There are two types of actors: those who say they don't want to

Host: The street outside the theatre glowed under the dim wash of the marquee lights. The posters on the wall were peeling slightly, their corners curling in the late-night humidity. The show had ended an hour ago, but the air still hummed — the echo of applause, the perfume of sweat and adrenaline, the ghost of clapping hands that refused to fade.

Inside, the stage was half-dark, littered with props, makeup kits, and forgotten coffee cups. In the center sat Jack, slouched in a folding chair, his costume jacket still hanging loosely from his shoulders. His face was smeared with a thin line of eyeliner that hadn’t survived the night.

Across the stage, Jeeny walked barefoot, her heels dangling from her fingers, the soft sound of her steps a rhythm against the hollow wooden floor.

She stopped near him, took a breath, and spoke with a hint of mischief in her tone — the kind that only comes from knowing someone too long to flatter them.

Jeeny: reading softly from her phone
“Kevin Bacon once said, ‘There are two types of actors: those who say they don’t want to be famous, and those who are liars.’”

Jack: grinning tiredly, rubbing his temple
“Ah, Bacon — patron saint of blunt truths.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly
“He’s not wrong. Every actor wants to be seen. Some just pretend they’re above it.”

Jack: chuckling, leaning back in the chair
“Seen, yeah. But fame’s a tricky kind of light. Too close, it burns; too far, you freeze.”

Host: The theatre lights buzzed softly, their hum blending with the creak of the old stage floor. The smell of makeup powder and sawdust hung heavy in the air — the scent of dreams freshly used.

Jeeny: sitting on the edge of the stage, letting her heels clatter beside her
“Still… we all crave it. Recognition. Validation. That moment when the world looks at you and says, ‘Yes, we see you.’”

Jack: nodding slowly
“Yeah, until it doesn’t. Fame’s like applause — you spend your life chasing it, but it dies the second it’s over.”

Jeeny: softly, watching him
“So you’re saying you don’t want it?”

Jack: pausing, staring up at the ceiling lights
“No. I do. I just don’t trust it. Fame’s like a mirror that smiles back until it decides it’s done reflecting you.”

Host: The spotlight flickered overhead, one final bulb refusing to die quietly. In its pale glow, Jack’s face looked older, wearier — not with age, but with understanding.

Jeeny: leaning forward slightly
“Maybe that’s the price of being seen — the reflection isn’t yours anymore.”

Jack: softly
“Yeah. It belongs to everyone who thinks they know your story.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly
“But isn’t that what art is? Letting people rewrite you in their heads?”

Jack: grinning wryly
“Sure. But fame isn’t art. Fame’s what happens after the curtain falls. It’s the ghost that follows you home.”

Host: The silence between them thickened, not heavy, but contemplative — a pause filled with the unspoken ache of people who’d given too much to the stage and too little to themselves.

Jeeny: after a long beat, softly
“You remember when we started? When we thought fame was proof of talent?”

Jack: smiling faintly, almost wistfully
“Yeah. Back when applause felt like love.”

Jeeny: looking out toward the empty seats
“It’s not love, is it?”

Jack: quietly
“No. It’s attention dressed up as affection. Love stays when the lights go out.”

Host: The wind outside rustled the theatre doors, the faint city noise filtering in — laughter, sirens, someone’s car radio playing faint jazz. The night, as always, moved on, indifferent to who had taken their bow an hour ago.

Jeeny: after a long silence
“You know what Bacon’s quote really means, don’t you? It’s not just about actors wanting fame. It’s about honesty. Admitting we all want to matter.”

Jack: nodding slowly, his eyes softer now
“Yeah. It’s the one confession everyone hides behind humility. We say we don’t care, but we do — desperately.”

Jeeny: smiling gently
“Because invisibility hurts more than criticism.”

Jack: quietly
“And silence stings more than gossip.”

Host: The spotlight flickered again, brighter this time, cutting through the shadows that clung to the stage. Jack stood, stretching slowly, and looked out toward the empty seats — the invisible audience that still lingered in his imagination.

Jack: after a pause, softly
“Fame’s not the goal. It’s just the echo of being heard. That’s all any of us want — to echo.”

Jeeny: nodding
“To echo long enough that the silence doesn’t swallow us.”

Jack: grinning faintly
“Maybe that’s why actors chase it — not the fame, but the permanence. A way to outlast the applause.”

Host: The camera would drift across the stage now — the discarded props, the script pages curled on the floor, the faint smell of dust and ambition still in the air.

The space itself seemed alive — whispering with the energy of all the performances it had absorbed.

Jeeny: softly, standing beside him
“Do you ever think we mistake the spotlight for sunlight?”

Jack: turning to her, smirking
“Maybe. But even fake light can keep you warm for a while.”

Jeeny: grinning back
“And burn you, if you stay too long.”

Host: The stage lights dimmed fully now, plunging the theatre into a soft, lingering twilight. The only light came from the city outside — pale and restless.

Jack: quietly, as they started to pack up
“You know, maybe Bacon wasn’t being cynical. Maybe he was being merciful. He was telling us to stop pretending. To admit we want to be seen — and to stop being ashamed of it.”

Jeeny: softly, smiling
“Because wanting to be seen doesn’t make you vain. It makes you human.”

Host: The camera pulled back, showing their silhouettes walking toward the exit — two figures swallowed slowly by the dark, leaving behind a stage that would soon be someone else’s dream.

And in that quiet, where only dust and memory remained, Kevin Bacon’s words found their real meaning —

That the desire for fame is not vanity, but vulnerability.
That those who perform in the light are simply those brave enough to admit they crave it.
And that beneath every artist’s ambition is the same plea whispered into the dark — see me, before I disappear.

Jeeny: as they reach the door, softly
“You think we’ll ever stop wanting the light?”

Jack: pausing at the threshold, smiling faintly over his shoulder
“No. But maybe we’ll learn how to stand in it without losing ourselves.”

Host: The door closed gently, the echo lingering in the theatre’s hollow chest.

Outside, the city hummed — indifferent but alive — and somewhere in the distance, a new voice took the stage, chasing the same echo that every artist before them had chased:

the sound of being seen.