Well, you have to keep your faith in the fact that there are a

Host: The cinema was nearly empty, its old velvet seats worn from decades of dreams. The projector flickered lazily, spilling ghost-light across the screen — dust particles swimming like tiny galaxies. It was after midnight, the kind of hour when ideas seem to whisper louder than people.

Outside, neon lights buzzed through the fog, but inside was a cocoon of quiet. The reel had just finished — the final credits of some forgotten indie film rolling in white letters over black silence.

Jack sat halfway down the aisle, jacket over the back of his seat, a notebook open on his lap. A pen dangled from his fingers, idle. In the row behind him, Jeeny leaned forward, chin resting on her hands, watching the blank screen even after the film had gone dark.

Pinned to the corkboard in the lobby — now visible through the open doors — was a quote printed on a festival flyer:

“Well, you have to keep your faith in the fact that there are a lot of intelligent people who are actively looking for something interesting, people who have been disappointed so many times.” — Richard Linklater

Jeeny: (softly, as if still in the film’s world) “You think he’s right? That there are still people out there, looking for something real?”

Host: Her voice drifted like smoke — tired, hopeful, and just a little haunted.

Jack: (closing his notebook) “Yeah. But they’re harder to find. The world got louder. You have to listen past the noise to hear sincerity anymore.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes I think sincerity’s gone extinct. Like analog film.”

Jack: “Nah. It’s just gone underground. Like Linklater said — intelligent people are still looking. They’ve just been disappointed too many times to admit it.”

Host: The faint hum of the projector fan filled the silence between them — that mechanical heartbeat that had once powered stories big enough to change lives.

Jeeny: “It’s strange. We live in an age of endless content — everything screaming for attention — and somehow, nothing feels alive.”

Jack: “Because attention isn’t the same as connection.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s not. Connection requires quiet.”

Jack: “And patience. Qualities that don’t sell.”

Host: He stood, walked toward the screen, and ran a hand over the curtain’s edge — fabric rough and heavy, like history refusing to fade.

Jack: “You know what I think Linklater meant? He was talking about faith — not in God, but in curiosity. The belief that somewhere, someone’s still paying attention.”

Jeeny: “Faith in the audience.”

Jack: “Faith in the possibility of being understood.”

Jeeny: “That’s a rare kind of faith.”

Jack: “It’s the only one I’ve got left.”

Host: The emergency exit sign glowed faintly red, painting Jack’s silhouette like a figure caught between leaving and staying.

Jeeny: “It’s comforting, though — the idea that disappointment doesn’t kill curiosity. That maybe the people who’ve been let down the most are the ones still hoping for something true.”

Jack: “Because disappointment means you cared once. That part of you still wants to believe.”

Jeeny: “So cynicism is just bruised hope.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The air between them felt warm with recognition, the kind that arrives when two souls discover they’re haunted by the same ache.

Jeeny: “You ever get tired of trying to make something interesting for people who might not even care?”

Jack: “Every day. But I keep doing it because once in a while, someone does care. They don’t clap loud. They don’t post about it. They just feel it — quietly. And that’s enough.”

Jeeny: “So faith becomes an act of stubbornness.”

Jack: “And art, an act of endurance.”

Host: The rain outside had started again, faint against the glass — each drop like punctuation against the night.

Jeeny: “You know, when I first watched Before Sunrise, I thought it was just about love. But now I see it’s about faith. Two strangers daring to believe that something genuine could exist, even for one night.”

Jack: “That’s Linklater. He’s obsessed with ordinary miracles — how simple moments hold eternity if you’re awake enough to notice.”

Jeeny: “And if you’re not?”

Jack: “Then life becomes noise. Endless, bright, and hollow.”

Host: She laughed softly, though there was sadness in it — the kind of laugh that tastes like resignation.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe we’re all just waiting for someone to prove that authenticity still matters?”

Jack: “Maybe. But it doesn’t need proving. It needs persistence. You just keep making, keep believing — not because the world deserves it, but because you do.”

Jeeny: “That sounds exhausting.”

Jack: “It is. But so is breathing.”

Host: The projector light flickered once more, the reel rewinding with a soft whirring sound — like memory being pulled back into itself.

Jeeny: (after a pause) “You think people will ever stop being disappointed?”

Jack: “No. But that’s not the point. The point is, they keep coming back. Sitting in dark rooms like this. Waiting for something to mean something again.”

Jeeny: “Because deep down, we all still believe it’s possible.”

Jack: “And that’s why Linklater was right — faith isn’t about certainty. It’s about continuing to look, even after you’ve stopped believing you’ll find it.”

Host: The projector clicked off. The screen went black. For a moment, they both just stood there, staring at the empty space — the afterimage of light still imprinted in their eyes.

Jeeny: “So we keep making things for the disappointed.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because the disappointed are the only ones still paying attention.”

Jeeny: “And because maybe we’re making something for ourselves too.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Especially for ourselves.”

Host: The two walked toward the exit. The red sign above the door glowed brighter now, reflected faintly in the puddles outside — like a promise, or maybe a warning: keep going.

And as they stepped into the damp, neon night, Richard Linklater’s words stayed behind, echoing softly in the empty theatre:

that faith isn’t naive — it’s resilient;
that disappointment isn’t the end of wonder,
but its beginning;
and that the true believer —
in art, in people, in meaning —
is not the one untouched by disillusionment,
but the one who keeps looking,
watching, listening,
because somewhere out there
in the dark,
someone still hungers
for something real.

The door closed.
The projector cooled.
And the theatre, once again,
filled itself with silence and hope.