Imagine this: two figures huddled together under a dimly lit bridge by the Canal de l’Ourcq in Paris, their breath visible in the freezing air, sharing laughter and whispers like two penguins seeking warmth in the Antarctic chill. That was the moment I knew—the moment our connection became undeniable. But here’s where it gets controversial: was it the thrill of secrecy or the genuine spark between us that made that night so unforgettable? Let’s rewind to see how we got there.
My story with Jake began in 2010 at a circus festival in Bathurst. I was a wide-eyed high school senior, and Jake’s troupe from Adelaide stole the show. Their talent was electric, and I distinctly remember Jake—I even took one of his workshops. Yet, at the time, he was just another impressive face in the crowd. Fast forward to my own journey: I left my hometown of Ulladulla, trained at the National Institute of Circus Arts, and dove into a freelance acrobatic career in Melbourne. Meanwhile, Jake’s group, Gravity & Other Myths, was skyrocketing to international fame.
When a flyer position opened up, I applied without hesitation. My first interview was a Zoom call that felt more like a vibe check. I played it cool, which impressed everyone—except Jake. He wasn’t convinced I was the right fit. But they took a chance on me, and soon I was on a plane to Austria. It was December 2018, and I was equal parts terrified and exhilarated. The train ride through snow-covered mountains to Graz felt like something out of a fairy tale.
Rehearsals were intense. My skin was raw from hours of swinging, and the new skills required for the routine left me petrified. By opening night, my nerves were through the roof. But the show was a hit, and the pride I felt was unmatched. At first, my connection with Jake was purely platonic—I had a boyfriend back in Australia. We bonded over our shared love of condiments and often split meals after shows. Life on tour is intimate; mornings started with coffee as a group, and nights ended with shared dinners. Jake’s humor and energy drew me in—he had a way of lifting everyone’s spirits.
When my contract was extended, the distance became too much for my boyfriend, and we broke up. Jake wasted no time making his feelings known, which caught me off guard. I hadn’t realized he saw me as more than a friend. Our dynamic shifted, and things got flirty. And this is the part most people miss: it wasn’t just the romance that drew us together—it was the foundation of friendship and shared passion that made it feel right.
In 2019, during a California tour, the lines between tour buddy and lover blurred completely. Beach days, tacos, and sunny weather created the perfect backdrop for our growing connection. But we kept our romance a secret to avoid disrupting the professional dynamic. Back in Europe that winter, our secret rendezvous in Paris felt like a scene from a movie. Those nights under the bridge, braving the -2°C chill, were pure magic. It didn’t matter how exhausted I was—being with Jake was all that mattered.
By early 2020, endless touring loomed ahead, but fate intervened when we headed back to Australia just as the world shut down. I moved into Jake’s Adelaide apartment, and what started as a showmance evolved naturally into something deeper. The years were stressful, but we always found joy in each other’s company. Living together felt seamless because we’d already spent so much time on the road getting to know one another.
Today, we still tour most of the year, still split meals, and still laugh like old friends. But those nights under the bridge? They’re a cherished memory. Now, I want to hear from you: Do you believe relationships born in high-pressure environments like touring can truly stand the test of time? Or is it the shared passion that keeps the spark alive? Let’s discuss in the comments!
Catch Alyssa Moore and Jacob Randell in Gravity & Other Myths’ Ten Thousand Hours at Arts Centre Melbourne from January 13 to 25. And tell us—what’s your moment of realization?
