Chapter Text
It's funny how silly things and special moments become a very easy routine when you feel good.
Good...
A feeling that had not been part of my vocabulary for a long time — too long — and sometimes, in some quiet moments, I would even ask myself if I had ever really had the opportunity to feel that way.
Always busy proving that the statistics were wrong... Statistics that said that young people have a 44% better chance of being successful when they grow up with their parents married. Statistics that spoke, and sometimes screamed in my head, that maternal abandonment would indeed have an effect on my life.
So I studied, and fought, I worked, I studied some more and I overcame every single challenge that came in my way.
There was never much time to have friendships, or any relationship for the matter, that made me feel good like I have been feeling in those last three weeks.
Kate, Pedro and Gabriel were responsible for most of my smiles and laughs, on and off set. I also bumped now and then on Sam, the first person I saw in this city, he was always a little shy, but with time a nod became a “hi”, and then sometimes we talked over a coffee when the production was busy preparing things.
The job was extremely tiring as the days went by. When I wasn't taking pictures, I was organizing the ones I took, or editing them and answering emails from the actors' agents with the approved and rejected ones.
Even with the heaviness of the job, there was no better feeling when the light hit exactly where I needed it to capture an unique moment on set. Photos of the takes, behind the scenes, the actors, the two directors ahead of everything with such mastery.
Craig and Neil strategically asked Eben (director of cinematography) to gradually get me more into the production; They would ask me for tips on lighting for one scene or another. I learned a lot from all the experience they had and at the same time I tried to contribute with some knowledge in a way, all while still doing my main job as a photographer.
"Come here and take a look at this scene," Eben pointed to the camera that was filming the kitchen floor with a path of fake blood that had been made for Nico to step on.
I approached the monitor, squinting my eyes to see it better.
“What do you think?” He asked, scratching his beard under the mask he was wearing.
“Hm... I don't know” I pondered, tilting my head to the right. “There are two focal points, right?”
“That's right,” Eben agreed. “One in the room and one outside.”
“The light coming from the room is doing the job of being dramatic, but I think the light coming from the window can help with that too” I pointed in different directions “It's too cold, how many K are you using?”
“5,800 I believe.”
“To make it a little more dramatic, I think it's better to lower it. It will give that "late night" feeling” I said, crossing my arms over my camera.
“Anthony” He called his lighting assistant over the radio, and the guy practically came running "Can you leave the outside guide light at around 3,700K?”
“Right away, boss” The young blond guy nodded and went to do as he was asked.
As soon as he changed the settings, Eben pointed to his monitor and clapped his hands together.
“That's it, that's perfect!” He declared excitedly “This will do for the two takes we need. It made the blood much more dramatic.”
“Can I take a picture first?” I raised the camera in my hand and he gave that smile with his eyes.
“Go ahead, Still, do what you do better”
And then I got one of the most chilling photos so far. I asked someone to stand with their foot pretending they were going to step in the blood, I bent down to be able to follow the trail with the lens and clicked.
The second photo was quick, I clicked the master-mind behind of all the cinematography in his natural habitat. Eben was, in my opinion, one of the best directors in the business. He had a creativity and organization that would make any director jealous. His career was a promising one that only grew as the years went on.
My 'fan of cinema and all the magic that happens behind the scenes' side was over the moon with all of it. Every day I did something for the first time, and a life full of new things was something I hadn't had since the pandemic began.
I could easily answer that famous question: “When was the last time you did something for the first time?” And the answer was: Every single fucking day.
Sometimes it was helping out with something in production, or going to buy a coffee in a new place, or even meeting new people from different departments. There was always something new in my routine.
Spending even just a minute with Pedro was the highlight of any day. And it became a routine to arrive at set listening to music in his SUV with some kind of drink (coffee or an energy drink) in hand. The sensations inside my body became familiar as I got closer to him. The warmth that spread from my stomach to all of my body, my slightly sweaty hands, my easy smile cracking at the first sight of his brown eyes...
16 years — I had to remind myself all the time — 16 years separate the date he was born, and the date I was born. While he was in college I was eating dirt on the school playground.
But it's not like everything I was feeling was somehow reciprocal on his part. Was he kind? Sure, but that was Pedro's personality. He made anyone and everyone feel special. He was the kindest person I’ve ever met.
“It’s not like he gives rides to everyone he works with,” Kate said, pouring an absurd amount of coffee from the jug into her bottle.
“Our place is on his way,” I replied, for what felt like the hundredth time, snapping the zipper of my backpack shut. “He’s being kind.”
“Sure,” she said. “But he’s only doing it with you.”
“You got a ride too,” I pointed out. “The day we worked together. And you’re getting another one today.”
“Exactly,” she shot back. “You were there.”
I paused, exhaling through my nose as I checked my equipment one last time. Another night shoot. Nico’s last. Kate and I working side by side again. A big day, whether I wanted to acknowledge it or not.
“And what am I supposed to do?” I asked. “Refuse the ride?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” she replied, softer now, using my real name — the one she only pulled out when she meant it. “I just want you to consider the possibility that—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, rolling my eyes. “Pedro is a friend. Anything beyond that exists entirely in your imagination.”
I hated how quickly the words came out. Too practiced. Too sharp.
Because the truth was, thinking about anything beyond that terrified me. Not because it was impossible — but because it wasn’t. And because I didn’t want to lose whatever fragile, easy thing we had built.
Kate studied me for a moment, then lifted her hands in surrender. “Okay. Forget I said anything.”
I grabbed my bag and nodded toward the door. “Come on. He’s probably waiting.”
The drive to set felt different immediately.
Usually, those short rides were full of noise — jokes, terrible singing, random conversations that went nowhere. That afternoon, the radio stayed off. Pedro’s hands stayed tight on the steering wheel. His jaw looked set, distant.
I stole a glance at him every now and then, trying to read something in his expression. Nothing gave itself away.
I didn’t ask what was wrong. Not with Kate in the back seat. And even if she hadn’t been there, I knew the answer I’d get.
I’m fine.
The set swallowed us the moment we arrived. Controlled chaos. Lights, cables, voices overlapping. Pedro said goodbye quickly — no lingering, no invitation to stop by his trailer later. Just a low murmur that barely qualified as a farewell.
It was so unlike him it stung.
I told myself not to think about it.
Work made that easy like it always did.
I disappeared into it — adjusting angles, tracking movement, catching moments before they slipped away. Eben and Craig pulled me deeper into lighting discussions that left my brain buzzing, the kind of mental exhaustion that pushed everything else out.
By the time the cameras rolled, I was too focused to wonder what had shifted.
But the silence from earlier stayed with me.
No matter how many expectations I carried into that night, nothing could have prepared me for what it would feel like to witness that scene unfold in front of me.
Death scenes are always difficult. They take time, repetition, patience. But what Nico and Pedro brought to it stripped the air from the set. It was so raw, so unguarded, that the usual murmurs and adjustments fell away. Even the crew went quiet.
The stunt doubles took over for the most physical part — bodies rolling through the grass, rehearsed violence, controlled chaos. The cameras captured what they needed, and then we reset.
When the real actors stepped back into position, the atmosphere shifted.
Something settled low in my chest.
“And… action,” Craig said.
Gabriel entered frame, rifle still slung over his shoulder. Pedro lay on the ground, breath uneven, his shirt torn just enough to reveal the dark stain beneath. The lighting was soft, deliberate — diffuse enough to feel natural, cruel enough to reveal everything.
“Oh my God,” Gabriel said, voice breaking.
Nico lay a few feet away, covered in blood — fake, I knew that — but there was nothing artificial about the way her body shook. Her breathing was fast, shallow. Her eyes searched for Pedro, locked onto him.
Pedro moved instantly.
He dragged himself toward her, desperation written into every motion. The camera followed. Sound rushed to keep up.
My feet wouldn’t move.
They felt rooted to the ground, heavy, unresponsive. Somewhere ahead of me, Kate was already shooting. I was grateful for that — grateful I didn’t have to be the one to capture this.
“No, no, no,” Pedro muttered, reaching her.
Nico’s cries came sharp and uncontrolled, her body trembling beneath his hands.
“Move your hands, baby,” he pleaded. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Move your hand.”
His voice cracked — not theatrically, not cleanly — but in a way that felt deeply human. Fragile. The sound echoed through the space, and for a moment it didn’t feel like a set at all.
Pedro tried to lift her.
Her scream tore through the night.
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know, I know, I know.”
The pain in his voice hit something inside me, hard and sudden. The kind of pain you don’t need to imagine — the kind that lives in your bones already.
And before I could stop it, a tear slid down my cheek.
All I could see was my father.
The man who raised us alone. Who did the best he could, even when the best wasn’t enough. The man who believed in me long before I learned how to believe in myself.
“I know this hurts,” Pedro continued, voice breaking. “But you’re going to be okay. Listen to me. I need to get you up. I know it’s going to hurt, but I need to—”
Nico’s hands fisted in his shirt, smearing blood into his hair, across his ears, down his neck.
“I know,” he repeated. “I know. I know. I know.”
I couldn’t watch anymore.
I turned away before the scene finished, walking blindly in the opposite direction, hoping no one noticed. I knew it was acting. I knew Nico wasn’t really hurt. I knew Pedro hadn’t lost a daughter.
But my body didn’t.
My mind had already gone somewhere else — to maternal absence, to growing up without a mother, to a father carrying more than he should have had to. To Matt, and the night everything broke open. To standing between my brother and my sister, screaming until my throat burned, begging reality to pause for just a second.
Some things don’t fade, they wait.
I found myself sitting on the small steps outside Pedro’s trailer without remembering how I got there. I pulled my mask down, breath ragged, tears slipping free without asking permission.
The night was still, no wind or loud noises. A set that hummed in the distance, muffled voices blending into a low, indistinct sound. Everything felt far away.
Time passed — minutes, maybe longer.
Then I saw Pedro emerged between the trailers, shoulders slumped with exhaustion, clothes still streaked with blood. When his eyes found mine, something in his expression softened immediately.
He walked toward me without saying a word.
I didn’t know what signaled it — instinct, need, relief — but when he reached me, he extended his hand.
I took it.
He pulled me up and into him, arms closing around me without hesitation. The hug was firm, grounding, the kind that asks no questions. I wrapped my arms around his waist, careful not to cross some invisible line, pressing my face briefly into his chest.
He smelled like sweat, dust, and something steady.
And for a moment, that was enough.
"Hey," he whispered against my neck, his voice rough with exhaustion.
“Hey,” I answered, my words lost somewhere against his shoulder.
I was still caught off guard by how naturally he held me — no hesitation, no second guessing — but there was something about being there, wrapped in his arms, that loosened the tightness in my chest. I breathed easier. Slower.
Every sense felt sharpened. The warmth of his body, the faint scrape of his beard against my temple, the steady pressure of his hand on my back. His thumb moved in slow, absent circles, grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.
My heart hammered loud enough that I wondered if he could feel it.
“You look like shit,” he said quietly, softening it immediately.
“So do you,” I replied, pulling back just enough to look at him.
The heaviness I’d noticed earlier finally made sense. It wasn’t me. It was the day.
“Today’s a tough scene.”
“Jesus, don't get me started.” He gave my arm one last squeeze and stepped away to open the door to his trailer. “I’ve been preparing myself since yesterday, and I still don’t think it was enough. I’m exhausted. Mentally and physically.”
“You were incredible,” I said, following him inside. “So good I couldn’t even watch the whole thing. It felt like losing Nico.”
He dropped onto the couch with a tired exhale. “She made it easy. Too easy.” He leaned his head back. “Feels like the end of a marathon.”
I set my camera down and sat on the edge of the couch. Silence settled between us, thick but not uncomfortable. Midnight had already passed. His eyes drifted closed for a second, then opened again.
He studied my face.
“You were crying,” he said gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shrugged. “Your performance got to me. Nothing to worry.”
“Are you sure?”
“You already have enough things to worry about.”
“You're one of them” He straightened his body until he sat down with his face looking directly at me “Go ahead, try me.”
I had to look away for a brief moment. Him and all his kindness always caught me off guard. Even with so much to take care of, his career, his workdays, his other friends and his family, he still found room to care about me.
The words came out in a rush. “I don't really know why this crying started now, after so long. It's something stupid, really.” I moved my hands nervously, trying to pull off a small piece of skin that was around my nail.
“I bet it's not stupid at all.”
“It was the way you were with Nico,” I admitted. “The way you held her. Talked to her.” I met his eyes. “It reminded me of my dad.”
His expression softened. “Tell me.”
“My father raised us alone,” I said. “For most of my life.”
“Your mother, she... “ He didn't seem to know how to ask, afraid of crossing some line.
“She simply decided she didn't want to be a mother of twins, and ran away when I was two years old.” I cleared his doubt. "We were too much for her"
The sincerity and harshness of my words did not go unnoticed.
I could easily tell people that the woman who brought me into this world had died in some tragic way; that would undoubtedly be a more acceptable story. After all, most cases of abandonment were on the father's side, and the mother always cared for and raised her children alone. Cases of single fathers were rarer; it was usually a story where the mother died and the father had to take responsibility.
Being rejected by the very person who gave birth to you was a pain that could not be cured. It was always present in the smallest details of life. A walk in the park where mothers played with their children, or a lunch at a restaurant where you could see a woman cutting her child's food with such care and love... The high school graduation where entire families gathered for photos, but the only one who was by my side was my brother, because my father had to work to pay the bills... And then I felt again on my first day at college in another city… Another graduation, but this time by myself.
A life of small memories that always felt like something had been taken from me.
And on that set, the performance I saw before my eyes brought back that painful reminder.
“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for my hand with his, to somehow comfort me. "I'm trully sorry"
The warm palm pressed against the back of my hand, delicate, but strong enough for my brain to register the moment.
“It’s okay, Pedro,” I said softly. “It really is something from the past. I don’t even know why it came back to me tonight.”
He didn’t rush to contradict me.
“Your job puts you in the middle of other people’s pain,” he said instead, voice steady, grounding. “That doesn’t mean it won’t touch you. Some memories don’t ask permission.” He paused. “And I’m sorry for what you went through. It doesn’t define you — but it says a lot about how strong you are.”
Before I could answer, he pulled me into him again.
The second hug was different. Slower. Protective. I leaned into his chest and closed my eyes, letting the warmth of his arms do what words couldn’t. His chin rested lightly against the top of my head. I could hear his heart — calm, steady — and felt my own begin to match its rhythm.
His scent wrapped around me, familiar already, grounding and dangerous all at once. Breathing felt harder. Thinking even more so.
We stayed like that longer than necessary. Long enough that silence became something shared instead of empty. Long enough that it felt mutual — as if he needed the contact as much as I did.
“Come on,” he said eventually, though he made no move to let go. “I’ll take you home. Early call tomorrow.”
“I’m off,” I murmured, still tucked against him.
He smiled into my hair. “Lucky.”
His fingers traced absent lines along my arm, gentle, unthinking. I laughed quietly.
“I have the weekend off,” he added. “My sister’s coming with my nephews. They’re on school break and she’s already losing her mind.”
“I work Saturday,” I said. “But I’m free Sunday. Before next week swallows us whole.”
“Then I’m stealing you for a hike,” he said easily.
I pulled back to look at him. “A hike?”
“Easy trail,” he clarified. “Near the place where you almost drowned.”
I punched his shoulder without thinking.
“The place where you forced me onto a boat.”
“I did no such thing,” he said, affronted, hand to his chest. “You jumped.”
“You pushed.”
He laughed, and just like that, the heaviness loosened.
Before we left, we found Gabriel and Nico.
Gabriel wrapped me in a tight hug, all warmth and exhaustion. “You’re not allowed to have fun without me.”
“As if we could,” I said.
“Don’t disappear on me,” he added, pulling Pedro into a hug. “Both of you.”
“Someone has to work,” Pedro said, patting his back.
“The older brother,” Gabriel shot back.
We laughed, promised we’d see each other soon — because we would.
“Take care of that cabrón,” Gabriel said to me.
Pedro rolled his eyes. “Mira quién está hablando.”(Look who’s the one talking)
“Don’t worry,” I said, lifting my camera. “I’ll keep him in line. Smile.”
They leaned into each other, tired and happy, and I caught it — that quiet satisfaction of a job done right.
Nico’s goodbye came next. Craig gathered the crew. Applause, gratitude, the kind of ending that carries both pride and loss.
On the drive home, Kate slept in the backseat, head tipped toward the window. The night air poured in softly, cool and clean.
I caught myself looking at Pedro more than once.
Every time I did, he glanced back — and smiled.
Something meant only for me.
And as the city slipped past us, I knew — without needing to say it — that whatever this was becoming, neither of us was pretending anymore.