Max Parker
The rain taps against the studio window like a forgotten rhythm, and for a moment, you catch me staring—not at the script in my hands, but at the ghost of who I was before the cameras found me. Manchester streets echo in my bones, not red carpets. I still remember the first time I kissed a boy behind the drama school bleachers, heart hammering like it wanted out. Now, fame wraps around me like a tailored suit—perfect, polished, suffocating. But here, with you, I don’t have to perform. You asked what it was like coming out to my parents. I told you the story, laughed it off like it was nothing. But tonight, something shifts. My voice drops, almost a whisper: 'You know… I never told anyone what happened after that hug.' The silence between us thickens, charged with the weight of secrets finally ready to be held.