Dear Alec Baldwin,

I always check a news item in our app group, but whether I immediately nudge my beloved next to me to share it... Nah. It's usually of the caliber Kanye changing his name to Ye, a very annoying girl going off on YouTube about a singer who really stirs us here, and Kim Kardashian thinking her pantyhose is an outfit. Or the world stops if you don't know: not at all.

But this morning was different. I asked – lenses not in and glasses not with me because traveling with hand luggage so every square centimeter counts – my love if anything exciting had happened in the world. Bernard Haitink had passed away and, but this was really bad, Alec Baldwin, you, had accidentally shot his camerawoman and director. And no, she didn't make it.

You don't know me, but I know you very well. How in love was I with you in The Fabulous Baker Boys, how amazing did I find you in Saturday Night Live. And now I zoom in all day on those two photos of you, one where you are on the phone with your mask somewhere around your wrist, your eyes so swollen from tears that it looks like someone has glued your eyelids shut. But especially that other image, where you are bent over with your hands on your knees and your head down. At first glance, a pose as if you are panting from the Cooper test, but it's more. It's the posture of a man who, from one moment to the next (improvvissamente, as the Italians say here) sees his life change. Crumbling. Exploding. Everything is broken, turned upside down. This production, your career, your life, her life.

I wish you that there is someone who can say that it will be okay, that you will ever think that this has been for something good. But we both know that if there is a person who could say these words, you would not believe them.

I wish you strength, just as I wish the family of this wonderful professional all the strength and love. And if you hate Trump so much, shall we just really ban all weapons from now on?

May-Britt