There are three things that I'm addicted to when it comes to

Host:
The studio lights glowed like captive suns above the set. Rows of cameras stood silent, their lenses like unblinking eyes waiting to witness the next moment of magic — or failure. The smell of coffee, cables, and adrenaline hung in the air, that familiar cocktail of art and exhaustion.

Behind the soundstage, Jack slouched in a folding chair, a script rolled up in his hand, tapping it against his knee in quiet rhythm. His shirt sleeves were rolled high, his face dusted with fatigue and something warmer — the faint shimmer of creative obsession.

Across from him sat Jeeny, perched on a director’s stool, clipboard in hand, her dark hair tied back, her gaze steady — the kind of focus that sees both the art and the ache. Around them, the crew moved like a quiet storm — lighting grips, makeup artists, costume designers — each one a cog in the great, clumsy machine called storytelling.

Jeeny: “Dean Devlin once said — ‘There are three things that I'm addicted to when it comes to entertainment. In no particular order: One, I'm addicted to the cheer moment. "Librarians" has plenty of them. Next, I feel that life is hard, and I want my entertainment fun — and "Librarians" is fun as a Christmas party. And third, I like to be moved.’”
Jack: [half-smiling] “Cheer moments, fun, and tears — the holy trinity of TV.”
Jeeny: “Or the anatomy of hope.”
Jack: “Hope? You think a Christmas-party show about magic books is hope?”
Jeeny: “Everything that lifts people out of the grind is hope, Jack. Even laughter.”
Jack: “Hmm. I thought entertainment was supposed to distract, not enlighten.”
Jeeny: “It can do both. The best stories do.”

Host:
A stagehand passed, carrying a coil of cable over his shoulder. A voice called out, “Ten minutes to reset!” Somewhere, someone laughed — a bright sound in the mechanical hum of production.

Jack: “You know, I used to think the goal of entertainment was realism. But the older I get, the more I realize people don’t want mirrors. They want windows.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Devlin got that. He understood that stories are supposed to give you a break from gravity, not add to it.”
Jack: “Still, that ‘cheer moment’ thing — it sounds naïve. The world’s falling apart, and we’re supposed to clap because the hero found his hat?”
Jeeny: “Yes. Because that moment isn’t about the hat. It’s about the feeling that something broken just got mended — even if only for 30 seconds.”
Jack: “You really believe in happy endings.”
Jeeny: “No. I believe in earned joy.”

Host:
Jack rubbed his temples, staring at the studio floor where a faint layer of sawdust caught the light. The scent of fresh paint and old sweat filled the air — proof of creation, proof of labor.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think fun is underrated. Everyone wants to be profound. Everyone wants to make the next ‘statement.’ But sometimes, all people want is to breathe.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Fun isn’t the enemy of depth — it’s the doorway to it. You can’t move people if you don’t let them feel safe first.”
Jack: “So laughter before tears.”
Jeeny: “Always. That’s how life teaches us — gently first, brutally after.”
Jack: “You sound like you’ve thought about this.”
Jeeny: “I have. Because stories saved me long before I realized they were trying to.”

Host:
The lights shifted, bathing the set in a warm gold — like sunrise trapped in a warehouse. A prop master arranged an antique globe on a desk; the quiet squeak of its rotation echoed faintly, as if the world itself were rehearsing its lines.

Jack: “You know what I miss? The days when movies ended with applause. Not just in theaters — in people’s hearts. That moment when you leave the cinema lighter than you entered.”
Jeeny: “That’s what Devlin meant by ‘addiction to the cheer moment.’ It’s not about perfection. It’s about resurrection — the moment you remember humanity isn’t entirely doomed.”
Jack: “That’s rare now. Everything’s ironic. Everyone’s too cool to care.”
Jeeny: “Because caring looks old-fashioned. But I think that’s exactly why we need it. Cynicism is cheap; sincerity costs courage.”
Jack: “So you’re saying… fun is resistance.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Joy is rebellion.”

Host:
The director’s voice crackled through the intercom: “Places for rehearsal!” The crew began to shuffle back into position. But neither Jack nor Jeeny moved. Their conversation hung heavier than the lights above — both cinematic and intimate, like a scene they didn’t want to call ‘cut’ on.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mom and I used to watch those cheesy adventure shows. Lost treasures, secret rooms, happy endings. I used to think they were silly. But now I think they were teaching us something.”
Jeeny: “Teaching you what?”
Jack: “That even in a world full of villains, you can still choose to look for magic.”
Jeeny: “That’s exactly what entertainment is supposed to do — remind you that the extraordinary still hides inside the ordinary.”
Jack: “So Devlin’s right. We need cheer moments.”
Jeeny: “And laughter. And tears.”
Jack: “You forgot one thing.”
Jeeny: “What’s that?”
Jack: “The stories that stay with you after the lights go out.”

Host:
The stage lights dimmed, casting long shadows over the set — a mock-up of a grand library filled with fake books that looked real enough to dream in. Jeeny glanced at Jack, her face half-lit, half-lost in thought.

Jeeny: “You know, we spend so much time talking about art like it’s medicine — but it’s really dessert.”
Jack: “Dessert?”
Jeeny: “Yeah. It’s not necessary for survival, but it reminds you why surviving matters.”
Jack: “That’s a hell of a definition.”
Jeeny: “It’s the truth. Life is hard. If entertainment doesn’t give you light, it’s just another storm.”
Jack: “Then maybe storytellers aren’t artists. Maybe they’re electricians.”
Jeeny: [laughs] “And laughter’s our current.”

Host:
The director shouted, “Alright, quiet on set!” The hum of conversation died instantly. Somewhere, a camera clicked on, a red light glowing like a heartbeat. But for that brief moment before the scene began, Jack and Jeeny sat in the half-dark, surrounded by the machinery of illusion, whispering something real into a world built of make-believe.

Jack: “So, Devlin wanted three things: cheer, fun, and emotion. That’s all?”
Jeeny: “That’s everything. It’s not about changing the world. It’s about changing someone’s evening.”
Jack: “That sounds small.”
Jeeny: “It’s not. The evening is where people hide their pain.”
Jack: “You really believe stories heal?”
Jeeny: “Not always. But they can remind people that they can heal. That’s enough.”

Host:
The scene began. The actor on set — dressed in a velvet coat, holding a dusty old book — spoke his lines. His voice echoed through the warehouse, rich and trembling: “Every story hides a secret. Every secret is a door.”

Jeeny smiled faintly, as if the line had answered something for her. Jack looked at her, his expression softer now — the look of a man who had been reminded that wonder, though fragile, was still alive.

And as the cameras rolled, and the world of fiction flickered to life again,
the truth of Dean Devlin’s words hummed in the air —

that art does not need to cure despair to matter.

That sometimes, all a story must do
is lift the weight for a moment —
to make us cheer, to make us laugh, to make us feel.

Because even in the hardest world,
where life exhausts and days blur,
the smallest spark of fun
is not trivial —

it’s redemption wearing a smile.