An intimate and self-ironic tale, balancing the depth of a monologue with the lightness of stand-up comedy.
A woman who is me—but also not me—but in the end, does it really matter?
A list of obsessive lists, just as obsessive as the knot in the heart (and in the stomach) at the core of it all: the need for love and the fear of being alone.
The story of a girl who, in the name of love—imagined and desired—has always been ready and willing to make tragicomic, fearless leaps.
Wild flights that rarely promised a happy ending, but were worth attempting anyway—with wings wide open and a smile on her lips.
Until one flight in particular.
A leap, in every sense, that marked a turning point. And a rebirth.
It felt only right to tell this story without elaborate stage elements—just a very long thread and a microphone.
To me, the microphone is a mask: it tells and sells the best version of ourselves, of the other, and of the relationship—to ourselves, to the other, and as a shield to protect the idea of "together."
But masks can slip accidentally, fall through distraction—or even be deliberately removed. They get heavy, especially for the one wearing them. And sometimes you end up exposed, voice unfiltered, right where you didn’t want to be seen.
Where you didn’t know.
Where maybe you sensed.
Where you come face to face with your darkest side.
Where you are truly alone.
And that thing you feared most becomes real.
And once again, you get to choose: whether—and what—to look at.
A story that, like relationships themselves, takes an unexpected journey.
It begins with something that might echo, resemble—or even clash with—stand-up comedy.
It passes through narrative.
And then… I don’t know.
