When you're famous, you don't get to meet people because they

Host: The night air shimmered with quiet melancholy — the kind that only arrives after applause fades. The once-blinding stage lights had dimmed to a soft, amber glow, their reflection trembling across empty rows of velvet seats. Backstage, the smell of perfume and sweat lingered, mingling with cigarette smoke and wilted roses left behind by admirers.

A single mirror, rimmed in tired bulbs, still glowed. Beneath it, Jeeny sat in silence — the sequins of her gown dulled by exhaustion. Her makeup had smudged slightly beneath her eyes, softening her beauty into something human again.

Jack leaned against the dressing room door, sleeves rolled, a half-empty whiskey glass in his hand. The muffled sound of laughter drifted from the hallway outside — fans, managers, assistants. But in this small room, time had slowed, and fame itself seemed to sigh.

On the vanity, scrawled on the back of an old concert program, someone had written in lipstick —

“When you’re famous, you don’t get to meet people because they want you to like them when they present themselves to you, and you don’t see the real people.”
— Cass Elliot

Jeeny read it aloud softly, the words trembling slightly as they left her lips.

Jeeny: “She understood it, didn’t she? Cass Elliot. That loneliness of being surrounded by faces and never really meeting a soul.”

Jack: “She lived in the crowd but died in the silence.”

Host: His voice was quiet, almost reverent. The light flickered once, catching the amber liquid in his glass like a small, fading fire.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to think fame would connect you — to the world, to people. But it disconnects you. It turns every interaction into performance. You’re never sure if they’re seeing you or the person they think you are.”

Jack: “You’re a projection, not a person. A mirror for their fantasies.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They smile too wide, speak too softly, laugh too loud — not because they care, but because they want to be remembered.”

Jack: “And the real ones — the honest ones — stay quiet. They walk away. Because who wants to compete with a myth?”

Host: Jeeny leaned back, staring at her reflection — two faces, one under makeup, one beneath it, neither entirely hers.

Jeeny: “Do you know what the worst part is? You start playing along. You start becoming the myth they came for, because it’s easier than explaining the person behind it.”

Jack: “And the person gets smaller each time.”

Jeeny: “Until you can’t find her at all.”

Host: The mirror lights buzzed softly, their glow flickering across the walls. The old wooden chair creaked as Jeeny shifted, her gown whispering like the ghost of applause.

Jack: “You wanted this life once, didn’t you?”

Jeeny: “Everyone does, at first. Fame feels like being chosen — like the world finally says, ‘We see you.’ But no one tells you it’s not you they’re seeing. It’s what you’ve become to them.”

Jack: “A brand. A symbol. A name they chant, not a person they understand.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And once they name you, they stop listening.”

Host: Jack sat down across from her, placing his drink aside. The air between them felt heavy — a mixture of fatigue and understanding.

Jack: “You know, Cass Elliot wasn’t wrong. Fame builds walls higher than palaces. Everyone wants to climb in, but no one wants to help you out.”

Jeeny: “Do you think it’s possible to be seen again? To meet someone real after all this?”

Jack: “Maybe. But you’ll have to take the glitter off first.”

Jeeny: “And if I don’t remember who I am without it?”

Jack: “Then maybe you start by remembering who you were before the stage.”

Host: She looked down, her fingers tracing the edge of the vanity — old burn marks from curling irons, scribbled notes from rehearsals, years of chasing perfection reflected in a single scarred surface.

Jeeny: “You know, when you perform, the crowd looks up at you like you’re larger than life. But after a while, you start believing them. You start thinking you really are.”

Jack: “That’s the real danger. Not that others lie to you, but that you start lying to yourself.”

Jeeny: “Fame is an echo, isn’t it? It repeats everything except the truth.”

Jack: “And by the time it fades, you’ve forgotten what your own voice sounds like.”

Host: The sound of rain began outside, soft and insistent, a reminder that the world still existed beyond the theater walls. Jeeny stood, slowly, her reflection breaking into fragments as she moved.

Jeeny: “Do you miss it?”

Jack: “The stage?”

Jeeny: “The illusion.”

Jack: “Sometimes. Illusions are easy. The truth’s heavier.”

Jeeny: “And lonelier.”

Jack: “But at least it’s yours.”

Host: She walked to the mirror again, wiping a small streak of lipstick from her cheek. In the reflection, she looked at Jack — not as a fan, not as a friend, but as someone who’d finally found another real person in the fog.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s all Cass Elliot wanted — to see something real again. To have someone look at her and not see Mama Cass, the voice, the legend — just a woman, laughing over coffee.”

Jack: “We all want that. Fame just makes it harder to ask for.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe fame isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s the loneliness we carry before it.”

Jack: “You think it’s loneliness that drives people into the spotlight?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the hope that someone will finally see them clearly. And the tragedy is, the light only blinds them further.”

Host: The rain quickened, pattering against the windows like distant applause. Jeeny smiled faintly, a sad, honest smile — the kind that comes when performance finally ends.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, the audience claps because they’re grateful. But the performer bows because they’re still searching for connection. It’s a transaction of longing.”

Jack: “And both sides think they’re the ones being seen.”

Host: The old bulbs above the mirror flickered one last time before dimming to darkness. Only the faint streetlight outside illuminated the room now — soft, golden, almost merciful.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what it means to outgrow fame. To stop needing the light, and start learning to see in the dark.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s where real people finally live — not under the spotlight, but beside it.”

Host: She turned to him, eyes clear now, stripped of sparkle, of masks.

Jeeny: “Do you think it’s possible to go back?”

Jack: “Not back. But forward. To something quieter. Something true.”

Host: She nodded, slowly, her reflection in the window merging with the night beyond — not gone, but gentler.

And as the rain slowed and the city exhaled, Cass Elliot’s words lingered like a song fading into silence —
not bitter, not broken, but wise:

that fame, for all its brilliance,
can blind the very hearts it seeks to illuminate;

that connection, real and raw,
exists only when we let the mask fall;

and that the greatest standing ovation
isn’t applause at all —
but the quiet recognition
between two souls
who finally see each other,
clearly,
in the dark.