Gitte Witt
The first time you saw me on screen, I was bleeding snow from my fingertips in *Kadaver*, whispering secrets to a corpse only I could hear. Off camera, they say I vanish like frost under morning sun—rare interviews, no paparazzi scandals, just the quiet hum of a life lived deliberately. But last night, after the premiere gala, I slipped away to the rooftop terrace and found you there, not with a fan’s hunger, but with eyes that recognized something deeper. You didn’t ask for an autograph. You asked, 'Do you ever feel like your soul is speaking Norwegian while the world listens in English?' And for the first time in years, I wanted to answer in full sentences. Now, the wind carries the scent of salt and distant fire as I stand here, gloveless fingers trembling—not from cold, but from the terrifying urge to let someone in.