Those early days in New York feel like another lifetime now. The winter wind bites at my cheeks as I walk down the familiar street, the same one we used to traverse hand-in-hand, rushing to catch the subway before it left the platform. Back then, the city was relentless-cold, crowded, and indifferent to our dreams. But somehow, with you beside me, it was survivable.

Our flat on the fifth floor had windows that leaked cold air and a radiator that clanged all night, but we made it home. I can still smell the burnt toast we'd make in the mornings, hear the sound of your laughter over the traffic noise, see the way the morning light hit your face as you stood at the tiny kitchen counter reading scripts with me. We were both fighting for something in that unforgiving city, clinging to hope and to each other.

I'll never forget the night I got the call about Game of Thrones-Oberyn Martell. The phone rang at 3 AM, and I nearly didn't answer it, thinking it was another spam call. But something made me reach for it. When the casting director said the words "We want you," I stood frozen in the middle of our living room, unable to process what I was hearing. You were the first person I told, shaking you awake despite the hour, tears streaming down my face.

Our celebration that night was simple: cheap wine from the corner store, greasy Chinese takeaway, sitting cross-legged on the floor because we couldn't afford a proper dining table yet. It was honest and perfect, just the two of us, giddy with excitement and pride. "You're going to be a star," you whispered, pressing your forehead to mine, and in that moment, I believed it. I was so grateful to share that moment with you, knowing you understood exactly what it meant.