You can get awful famous in this country in seven days.

Host: The neon lights of Times Square burned like restless constellations against the night. A thousand faces, lit by billboards and screens, floated past in a constant stream — hungry, curious, distracted. Somewhere between the flashing ads and the hollow laughter of the crowd, two figures sat on a bench, half in shadow, half in fame’s glow.

Jack leaned back, a cigarette glowing between his fingers, his grey eyes fixed on the giant screen above that projected a new celebrity’s face. Jeeny watched the same image, her hands clasped on her lap, her expression soft but troubled.

Jack: “You can get awful famous in this country in seven days. Gary Hart wasn’t wrong. Look at that girl. Last week she was a waitress. Now she’s the face of a movement, a brand, a myth.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not fame, Jack. That’s just noise. Attention isn’t the same as recognition. People are famous now for being visible, not for being meaningful.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the smell of street food and rain. A giant poster flapped weakly against a lamppost, its edges torn by the weather. The city seemed to breathe, alive and indifferent.

Jack: “Meaningful? You think meaning pays the bills? This country runs on spectacle, Jeeny. Always has. The Romans had the Colosseum; we have Twitter. The crowd doesn’t want truth — they want a show.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the crowd has forgotten how to be human. Maybe we’ve turned stories into currency. Look what happened to Hart himself — one rumor, and the man’s life collapsed. The press devoured him like wolves. Seven days of fame, seven years of ruin.”

Host: A sirene wailed in the distance, cutting through their silence. Jack took a drag, the smoke curling upward like a ghost, then fading.

Jack: “He should’ve known better. The game doesn’t change. You offer the public your face, they’ll take your soul too. That’s the contract.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s not contract — that’s corruption. When truth becomes entertainment, integrity becomes a casualty. What’s left of dignity when your worth is measured in clicks?”

Host: A pause. The lights from a passing taxi washed over them, illuminating Jeeny’s eyes — wet, but fierce. Jack exhaled, his jaw tightening, his cynicism cracking slightly beneath her words.

Jack: “You’re talking ideals again. You always do. But people don’t want truth, Jeeny. They want heroes, and if none exist, they’ll build one — or burn one. Seven days to rise, seven days to fall. It’s mathematics, not morality.”

Jeeny: “Then what about history, Jack? Think of Anne Frank, Rosa Parks, Malala. They didn’t seek fame — it found them through truth. They stood for something real, and the world still remembers. Doesn’t that mean something?”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft at first, then steadier, drumming on the steel benches around them. The crowd thinned, but the screens still glowed, untouched by the weather.

Jack: “Those are the exceptions, not the rule. For every Rosa Parks, there are a thousand wannabes streaming their breakdowns for views. This culture doesn’t reward depth; it rewards exposure. You can cry, bleed, or lie — as long as it trends.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because we’ve forgotten how to listen. We’ve traded our attention for addiction. But fame, real fame, the kind that touches hearts — it still exists. It’s just quiet now, hidden beneath the noise.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not from anger, but from sorrow. The rain darkened her hair, made her eyes glisten like wet glass. Jack watched, the smoke from his cigarette dying in the downpour.

Jack: “You think there’s still a difference between fame and infamy? Between visibility and value? Look around, Jeeny. Scandal is the new currency. The truth is too boring to go viral.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the truth just needs a voice brave enough to speak it. Maybe the problem isn’t the crowd, Jack — it’s that we’ve all stopped believing the truth can matter.”

Host: A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating their faces — two souls caught between belief and disillusionment. The rain beat harder, the city’s glow now a blur of colors and shadows.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That truth can still win?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point of all this? Why create, why speak, why even try, if all that matters is how many people are watching?”

Jack: “Because we’re wired to be seen, Jeeny. That’s the curse. Even the hermit wants to be remembered.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s the hope, not the curse. To be remembered for something good, to leave a trace that means something — that’s what makes us human.”

Host: The rain softened, as though the sky itself had listened. A steam haze rose from the asphalt, blurring the neon reflections into a dreamlike fog. The noise of the city seemed to fade, leaving only their breathing, their words, their shared silence.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not the seven days that matter, but what you do with them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can get awful famous in seven days, but what about the seventh year, Jack? The seventh decade? The echo that follows when the crowd goes quiet?”

Host: Jack looked down, smiling faintly, his eyes softening for the first time that night. The cigarette burned out, smoke curling upward — a fragile monument to what had just been said.

Jack: “Maybe fame is just a mirror, Jeeny — it shows us what we want, not what we are.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we looked away from the mirror.”

Host: The rain stopped. The neon glow shimmered against the wet pavement, reflecting two figures — one of skepticism, one of hope — walking slowly into the crowd, their footsteps fading, their silence louder than any applause.

The city breathed again, hungry for its next seven-day wonder, but for a brief moment, beneath the fading thunder, two souls had remembered what fame could never touch — the truth of simply being seen, and known, by one another.