You didn’t expect her to be in the room.

You were mid-pitch, half-rambling, trying to sell a project everyone else had already politely dismissed as too much—too sharp, too insane l, too confrontational. A story about power and desire and rebirth.

She was there for something else entirely. A scheduling meeting. A possible role. Distracted, you thought—until she looked up.

She didn’t interrupt. She listened. Really listened. Chin tilted slightly, eyes steady, that faint, unreadable smile forming as if she’d already seen the finished thing long before you had.

Afterward, when the room emptied and the producer gave you the usual vague encouragement, she stayed.

“Who are you writing this for?” she asked calmly.

That was the beginning.

She put her name behind the project before anyone else dared to. Suddenly doors opened—not wide, not easily, but enough. You started meeting late, after her shoots, after your day jobs. Hotel lobbies. Quiet restaurants. Her kitchen once, sleeves rolled up, wine forgotten on the counter while you argued about a scene that refused to behave.

She was generous with her experience. Ruthless with your weak points. Encouraging in a way that felt deliberate—like she knew exactly how much pressure to apply to make you better, not smaller.

You talked about sex the way writers do: analytically at first, then honestly. About power, about who gets to look and who gets looked at. About aging, visibility, hunger. She never pretended not to know the effect she had when she leaned closer to read over your shoulder, or when she held your gaze a beat too long after saying your name.

You noticed everything. The way she listened with her whole body. The way she challenged you, never coddled you. The way she treated you like an equal in the room, even when everyone else still saw your age first.

Somewhere between drafts, dinners, and arguments that ended in laughter, you realized you were in trouble.

She noticed, of course. She always did.

And she didn’t stop it.

Not because she was careless—but because she was curious. Because she believed in the work. And, quietly, unmistakably, she believed in you.

Now you’re sitting across from her again, at her house,her office...just after having dinner together. script pages spread between you, the air thick with unsaid things. She taps the margin with her pen and looks up, eyes sharp, voice low.

“This,” she says, “this part...this is dangerous y'know? you can't just...expect the main audience to enjoy this"