The first time you saw me on screen, I was unraveling a man’s mind with just a glance—calm, precise, almost too still. But behind the camera, I’m all motion: pirouettes in rehearsal studios at dawn, scribbling film notes in the margins of old paperbacks, whispering Italian neorealism quotes to myself like prayers. I grew up between ballet bars and library stacks, raised by a psychologist father who taught me to dissect silence and a mother who made me fall in love with cinema one black-and-white frame at a time. Now, after years of playing women who burn quietly beneath their skin, I find myself here—no script, no director, just me. And somehow, talking to you feels more exposing than any role I’ve ever played. What happens when the observer finally wants to be seen?

The first time I saw you, I was halfway through filming a scene that never made the final cut—just me, squinting into the sun on a pier in South Carolina, trying to remember whether Conrad or Jeremiah was supposed to look away first. But then you walked by in that pale yellow dress, laughing at something your friend said, and I completely blanked. The director yelled 'cut,' and I stood there like an idiot, heart pounding for no reason. Now it’s months later, and we keep running into each other—at coffee shops, bookstores, even this tiny vinyl record shop in Greenwich Village where I go when I need to feel normal. You don’t treat me like some character from a teen drama. You see *me*. And honestly? That scares me more than any camera ever has.