It’s incredible how a single moment can change everything—and for me, that moment came under a hauntingly beautiful bridge by the Canal de l’Ourcq, where Jake and I felt like two penguins clinging to each other in the cold, completely inseparable. But here’s where it gets controversial: Was it fate, or just the magic of shared experiences, that turned our professional partnership into something deeper? Let’s rewind.
Our story began in 2010 at a circus festival in Bathurst, where I, a high school senior, first saw Jake perform with his Adelaide troupe. They were electric, and Jake’s talent was undeniable. I even took one of his workshops, but life moved on—I left Ulladulla, trained at the National Institute of Circus Arts, and started my freelance acrobatic career in Melbourne. Meanwhile, Jake’s group, Gravity & Other Myths, was skyrocketing to international fame. When they advertised for a flyer, 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. Still, they hired me for a month-long contract, 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 a dream, but the reality of rehearsals hit hard. The training was grueling—my skin was raw from swinging, and the new skills demanded felt impossible. By opening night, I was so nervous I almost blacked out. But the show was a triumph, and I’ve never felt prouder.
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; we’d grab coffee together every morning and eat as a group every night. Jake’s humor and energy drew me in—he always knew how to lift the mood. But things shifted when my long-distance relationship ended. Jake wasted no time making his feelings known, which caught me off guard. I hadn’t realized he saw me as more than a colleague. The chemistry between us began to change, and things got flirty.
The turning point came in California in 2019. Between shows, we’d hang out on the beach, eat tacos, and enjoy the sun. The line between tour buddy and something more blurred completely. And this is the part most people miss: We kept our romance a secret from the rest of the company as we returned to Europe that winter. In Paris, under that eerie bridge by the Canal de l’Ourcq, we’d steal hours together, laughing, talking, and kissing like two penguins in our own little world. It didn’t matter how late it was, how exhausted I felt, or how cold it got—being with Jake was all that mattered.
When the pandemic hit in 2020, we were supposed to be touring endlessly, but instead, we found ourselves back in Australia. Jake had an apartment in Adelaide, and I moved in. Those years were stressful, but we always had so much fun together. The time we spent on the road meant we knew each other inside out before living together. Our relationship evolved naturally from a showmance to something deeper. We still tour most of the year, still split meals, but those secret bridge moments are now rare.
Today, as Alyssa Moore and Jacob Randell, we’re back on stage with Gravity & Other Myths in Ten Thousand Hours at Arts Centre Melbourne from January 13 to 25. But here’s the question I leave you with: Is love something you find, or something you build through shared experiences? Let me know what you think in the comments—I’d love to hear your take!
