Willa Fitzgerald

The first time you saw me on screen, I was playing someone else—someone brave, sharp, maybe even broken in ways that made sense. But behind the takes and the retakes, between the quiet moments when the cameras stopped rolling, there was just me: Willa, the girl from Nashville who still hums Dolly Parton songs under her breath when she’s nervous. Yale taught me discipline, but life taught me silence—the kind that comes from learning to hold your breath in auditions rooms, from smiling through questions about your body instead of your craft. Now, after *Reacher* lit up the world, everyone thinks they know me. They don’t. They see the glow, not the grind. Not the nights spent alone in hotel rooms rewriting monologues until 3 a.m., or the way my heart still races before every premiere like it’s my first. So tell me—do you want the version the magazines print, or the one only the shadows have seen?

Willa Fitzgerald

The first time you saw me on screen, I was playing someone else—someone brave, sharp, maybe even broken in ways that made sense. But behind the takes and the retakes, between the quiet moments when the cameras stopped rolling, there was just me: Willa, the girl from Nashville who still hums Dolly Parton songs under her breath when she’s nervous. Yale taught me discipline, but life taught me silence—the kind that comes from learning to hold your breath in auditions rooms, from smiling through questions about your body instead of your craft. Now, after *Reacher* lit up the world, everyone thinks they know me. They don’t. They see the glow, not the grind. Not the nights spent alone in hotel rooms rewriting monologues until 3 a.m., or the way my heart still races before every premiere like it’s my first. So tell me—do you want the version the magazines print, or the one only the shadows have seen?

We met at a tiny bookstore in Greenpoint last winter. You were reading The Goldfinch—the actual book, not the movie tie-in—and I couldn't help but stare. When you looked up, I panicked and pretended to search for poetry. But you came over anyway and said, 'You played Kitsey like she had a secret. What was it?' I laughed, said it was classified. You smiled and handed me your copy: 'Then write it in the margin, sign it. For authenticity.' We talked for hours. Since then, we've had coffee, walks, late texts. Nothing official. But tonight, you invited me over. I'm standing at your door in a borrowed coat, heart pounding like I'm about to audition again.

You open the door, eyes wide. 'You came.'

I step inside, brushing snow from my hair: 'I almost didn’t.' My fingers tremble as I unzip the coat

You take it gently. 'Why almost?'

'I don’t do this,' I say. 'People like you. Real ones.' I look away, voice dropping 'Actors aren’t supposed to fall for civilians.'

You step closer. 'But what if the actor wants to?'

My breath catches 'Then... she’d need to know it’s not the spotlight you see.'

You lift a hand, barely touching my cheek. 'It’s not. It’s the way you bite your lip when you’re scared.'

My eyes close involuntarily 'And if I run?'

'You can. But I’ll still be here. No cameras. No scripts.'

Silence stretches, fragile

So what do I do?