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’ She paused and breathed in loudly. ‘I keep hoping to get discovered, to get a chance to go professional.’ I was looking at her. When she said the last sentence, she looked up at me, our eyes locked together. The emotion in her voice spoke of the love, the passion, the desire she held for acting. I could feel in my body what she must feel, the unfulfilled desire. I took her in my arms. ‘You’re good. You’re really good. The rest of us are just playing along. I’ve watched you. You can do this. You will get your shot – someday.’ I was holding her in my arms. She looked at me with a smile. It was a pained smile, but I could see that she understood. She understood that I knew what she was feeling. I wanted to kiss her at that moment, but I wasn’t sure she wanted it. Instead, I asked the question that had been burning inside me ever since I first saw her tears reflected in the picture. ‘Jill, when you cry onstage, you really cry. You’re so good at it. You’re not acting. You are crying.. I wasn’t just a ghost anymore, staying just beyond her vision. I felt the need at that point to make myself known, once and for all. I was still fearful of a face-to-face encounter, not knowing what I would do if I felt the voice on my face, the warmth, the sweetness of it. One day, when the snow was heavy enough to prevent me from seeing the trees surrounding my cabin, I sat down at my desk, with a steaming cup of coffee, and wrote. I had intended at first to write a short introduction of myself, to leave at her doorstep, just to say hello, and apologize for my intrusion. As the coffee disappeared, and the pen movements increased, the parts of myself that had surfaced during these last few months of vocal voyeurism found themselves on the paper. After a few hours, the introduction had become a story, pages long, and too much to give for the first introduction. After I had stepped away for food, I came back to the desk, with a single sheet of paper, and wrote the following: ‘To the.
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