When I was eighteen, I first stepped on the red carpet. I wasn’t the object of the incessantly flashing paparazzi cameras, but I stood to the side and watched as unbelievably beautiful, famous people passed slowly by me, close enough for me to touch. They smiled and the flashing lightbulbs exploded from every angle. Simon Baker, Stanley Tucci, Kevin Spacey, Demi Moore. There they were, these monuments of film, dripping with wealth and charm, effortlessly causing everyone to fall in love with their beauty and charisma. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They were magnetic, drawing people’s gazes towards them like flies to light.