There are high spots in all of our lives and most of them have

Host: The afternoon sun spilled through the wide windows of a crowded rehearsal hall, painting the dust in golden motion. The air hummed with the faint echo of a piano — a few off-key notes stumbling into silence. The smell of coffee, sweat, and the faint tang of painted wood lingered.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, sleeves rolled up, eyes half-lidded with the look of a man who’d seen a dream too many times to believe in it. Jeeny stood center-stage, script in hand, her voice soft but steady as she recited a line that drifted upward, fragile as smoke.

For a moment, neither spoke. Only the sound of footsteps echoed in the emptiness of the hall.

Jeeny: “George Matthew Adams once said, ‘There are high spots in all of our lives, and most of them have come about through encouragement from someone else. I don’t care how great, how famous, or successful a man or woman may be — each hungers for applause.’”

Jack: smirks faintly “Applause… You make it sound noble. I’ve always thought of it as the cheapest currency in the world.”

Jeeny: “Is it? Or is it the one thing that reminds us we’re not alone?”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. It’s the thing that makes people perform, not live. You start doing things for the clapping, not for the truth of them.”

Host: A beam of sunlight cut through the dusty air, landing on Jack’s face. His grey eyes reflected it like steel catching a brief flame. Jeeny’s shadow stretched long across the floorboards, reaching toward him — two souls divided by light and cynicism.

Jeeny: “You talk as if admiration corrupts everything it touches. But Jack, even you — the skeptic of skeptics — must have felt what it’s like to be seen. To have someone look at you and say, ‘You did well.’”

Jack: “I’ve had that. And I’ve learned it never lasts. One day they cheer for you; the next they’ve moved on to someone new. That’s not encouragement — it’s consumption.”

Jeeny: “But does the impermanence make it any less real? The sunrise doesn’t last either, but you still look at it, don’t you?”

Jack: pauses, half-smiling “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But applause isn’t sunlight. It’s smoke — thick, suffocating, and it vanishes before you can breathe.”

Host: Jeeny walked toward the edge of the stage, her steps soft against the creaking wood. The script trembled slightly in her hands, and for a heartbeat, she looked younger — like the girl who once believed every dream was waiting just beyond the curtain.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that smoke keeps people warm, Jack. Encouragement — applause — it’s what pushes the next breath, the next try. Do you think Beethoven wrote his symphonies in silence, believing no one would ever listen?”

Jack: “Maybe he wrote them because of the silence. Because he couldn’t hear anything but the echo inside himself.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even deaf, he wanted his music to be heard. That’s hunger, Jack. Not vanity — humanity.”

Jack: “Maybe humanity’s greatest curse is that we can’t be content without someone else’s approval.”

Jeeny: “And maybe your curse is pretending you don’t need it.”

Host: Her words landed like the quiet crash of waves against a shoreline — subtle, but deep enough to move stone. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening. A train rumbled somewhere far off, and the windows shook faintly, scattering the light across the floor like a handful of shattered glass.

Jack: “You think applause is selfless? I’ve seen it destroy people. Actors, politicians, artists — they become addicted to the sound. When it stops, they collapse. You call it encouragement; I call it dependence.”

Jeeny: “Addiction doesn’t make the medicine wrong. It means we forget the dose. The right word, at the right time — it’s not a drug, Jack. It’s a lifeline.”

Jack: “A lifeline that turns into a noose if you rely on it too much.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t the applause. Maybe it’s the emptiness inside us when it fades.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, alive with the echo of things neither dared to say. Outside, the sky began to shift — the light turning from gold to amber, like the slow closing of a day’s eyelid.

Jeeny set her script down and sat beside him. Her shoulder brushed his lightly.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what kept us going when we started? Before the critics, before the audiences?”

Jack: “Back then, it was pure. Just the work. The challenge.”

Jeeny: “And the first time someone said, ‘You were brilliant,’ you felt something. Don’t deny it.”

Jack: smiles faintly “Yeah… I did. Like I’d been seen for the first time.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the high spot Adams was talking about. Not fame. Not money. Just that moment — when someone says, ‘You matter.’”

Jack: “And then you spend the rest of your life chasing it.”

Jeeny: “No. You spend the rest of your life giving it to others.”

Host: The piano across the hall began to play again — a slow, wandering melody, off-tune but sincere. The notes floated through the air like drifting embers. Jack stared at the floor, his reflection trembling in the varnished wood.

Jack: “You really believe encouragement can change a person’s life?”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it. A teacher who told me I could act — when I didn’t believe I could even speak. A friend who stood in the rain to watch my first performance. Without them, I’d still be hiding behind someone else’s dream.”

Jack: “And what about when no one’s there to clap?”

Jeeny: “Then you clap for someone else. And somehow, that sound comes back to you.”

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked. For the first time in years, the defense in his eyes cracked, revealing something soft, almost boyish. The dust caught in a golden ray around them, and time seemed to slow — not in nostalgia, but in gentle recognition.

Jack: “You always find light in places I’d call ruins.”

Jeeny: smiling “Maybe because ruins still mean something was built. That’s enough for me.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s just… possible.”

Host: The clock above the stage ticked — a hollow, wooden heartbeat. The last note from the piano faded into silence. Jeeny reached for her script, tucking it under her arm, and stood.

She looked down at Jack, her smile soft, her eyes bright with the quiet confidence of someone who has learned to live both with and without applause.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack — even the strongest people need to hear it once in a while. Not the roar of a crowd, not the trophies — just a voice that says, ‘You did good.’”

Jack: after a long pause “Then… you did good, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “And so did you.”

Host: The sunlight reached its last angle, cutting through the glass and drenching the stage in a final blaze of gold. Dust danced, the air shimmered, and for a fleeting second — before the light faded — the old theatre felt alive again.

Two figures, side by side in the dying light, not actors or critics, not cynic or dreamer — just two human beings who had remembered what it meant to be seen, to be heard, and to be lifted by the sound of another’s simple, honest applause.