Let It Stay Here

I’ve always been fascinated by the politics of romantic relationships. With LET IT STAY HERE, I wanted to explore the unspoken rules of connection, the stories we tell in the process of becoming close, and the ways in which we hide in order to be seen.

I’ve lived these questions my whole life. I grew up in a Mexican Syrian Iraqi Jewish household with two artistic parents who spoke different languages, literally and figuratively. My mom, an enigmatic tabloid reporter, took care of my sister and me when they got divorced, but created an environment where truth was flexible and stories were essential. The love in our family was real, but the intimacy was scarce. I learned to straddle different identities, beliefs and languages in order to survive, and became obsessed with all the things that go unsaid. LET IT STAY HERE is an exploration of my deepest fear: that we might not be able to truly know anyone — least of all ourselves — at all.

To bring that theme to life, I framed this story around the charged relationship between two addicts obsessed with control, and drew on timeless noir elements that echo with new meaning today. Morally ambiguous characters grappling with their freedom and integrity. Liminal spaces that reflect their secrets and competing interests. Stark lighting that moves them between the warmth of connection and the terror of isolation. And a multidimensional femme fatale who, in this modern take on the noir, I made our hero, rather than an inaccessible villain.

By anchoring this story on her, we get to experience this complicated romance through her eyes, her conflicts. The game she’s playing is a metaphor for how I’ve often experienced love: as a precarious tussle between people who desperately want to connect. The gun — a prop that we’ve seen countless times in cinema, but that functions differently in this film — reflects the cost of deception, the danger of highly controlled intimacy, and the mythic history of power between men and women. Is she taking something that adds to her agency? Or is she in thrall to her overwhelming need to connect with someone on her own terms?

I explored these contradictions with my actors, and worked closely with them to develop characters with rich interior lives. I also took a theater approach to the performances, giving them permission to fully live in meaningful moments — wrestling with a revelation, observing another person, delivering a long monologue without cutting. These moments tend to be rare in short films, where plot needs to move quickly, but they reveal powerful aspects of character that I love to capture as a director.

Because this story revolves around sex and intimacy, the intimate scene in this film was one of my top priorities. It wasn’t just a plot device or eye candy — it was an essential part of telling the story. I brought on an intimacy coordinator to create a safe environment, and worked to capture the crucial emotional shift that takes place between these characters. I wanted to find the heart within this primal exchange, to tease out the subtle dynamics of a loaded sexual encounter.

Our protagonist leads with different versions of herself throughout the night, but when she comes home, she struggles to integrate her fractured identity. Her shame and fear lead her to yet another meeting, but whether it’s to confront her addiction or to continue living through the story she’s constructed — that’s a question I’m excited to leave with the viewer.

I’ve spent the last 10 years writing love stories and hosting a podcast about psychology and romance. Along the way, I discovered my deep interest in the darker aspects of love, which inspired me to take the leap into directing. We didn’t have a ton of money to make this short, but we had a strong passion for telling a story about intimacy, addiction and identity, and for asking some big new questions in a classic genre. We produced it on a lean budget over three frantic and inspired days, and I’m honored to share this film with you and our audience.