They remembered how he’d say theatre was a rehearsal for courage, but no one understood it until they watched him live it. When the diagnosis arrived like a slammed door, he refused to bargain with denial. Instead, he gathered the days that remained and spent them lavishly—on late-night jokes in hospital corridors, on unscripted tears, on small domestic miracles like clean sheets and warm soup. With Lila, he learned the choreography of dependence: how to let someone tie his shoes, steady his arm, hold his gaze when the pain spiked.

Around him, the community quietly re-blocked their lives. Directors shifted opening nights so chemo wouldn’t be endured alone. Stage managers added pharmacy runs to their call sheets. Actors passed hats, lugged groceries, and sat in parked cars long after rehearsals, talking about everything and nothing. When he was finally gone, they realized the real performance had never been onstage. It was this fierce, ordinary devotion—proof that love, once summoned, does not exit when the lights go down.