When you are playing somebody who did exist, and there is good

Host: The city was draped in a veil of rain, the kind that turns neon lights into liquid reflections. Inside a small theatre café, the air hummed with the scent of coffee, wet coats, and tired dreams. A poster for an upcoming play fluttered by the door, its edges frayed from months of indifference. Jack sat at the corner table, script pages spread before him like white feathers. His grey eyes moved slowly over the lines, but his mind was elsewhere.

Jeeny walked in, shaking raindrops from her hair, her brown eyes warm and curious. She spotted Jack immediately.

Jeeny: “Still at it, huh? You’ve been reading that thing for three days straight.”

Jack: “Four, actually. And it still doesn’t feel right.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, each sound a small reminder of how much time slips away in pursuit of perfection.

Jeeny: “You’re overthinking it again. You’re not supposed to become him—you’re supposed to interpret him.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say. This man actually existed. He breathed, spoke, suffered. I can’t just invent my own version like some fantasy hero. If I get him wrong, I’m not just failing the role—I’m betraying his truth.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the problem. You’re trying to find his truth in pages and archives, when what you should be doing is finding it in yourself.”

Host: Her words hung between them like steam, soft yet cutting through the air. The rain outside beat harder against the windows, a rhythmic soundtrack to their growing tension.

Jack: “Aurora once said she loved being alone outside because that’s where she found herself. But this? This isn’t solitude—it’s dissection. Every book, every interview, every grainy photograph—they pull me apart. I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.”

Jeeny: “Andrew Gower said something once—‘When you’re playing somebody who did exist, and there’s good source material on them, you’d be stupid not to delve into it. But there comes a point where you leave the books alone and focus on creating your version.’ That’s what you’re missing. You’re not a historian, Jack. You’re an artist.”

Jack: “And what if my version disrespects his reality?”

Jeeny: “Then you’re still telling a truth, just not his—yours.”

Host: The lights above them flickered, casting shadows that danced across Jack’s face. His expression hardened, then softened, as if caught between reason and fear.

Jack: “You talk like the truth is elastic. But it isn’t. There are facts, Jeeny. There’s evidence. That’s what defines reality.”

Jeeny: “And yet, two people can read the same biography, the same letters, and walk away with two completely different understandings. Facts don’t make truth, Jack—interpretation does.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her hands clasped, her voice quiet but fierce.

Jeeny: “You know what makes a performance unforgettable? It’s not accuracy. It’s empathy. You can study every photo, memorize every gesture, but if you don’t feel him—his pain, his fear, his desire—you’re just an imitator, not a creator.”

Jack: “And what if empathy distorts him?”

Jeeny: “Then at least it makes him human again.”

Host: The café grew quieter. The rain softened, like the world had started to listen. Jack looked down at the script, his fingers tracing a line of dialogue as if searching for something beneath the words.

Jack: “You ever think about how actors become ghosts for other people’s lives? We wear their shadows, we breathe their memories, and then we walk offstage as if it was nothing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the price of empathy—you let someone else live through you. But it’s not possession; it’s resurrection.”

Jack: “You make it sound divine.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Art always tries to make the dead speak again.”

Host: A faint smile curved on Jeeny’s lips, but her eyes were sad. Outside, a taxi splashed through the street, its headlights cutting a fleeting path through the mist.

Jack: “You think we’re supposed to be gods then? Giving life where there’s none?”

Jeeny: “No. Just mirrors. But the trick is remembering that every mirror distorts a little. The reflection is always half you.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling slowly. The steam from his coffee swirled upward like a ghost taking shape.

Jack: “When Daniel Day-Lewis played Lincoln, he said he stayed in character for months. Everyone called it genius. But maybe it’s just fear—fear that if you stop being him, you won’t find yourself again.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s faith—faith that even for a short time, you can touch something bigger than yourself. Don’t you feel that, Jack? When you step on that stage, doesn’t the world shift a little?”

Jack: “It does. But it’s fleeting. Like waking from a dream you can’t quite remember.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. The truth isn’t in remembering—it’s in feeling. You live him, then you let him go.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. A single drop clung to the windowpane, catching the city lights in a small, trembling spectrum. Jack followed it with his eyes, then looked back at Jeeny.

Jack: “So what do I do now?”

Jeeny: “Close the book. Read the script. And let him speak through your voice, not someone else’s words.”

Jack: “And if I lose him?”

Jeeny: “You won’t. You’ll just find yourself inside him.”

Host: The café lights dimmed as a waiter began wiping tables, the smell of lemon cleaner mingling with coffee and dust. The theatre poster outside flapped one last time before the wind tore it loose.

Jack picked up the script, folded it closed, and set it down gently.

Jack: “You know… maybe it’s not about becoming him at all. Maybe it’s about understanding why I needed to.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s where art stops being imitation and starts being truth.”

Host: She smiled—small, genuine, luminous in the fading light. Jack returned the gesture, a quiet reconciliation forming between the artist and the man he sought to portray.

Outside, the rain began again, softer now, like applause from a distant audience. The city glowed. The neon signs blinked like tired stars. Inside, two souls sat still in the wake of an unspoken understanding—

that to honor the past, one must first dare to create the present.

And somewhere between the page and the heart, a character was finally born.