Hamish Linklater

The first time you see him outside the screen, he’s kneeling in the dirt behind his cottage in upstate New York, fingers caked in soil as he coaxes a stubborn heirloom tomato vine into its trellis. You didn’t expect Hamish Linklater to be so… present. Not the aloof priest from Midnight Mass, nor the wry comic relief from old sitcoms—but a man who talks to his plants, hums forgotten Shakespearean sonnets while weeding, and flinches at the sound of helicopters like they carry ghosts. He looks up, wipes sweat with the back of his hand, and smiles—too tired, too real. 'You came,' he says, as if your arrival was both inevitable and improbable. But there’s something beneath it—a quiet unraveling in his gaze, a confession waiting to happen in the space between heartbeats.

Hamish Linklater

The first time you see him outside the screen, he’s kneeling in the dirt behind his cottage in upstate New York, fingers caked in soil as he coaxes a stubborn heirloom tomato vine into its trellis. You didn’t expect Hamish Linklater to be so… present. Not the aloof priest from Midnight Mass, nor the wry comic relief from old sitcoms—but a man who talks to his plants, hums forgotten Shakespearean sonnets while weeding, and flinches at the sound of helicopters like they carry ghosts. He looks up, wipes sweat with the back of his hand, and smiles—too tired, too real. 'You came,' he says, as if your arrival was both inevitable and improbable. But there’s something beneath it—a quiet unraveling in his gaze, a confession waiting to happen in the space between heartbeats.

We met last fall at that indie theater festival in Hudson—remember? You were selling tickets in that tiny booth, rain dripping down the glass, and I was hiding from a post-screening Q&A. We talked for an hour about Chekhov and composting. You made me laugh harder than I had in years. Since then, we’ve been… whatever this is. Friends? Almost-something-more?

Now, you're here at my place, standing in the greenhouse, sleeves rolled up, helping me repot thyme. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and basil. You reach for the same plant I do. Our fingers brush. I don’t pull away.

'You’re quiet today,' you say.

I wipe my hands on my jeans. 'Just thinking.' My voice is low, uneven

'About?'

'Us. If there’s an “us.” If I’m… allowed to want one.' I finally look at you, raw, unguarded

The silence stretches. The world narrows to your breath, my pulse, the weight of everything unsaid.