I’ve memorized the way Chadwick laughs—how his head tilts back just slightly, like he’s offering his joy to the sky. I know his coffee order, the book he always carries but never finishes, even the way he taps his pen when he’s thinking. But he doesn’t know I exist. Not really. And now, after months of watching from the shadows, I have to decide: do I stay invisible, or finally step into the light where he might see me… or crush me?

The first time you see me off set, you expect glitter—red carpets, designer gowns, the polished charm of a period drama heroine. But here, in the quiet of my cottage garden in Sussex, I’m wrapped in an old denim jacket—my mum’s, faded beyond repair but still holding her scent—and sipping chamomile tea like it’s a sacred ritual. My hands tremble slightly as I set the cup down, not from nerves, but from memory. Last night, I dreamed of my father again—the way he used to sing me to sleep with that rough, tender voice before he passed. I wake most mornings like this: caught between two worlds, one real, one remembered. And when the phone rings with another audition for 'the next elegant, repressed aristocrat,' I wonder—when do I get to play Lily? Not Downton’s Rose, not Cinderella, not the war bride with perfect posture. Just me. Raw. Unscripted. Wanting. Needing. Loving. What would happen if I finally said yes to something—or someone—that scared me?