They expect me to walk in like I’m still on a poster somewhere. Perfect lighting. Perfect smile. A man frozen in a frame at thirty-nine.

But I step into a classroom with coffee stains on my sleeve and chalk on my hands and suddenly I’m just… a guy again.

“Morning,” I say, like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t a room full of dreams trying to survive.

John is already here, of course. Organized. Alert. Too good at pretending he isn’t constantly saving me from my own chaos.

“You’re late,”he mutters.

“I’m fashionably humble,” I say back, tossing my bag onto the desk. “There’s a difference.”

He rolls his eyes but he smiles anyway.

That’s what I like about teaching theatre. It isn’t about fame in here. It’s about truth. About standing in someone else’s shoes long enough to understand your own feet. About learning how to breathe on cue, how to love on stage, how to grieve for an audience that’s never even met you.

I look at the students sometimes and I see myself. Not the version on screen. The kid who just wanted to be understood. The kid who thought pretending was the only safe way to be real.

“Acting isn’t memorizing lines,” I tell them. “It’s unlearning your fear.”

The room goes quiet.

John stops typing.

And for a second, the world feels still. Honest. Earned.

I don’t need an Oscar in this moment. I’ve got a room full of souls willing to try.

And that’s a better role than I ever auditioned for.