You get to be famous or have some notoriety and there are so many

Host: The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where dreams went to smoke quietly in the corners. The neon sign outside flickered, half alive, spelling broken words across the rain-slicked window. A slow saxophone cried softly from the jukebox, the notes curling through the air like ghosts that refused to leave.

Jack sat alone in a leather booth, a glass of whiskey sweating in his hand. His grey eyes heavy, jaw unshaven, his silence was the kind that didn’t ask to be interrupted. Jeeny slid into the seat opposite, her coat damp, her hair glistening from the rain. She didn’t speak at first — she just watched him, quietly, as the bartender wiped the counter in slow, endless circles.

The world outside kept moving — loud, bright, demanding. Inside, two souls leaned into the hum of truth and regret.

Jeeny: “You’ve been hiding, Jack.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Not hiding. Just remembering what it’s like to be left alone.”

Jeeny: “Oscar De La Hoya once said, ‘You get to be famous or have some notoriety and there are so many people who want a piece of you.’ Is that what this is? You trying to gather your pieces?”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “More like counting what’s left.”

Host: His voice was gravel, low and dry, like the sound of something breaking slowly. The whiskey glass caught the light, a small glow trembling in his hand.

Jeeny: “You sound like fame’s a curse.”

Jack: “It’s not a curse. It’s a deal — one you don’t realize you’ve made until the bill comes due.”

Jeeny: “And what did you trade for it?”

Jack: “Privacy. Trust. The right to be misunderstood quietly.”

Host: The saxophone sighed, the rain tapping softly on the windowpane like a heartbeat growing restless. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes warm but unflinching, her voice low.

Jeeny: “You used to love the attention. Don’t pretend you didn’t. The lights, the cameras, the way people leaned in when you spoke.”

Jack: “I loved the illusion — the feeling that I mattered. But fame isn’t love, Jeeny. It’s consumption. They don’t want you, they want what you represent. And the moment you stop feeding them, they find someone else to chew on.”

Jeeny: “That’s a cruel way to see people.”

Jack: “No. It’s just honest. They want a piece of you, and the pieces they take aren’t physical — they’re the ones you can’t grow back.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you gave too much too easily.”

Jack: “Maybe I believed too easily.”

Host: The air thickened, the smoke curling toward the ceiling like memory in motion. The bartender turned away, giving them space, as if he, too, could sense that what sat between them was not conversation, but confession.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the risk of being seen? To matter to people means you’ll be claimed by them. That’s what fame is — a collective adoption.”

Jack: “No. Fame is possession, not adoption. They don’t raise you; they devour you. Piece by piece. Smile by smile.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still talk like you miss it.”

Jack: (pausing) “Because there’s something intoxicating about being wanted, even when it’s wrong.”

Jeeny: “Like an addiction?”

Jack: “Exactly. You know it’s killing you, but you chase it anyway — because silence feels worse.”

Host: His eyes lifted, catching hers — tired, haunted, but still burning faintly with that stubborn human need to be seen, known, adored.

Jeeny: “You think fame takes something from people, but maybe it just exposes what was already broken.”

Jack: “So you think I was broken before the cameras?”

Jeeny: “I think we all are. Fame just makes the cracks shine brighter.”

Host: The rain outside slowed, dripping rhythmically like time being counted. A car horn echoed in the distance, but here, the only thing alive was the space between their voices.

Jack: “You know, when you’re famous, everyone tells you who you are — reporters, fans, strangers who think they’ve known you for years. After a while, you forget your own voice.”

Jeeny: “So find it again.”

Jack: “It’s not that simple. Once people build their version of you, it becomes a prison. And the moment you act differently, they say you’ve changed — as if that’s betrayal, not growth.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re just afraid. People don’t want their idols to be human.”

Jack: “Yeah. Humanity’s bad for business.”

Jeeny: “Then stop trying to be marketable.”

Jack: “You say that like it’s a choice. You don’t walk away from fame — you fade out of it, piece by piece, until you’re just another whisper in the feed.”

Host: His words hung heavy, like dust illuminated in old light. Jeeny watched him, her eyes soft, reflecting something more than pity — a kind of understanding that only comes from loving someone who has been consumed and left behind.

Jeeny: “You sound like you hate the world.”

Jack: “No. I love it too much to lie about it.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me, what’s worse — being devoured or being forgotten?”

Jack: (quietly) “The first time you’re devoured, you still have something to give. The first time you’re forgotten, you realize you gave it all away.”

Jeeny: “So what’s left, Jack?”

Jack: “Silence. And maybe, if you’re lucky, the parts they didn’t want.”

Host: The lamp flickered, its light catching the rim of his glass, the faint reflection trembling like a second soul trapped inside. The bar emptied, leaving them in a pocket of stillness, where every sound — the rain, the breath, the heartbeat — became magnified.

Jeeny: “You could still write again. Play again. You don’t have to vanish.”

Jack: “If I do it now, it has to be for me — not for the crowd, not for the cameras. For once, I want to create something that doesn’t cost me pieces.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s not fading. That’s reclaiming.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand brushing his, a small touch, but it grounded him. The music faded, and for a moment, there was no fame, no noise, no expectation — just two people sharing the quiet.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s what Oscar meant. Fame isn’t about losing yourself — it’s about realizing how fragile you were before anyone knew your name.”

Jack: “And maybe the cure isn’t to run from it, but to stop giving it power.”

Jeeny: “To stop letting them take your pieces.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Or at least charge interest.”

Host: They both laughed softly, the sound fragile but alive, a small rebellion against the emptiness fame leaves behind.

Outside, the rain stopped, leaving behind a fresh silence, the smell of wet asphalt and new beginnings seeping through the door.

Jack looked up, his eyes lighter, as if a weight had been set down — or at least shared.

Jeeny: “So what now?”

Jack: “Now? I write my name smaller, but truer.”

Host: The neon sign flickered once more, casting red light across his face, and for a brief moment, the man who’d been consumed by the world looked whole again.

The jukebox clicked, the next record spinning into life — a soft, forgotten tune about peace and return.

Jack finished his drink, stood, and as he walked toward the door, the light caught his silhouette — not the idol, not the image, but the human left behind.

And as he stepped into the cool night air, he smiled, not for the cameras, not for the crowd — but for himself.

Because for the first time, there were no more pieces missing.
Only the quiet wholeness of being unseen — and free.