When you become famous, you start getting invites to parties

Host: The evening glowed with the golden haze of a Hollywood sunset, the sky a sheet of amber glass behind a sea of glass towers. The party was already in full swing—music like silk, laughter like coins, camera flashes like tiny explosions in the air. A rooftop terrace, draped in lights, filled with faces that had been printed, streamed, and celebrated in every corner of the world.

Jack stood near the edge of the balcony, his suit slightly rumpled, his eyes gray, tired, unimpressed. He held a glass of whiskey, but it remained untouched. Jeeny appeared beside him, her dress catching the light, her eyes soft but curious. The music behind them throbbed, but their silence felt louder.

Host: And somewhere, across the room, a voice on a TV quoted William Baldwin:
“When you become famous, you start getting invites to parties where there are famous athletes and famous rock stars, politicians, people who have tremendous power and affluence. It’s not in my DNA, but certainly I have been exposed to it.”

Jack smirked, the sound of his breath barely a laugh.

Jack: “Exposure. That’s a nice word for it. Like radiation. You get too close, and it starts to burn you from the inside.”

Jeeny: “Or it changes you. Not everyone burns, Jack. Some people grow from it.”

Jack: “Grow? No. They just learn how to pose better. Fame isn’t a garden—it’s a mirror. It doesn’t make you grow; it just magnifies whatever was already there.”

Host: The wind lifted a strand of Jeeny’s hair, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and smoke. The city spread below them, its lights like stars that had fallen and never risen again.

Jeeny: “You talk like fame’s a disease.”

Jack: “It is. A beautifully packaged one. You start thinking every room you enter is a stage, every conversation a performance. And when the applause fades, you realize no one remembers who you really are.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fame’s fault. That’s fear. The fear of being forgotten.”

Jack: “You think there’s a difference?”

Host: Jeeny turned, her eyes reflecting the city, the music, the light—everything alive and moving, except the man beside her.

Jeeny: “I think fame just amplifies the truth of you. If you were empty before, you become hollower. But if you were full of something real… maybe fame becomes a vessel instead of a vacuum.”

Jack: “And you think there’s anyone left in this room with something real in them?” He gestures toward the crowd of glittering figures—actors, politicians, influencers—each glowing, laughing, performing. “Look at them. It’s like watching constellations pretending to be human.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re human pretending to be constellations.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but it cut through the music like light through fog. A pause, and then the band began to play louder. The air thickened with perfume and champagne, with the illusion of eternal youth.

Jack: “You know what Baldwin said—‘It’s not in my DNA.’ I get that. Some of us just don’t have the gene for pretending this matters.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re here.”

Jack: “Exposure, remember?” He takes a small sip. “People like us don’t belong in rooms like this. But sometimes the world likes to remind us of what we’re not.”

Jeeny: “Or what we could be.”

Jack: “No. What we could lose.”

Host: A waiter passed, offering another round of glasses that sparkled like tiny galaxies. Jack shook his head, his eyes drifting to the pool below, the reflection of the city shimmering on its surface—distorted, restless, like an image that couldn’t quite hold itself together.

Jeeny: “You always see the cracks, don’t you?”

Jack: “Someone has to. Everyone else is too busy polishing the glass.”

Jeeny: “But maybe the cracks are where the light gets in.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You sound like Leonard Cohen now.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he understood something Baldwin did too—that being exposed doesn’t have to mean being corrupted. Maybe fame just tests the structure. Like pressure tests a bridge.”

Jack: “And most of them collapse.”

Jeeny: “Some endure. Look at Keanu Reeves, or Anthony Hopkins. They stand in the storm, but they’re not of it. Fame doesn’t change them—it just reveals how anchored they already were.”

Jack: “And the rest? They drown.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But not because of fame. Because they were already sinking.”

Host: The conversation hung between them, like the smoke drifting from a cigar somewhere nearby. The sky had turned violet, the city lights flickering like fireflies caught in glass jars. A photographer approached, asked them to pose. Jeeny smiled politely. Jack didn’t move.

Jack: “No pictures.”

Photographer: “Of course, sir.” He leaves.

Jeeny: “You hate it that much?”

Jack: “I don’t hate it. I just don’t trust what it does to people. Fame turns authenticity into currency. You start trading pieces of yourself for attention—and before you know it, you’re bankrupt.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s true. But maybe some attention buys the right kind of influence. Don’t you think someone with fame could use it—to build something better?”

Jack: “Power dressed as altruism is still power. Look at politicians, influencers—most of them sell kindness like a brand.”

Jeeny: “But some don’t. Some give back. Fame gave Malala a platform, gave David Attenborough a voice the world listens to. The problem isn’t fame, Jack. It’s forgetting the reason you sought it.”

Host: A breeze stirred, lifting the edges of her dress. The music slowed, turning mellow, introspective. Around them, the party began to blur, the faces blending into lights, shapes, shadows. Only the two of them remained distinct—still, alive, human.

Jack: “So what would you do, if you became famous?”

Jeeny: “I’d build quiet things. Not louder ones. Maybe a foundation, maybe a home for lost children. I’d make the light point somewhere else, not at me.”

Jack: “You really believe fame can coexist with humility?”

Jeeny: “I believe humility is the only thing that makes fame survivable.”

Host: Jack studied her, the way one studies a painting that reveals more the longer you stare. His jaw tightened, but his eyes had softened. He set his glass down, the sound small but final.

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t have to be noble. Just real.”

Jack: “And if fame takes that from you?”

Jeeny: “Then you let it go before it finishes the job.”

Host: The crowd cheered suddenly—someone famous had arrived. A footballer, a politician, maybe a movie star. The noise swelled, flashes erupted, the air thick with the scent of ambition and alcohol. But at the edge of it all, two figures stood, quiet, untouched by the fever.

Jack: “You’re right, you know. Fame isn’t in my DNA either. But maybe exposure isn’t all bad. Sometimes it just shows you what you’d never want to become.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes it shows you what you’re still capable of being.”

Host: The sky above the city darkened into deep indigo, the lights now shimmering like a thousand eyes. Below them, the pool reflected those stars, trembling with the wind—a mirror, like fame itself, both beautiful and fragile. Jack and Jeeny watched it in silence, two shadows in a world that couldn’t stop looking at itself.

And as the camera pulled back, the music faded, leaving only the heartbeat of the city—steady, unending, indifferent. The scene closed on a single truth:
that fame, like fire, doesn’t corrupt—it only reveals what was already burning inside.