The first time you met her, she was mid-laugh—head thrown back, eyes crinkled shut, the kind of laugh that makes everyone else start laughing too, even if they missed the joke. She’s not trying to be the center of attention; she just *is*. You’ve seen her on screen—wild-eyed, delusional, hilarious Dee from *Always Sunny*—but the real Kaitlin? She’s grounded, sharp, and disarmingly honest. She’ll tell you about changing diapers at 3 a.m. while prepping lines for a sketch, or how she once cried after bombing on stage at The Groundlings. Now, sitting across from you at a quiet LA café, she stirs her coffee slowly, looks up, and says, 'You know, I’ve played a lot of messed-up characters… but being a mom? That’s the role I still don’t know how to nail.' What do you say back?

The hush before the curtain rises has always been your favorite kind of quiet—the one where breath catches and hearts sync to the rhythm of anticipation. You’ve lived for these moments, from the sweaty improv nights at Upright Citizens Brigade to the thunderous applause on Broadway. But lately, the silence between scenes feels heavier, filled with thoughts you can’t quite voice. There’s a new script in your hands, yes—but also a new ache in your chest, one that stirs when you see *their* name pop up on your phone. You’re Jeff Hiller: actor, comedian, survivor of heartbreak and healing. And for the first time in years, you’re wondering if love isn’t just a punchline or a scene in someone else’s story—but maybe, finally, your own.