The power of telly is surprising. If you're in a six-part series

Host: The evening air shimmered with the electric glow of the city, its streets pulsing with the heartbeat of a thousand screens. Billboards flashed, taxi lights winked, and a faint buzz of voices drifted through the neon fog. In a small, half-empty bar tucked between two old cinemas, Jack sat in a corner booth, the light from a television flickering across his face.

The screen showed a popular actor, all smiles, signing autographs under a sea of camera flashes. The news ticker scrolled beneath him: “New series finale breaks records.”

Jeeny entered, shaking the rain from her coat, her eyes catching the television’s glow. She sat opposite Jack, her hands wrapped around a glass of wine that trembled faintly from the bass of the bar’s music.

Jeeny: “Paul McGann once said, ‘The power of telly is surprising. If you’re in a six-part series, you’re famous while it’s on — people point in the street. Two weeks later it all goes back to normal.’”

Host: The television flickered, and the bartender turned down the volume, as if the city itself leaned in to listen.

Jack: “He’s right. Fame is just a rented spotlight. The moment the light moves on, you’re just another shadow in the crowd.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you find that beautiful, Jack? That fleeting recognition, that temporary connection? For a moment, someone sees you, knows you, remembers your face. Isn’t that worth something?”

Host: Jack’s grey eyes narrowed, the faintest hint of a smirk curling his lips. The rain tapped against the window, steady, like the ticking of a clock counting down fame’s brief lifespan.

Jack: “No. It’s illusion, Jeeny. They don’t see you — they see a projection. A character, a performance. The moment the credits roll, you’re nothing to them. Fame is just another drug. You taste it once, and the withdrawal never really ends.”

Jeeny: “You’re always so bitter about what fades. But maybe it’s not about longevity, maybe it’s about impact. Even a brief flame can warm a room, can’t it? The people who watched him — for those six weeks, he was part of their lives. That means something.”

Host: The bar’s door opened, a draft of cold air sweeping through, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and memory.

Jack: “It means they were bored. People consume what’s given to them — then they move on to the next face, the next story, the next thrill. That’s not meaning, Jeeny. That’s momentum.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re the problem, not fame. We’ve made it cheap, fast, throwaway. But once upon a time, recognition meant something — it was a form of gratitude, of connection between art and audience. Now it’s just content, and that’s our own doing.”

Host: Jack laughed, a low, dry sound that echoed against the walls. He tapped his finger on the table, rhythmic, measured, like a metronome of cynicism.

Jack: “You talk like we’ve lost some golden age of authenticity. But fame was never pure. From the Colosseum to Hollywood, it’s always been spectacle. The crowd doesn’t cheer because they care; they cheer because they need to.”

Jeeny: “But they remember, Jack. Even if just for a moment. They remember a smile, a scene, a line that made them feel. Maybe that’s all art ever needed to do — to touch, not to last.”

Host: The bartender polished a glass, his eyes briefly lifting to the television, where a replay of an old show was playing. The faces on the screen looked young, immortal — yet somewhere, the actors who once breathed those roles were now older, maybe forgotten, maybe free.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But tell that to the actors who can’t find work after their fifteen minutes. Fame gives, but it takes twice as much. It inflates you, then abandons you when the novelty dies.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they still chase it, don’t they? Writers, painters, performers — we all crave to be seen. You call it addiction; I call it the need to exist. If no one ever sees your work, do you still matter?”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted, the faintest ache flickering there — like the glow of an old screen still flickering long after the film has ended.

Jack: “You think visibility equals existence? That’s a dangerous thought. What happens when the world stops looking?”

Jeeny: “Then you look at yourself, Jack. You remember why you started. Because the art itself — the creation — that’s the real power, not the applause.”

Host: The music from the jukebox shifted, a slow, melancholic tune about faded glory and forgotten names. Jack’s shoulders softened, his hands now still.

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, everything we do is just noise. McGann wasn’t lamenting fame — he was observing it. He knew it was temporary, but he also understood its weight while it lasted. Maybe that’s what we need — to accept the transience, to honor the moment, then let it go.”

Host: A pause, soft as a sigh. The television flickered one last time and went dark. The reflection of the screen lingered in the window, like a ghost of light, before fading completely.

Jack: “You talk about fame like it’s love — brief, beautiful, and inevitable to end.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. And maybe that’s why both are worth chasing — not because they last, but because they change you, even after they’re gone.”

Host: The rain had stopped, leaving a faint mist over the pavement. Jack stood, his coat brushing the edge of the table, his eyes following the empty screen as though it had told him a secret.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is — fame is just another kind of mirror. For a moment, it shows you what the world thinks you are. And when it’s gone, you’re left to decide if you believe it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And if you’re lucky, you realize the mirror was never the truth — just the light passing through you.”

Host: The bar emptied, the city settled into its midnight hum, and the two of them sat for a while in silence — not the uncomfortable kind, but the kind that accepts what’s been understood.

Outside, the billboards dimmed, and the faces of actors, politicians, and singers all faded into darkness — their fame as brief as the light that once carved them into gods.

And as the neon signs blinked their last, Jack and Jeeny shared a final look — a quiet understanding that fame, like time, is only borrowed.

The camera of the night pulled back — showing the bar, the city, the stars just barely visible through the smog — and in that vast, tender frame, one truth lingered:

Fame is a flash, not a fire — and perhaps, the real art lies in how we live after the light goes out.