whole circus runs on luck.”

Jack: “Luck and ego, Jeeny. Don’t forget that part. Fame’s a machine, and everyone’s just oiling their own gears. The host needs the guests, the guests need the audience, and the audience needs someone to feel smaller than.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical.”

Jack: “That’s true.”

Host: The camera red light blinked once — an idle eye watching them even now, long after the show ended. The sound engineer passed by, giving them a nod, leaving behind the faint scent of tape and ozone.

Jeeny: “You really think fame’s just about power?”

Jack: “It’s always been. Look at the Romans — they had their gladiators. The Middle Ages had kings and bards. Now we’ve got influencers and actors. It’s the same script, just better lighting.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not all of it. Fame can be a kind of connection — people searching for meaning, wanting to be seen. Sometimes being seen is all that saves you.”

Jack: (leans forward) “Being seen isn’t the same as being known, Jeeny. You can be watched by millions and still die lonely. You think Graham’s guests care about connection? They care about control. Control over their image, their narrative. Fame’s not a mirror — it’s a mask.”

Jeeny: (turns to face him, eyes steady) “And yet, the mask tells a story too. Even if it’s made of illusion, there’s truth in it — truth about what we crave, what we fear, what we pretend to be. Maybe that’s why we keep watching — because we see ourselves in the performance.”

Host: A pause lingered. The rain outside grew heavier, its rhythm now a slow applause from the night. Jack’s reflection in the mirror seemed older, the lines around his mouth deeper, the light colder on his face.

Jack: “You think there’s beauty in it — in people chasing approval?”

Jeeny: “Not beauty — humanity. The same loneliness that drives a singer to the stage drives a stranger to clap. We’re all just trying to be noticed before we disappear.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But fame doesn’t cure loneliness; it magnifies it. Remember Marilyn Monroe? The world’s most adored woman, dead in a room full of silence. Fame’s spotlight doesn’t warm — it burns.”

Jeeny: “And yet, she became immortal. Isn’t that what artists have always wanted? To be remembered?”

Jack: “Being remembered isn’t living, Jeeny. It’s just the echo after the song ends.”

Host: The studio floor creaked as someone turned off the main lights. The room dimmed, shadows stretching long like tired hands reaching for rest. Only the mirror bulbs remained lit, framing Jeeny in a soft glow, Jack in its fading edge.

Jeeny: “You make it sound so hopeless. But I don’t think fame is the villain — it’s the reflection of our hunger. We want stories, we want people who seem larger than life because they remind us that life itself could be larger.”

Jack: “Or maybe we just want someone else to fall so we feel taller.”

Jeeny: “You don’t really believe that.”

Jack: “I’ve seen enough to know people love watching a rise — but they worship the fall. Every scandal’s a sermon now.”

Jeeny: “And still, every fall makes us ache — that ache means something. It means we still feel, Jack. If fame were all illusion, we wouldn’t care when someone broke under it.”

Host: The mirror caught her eyes — brown, alive with conviction, the kind that could pierce fog. Jack’s expression softened, just slightly, as if the fight in him was meeting its mirror too.

Jack: (quietly) “You really think compassion survives in this circus?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only thing that keeps the circus from collapsing. Every talk show, every laugh, every viral clip — behind it is someone trying to make people feel less alone. Even Graham, joking about his rich guests — there’s humility in that. He knows how absurd it is, and he laughs at it anyway. That’s honesty, in a world that sells pretense.”

Jack: (exhales, staring at the floor**) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the miracle isn’t that the famous show up. Maybe it’s that they still want to.”

Jeeny: (smiles softly) “Because deep down, we all do. We all want someone to listen, even if it’s just for a few minutes under the lights.”

Host: The rain softened, the night air cooling the window glass. Jeeny sat beside Jack now, both of them facing the mirror — two reflections, equally flawed, equally human. The bulbs hummed, warm and forgiving.

Jack: “You know, maybe fame’s not about being seen by everyone. Maybe it’s about being understood by someone.”

Jeeny: “That’s the rarest kind of fame.”

Host: The lights above the mirror flickered once, then dimmed to a golden whisper. Their faces faded into the reflections — no applause, no spotlight, only the quiet truth of two souls sharing the same fragile hunger to be known.

Outside, the rain stopped. The city breathed again, and somewhere, far off, a laugh track played — light, human, and strangely comforting.