If tension had a rhythm, it would be the click‑whirr of a camera starting to record.
Two days after I texted Makayla back, she still hadn't answered.
And honestly? I was grateful.
It gave me room to breathe, to focus on everyone else who had said yes to the project without my chest seizing every five minutes.
"Alright, people," Ms. Torres said, clapping once. "We're turning this glorified chaos into a production schedule."
We were back in the Media Studies room, our little film crew spread out: me, Seraph, Niqua, Mason, plus our new recruits—Asia, Jamal, Diego, and Alia. Papers, storyboards, and an alarming number of half‑finished iced coffees littered every surface.
On the board, in messy handwriting, we'd drawn a rough grid:
Week 1–2: Shoot Asia & Jamal, DiegoWeek 3–4: Shoot Alia, Remy (if he stops being dramatic)Week 5: B‑roll & "Stories & Screens" prepWeek 6: Edit, cry, repeat
"And where does the 'who owns your story' piece go?" Asia asked, twirling her pen.
"Mid‑way," Mason said. "Like turning the camera back on ourselves after everyone's comfy."
"Everyone except the people with messy pasts," Seraph muttered. "Which is all of us, but some more than others."
Her eyes flicked to me for half a second.
I pretended not to notice.
"Speaking of messy," Diego said, pushing his curls out of his face, "I told my mom I was gonna be in a documentary and she immediately asked if ICE was gonna see it."
The room went quiet.
"That's a real concern," Ms. Torres said gently. "We'll change last names when needed. No addresses on screen. You have the right to share your story without exposing yourself to unnecessary risk. We'll blur what needs blurring."
Diego nodded, jaw tight. "She said she'd sign the form if she could watch it first."
"She will," I said. "No one's footage goes out anywhere without them approving it. That's non‑negotiable."
Mason pointed his pen at me. "EP Santos laying down the law," he said. "We stan a benevolent dictator."
"Absolutely not," I replied. "If I'm a dictator, I want a better wardrobe."
Laughter loosened the room.
Still, under the jokes, something buzzed.
Responsibility.
This wasn't just about me anymore.
"Okay," Ms. Torres said. "First shoot of the week—Asia and Jamal. After school today. We're doing a two‑for‑one: art and responsibility, as you called it."
Asia straightened in her chair. "I've got some pieces in my sketchbook," she said. "Faces from the protests last summer. My grandma said I shouldn't post them online because cops look at that stuff. But I can show them here."
My chest tightened.
"Jamal?" Ms. Torres asked.
He shrugged, leaning back. "My story's easy," he said. "Home is Bed‑Stuy. I carry my little brothers. Literal and metaphorical."
"You also carry the whole basketball team on your back," someone muttered.
He grinned. "Facts."
I looked around at them—these people trusting me with their faces, their words, their histories. My fingers drummed against my notebook.
The higher this climbed, the further it could fall.
After school, we transformed the empty art room into a makeshift set.
We angled the big windows so the light hit Asia's easel just right. Canvases leaned on the walls, half‑finished sketches of eyes, hands, subway cars, an old woman selling ices on a corner.
"You sure you're okay being on camera with your work?" I asked, adjusting the tripod.
She nodded, flipping her box braids over one shoulder. "I'd rather show it here than have somebody steal a photo off my page and repost it without credit," she said. "At least this way I know who's looking."
Mason checked the audio levels. "You ready?" he asked her.
Asia rolled her shoulders. "As I'll ever be."
I gave the three‑two‑one countdown with my fingers.
Red light.
"Name?" I asked from behind the camera.
"Asia Thompson," she said. "Home is Flatbush. And also the empty pages of my sketchbook. And also the museum my mom dragged me to every Sunday when I was little, even when I complained."
She talked about drawing on the backs of church programs. About getting in trouble in middle school for sketching teachers instead of taking notes. About the first time somebody called her "talented" instead of "weird."
Then she said it.
"One thing I carry," she said, eyes on the camera, "is the feeling that my art is only 'important' when it's about Black pain. About protests, about violence, about death. Teachers love those pieces. Strangers share them. But the drawings I do of my little sister sleeping? Or my grandma frying fish? Those get ignored."
My breath caught.
"That messes with your head," she continued. "Makes you wonder if joy is worth drawing at all. But I'm tired of only being seen when we're bleeding. So I'm painting my people laughing now. Fighting over spades. Getting their hair done. Existing."
The room felt holy for a second.
"Cut," Mason said softly.
Asia exhaled, shoulders slumping with relief.
"You killed that," Niqua said from the doorway. "Like, actually killed me a little. I'm deceased."
"Good," Asia said, grinning. "You can haunt my haters."
Next came Jamal in the gym, his voice echoing off the walls as he talked about sneakers and noise complaints and being the unofficial third parent to two hyperactive twins.
"We all got stories," he said, bouncing a ball lazily. "But nobody hears them when you're just 'the tall Black dude on the team.' They think they know me 'cause they see my jersey on a scoreboard."
I thought of how many times I'd done that—flattened someone into one role, one screenshot.
It made Makayla's unanswered messages itch under my skin.
By the time we wrapped, the sky outside had turned cotton‑candy pink.
My phone buzzed as we packed up.
Miles: Outside. Got smoothies.
Seraph: if u leave without me I'm telling tiktok u eat pizza with a fork
I laughed, tension breaking.
But as we walked down the stairs, equipment bags banging against our legs, I heard it.
"Yo, that's them, right?"
"Doc people?"
"Yeah. My cousin in Ms. Carter's class said they made half the room cry."
I glanced over.
Two juniors stood by the water fountain, phones out, staring at us like we were some new exhibit.
I wasn't sure if it was admiration. Or curiosity. Or the beginning of something sharper.
"You see what you did?" Seraph whispered in my ear. "You made us micro‑famous."
"Kill me," I muttered.
As we stepped outside, the air hit my face—thick with exhaust, faintly sweet from somebody's food truck down the block.
The red Lamborghini was impossible to miss.
So were the eyes.
This time, it wasn't just random students.
It was a small cluster near the steps: a boy I recognized from Dan's videos by association—one of his friends who'd always dropped laughing emojis in the comments. A girl who used to comment under Makayla's posts with heart‑eye emojis.
They weren't looking at the car.
They were looking at me.
One of them lifted their phone.
My stomach dropped.
"Seriously?" I called out before I could stop myself. "You're gonna record me walking to a car now?"
The boy—tall, light‑skinned, baseball cap pulled low—shrugged.
"Relax," he said. "Just getting B‑roll for when your ex drops part three."
Laughter.
Not from everyone. But enough.
Something in me snapped.
"You know he's lying, right?" I said, heat prickling up my neck. "You know he's cutting clips to make himself look good, and you're doing his promo for free."
He scoffed. "I know I saw what I saw. And so did everyone else."
"What did you see?" I demanded. "Thirty seconds of my worst day? Congratulations, you watched a highlight reel of my trauma."
"Yo, chill," the girl said, rolling her eyes. "Nobody said you were wrong. We're just saying… it's messy. And messy is entertaining."
There it was.
Not truth. Not justice.
Views.
"You know you don't have to film everything you find entertaining, right?" Mason cut in, stepping up beside me. "Like, you could just… blink and move on."
The boy snorted. "Ain't you the one with the camera glued to his hand now?"
"Difference is, I ask," Mason shot back. "And I don't post people's business without their consent."
A murmur of agreement rippled around us—from kids who'd been watching quietly until then.
The girl with the heart‑eye comments shifted, uncomfortable. "Whatever," she muttered. "Y'all are doing too much."
She lowered her phone—but not before I caught a flash of my own face on her screen.
"Mason," I said through my teeth, "please tell me we didn't just get a spin‑off documentary in the parking lot."
He shook his head. "Not if we beat them to it," he murmured.
"Beat them how?" I asked.
"By making Stories & Screens before they can twist it," he said. "You said you didn't want to react to Dan forever. This isn't him. This is the whole disease."
He wasn't wrong.
Didn't mean I wanted to hear it.
Behind us, the school doors banged open again.
"Everything cool?"
Miles's voice cut through the static.
He strode toward us, smoothies in one hand, keys in the other, hoodie up, eyes scanning the scene.
Great.
Exactly what I needed.
My chaos, meet my other chaos.
"We're fine," I said quickly, forcing my shoulders to unclench.
The boy with the cap eyed Miles, lips curling. "Oh look," he said. "The older dude from the storytime."
My skin went ice‑cold.
Miles stopped.
Slowly, he set the smoothies down on the hood of the car.
"Say that again," he said quietly.
The kid lifted his chin. "What? I'm lying?"
"Yes," I said, stepping between them before my life turned into an actual boxing clip. "You are. But you already knew that."
Miles's jaw worked.
"Jayla," he said through his teeth.
I put a hand on his chest, feeling the coiled tension under my palm.
"Don't," I whispered. "That's exactly what they want. More content."
Something like shame flashed in his eyes.
He took a breath. Then another.
The boy laughed under his breath. "Scared she'll post you too?"
I turned on him.
"Scared of what, exactly?" I asked. "The truth? That you get off on other people's pain? That you'd rather watch my life like a show than look at your own?"
His smirk faltered.
"Thought so," I said.
Seraph's voice floated from behind me. "Anyway," she said loudly, "we have better things to do than entertain background characters. Come on, Jay. There's a mango smoothie with my name on it."
We piled into the car, the weight of their stares pressing against the windows like fingerprints.
As Miles pulled away, I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.
"You okay?" he asked.
I almost snapped at him.
Then caught myself.
"I'm… mad," I said instead. "At them. At him. At myself for caring."
"You're allowed to be mad," he said.
"I'm tired of being mad," I shot back. "I want to make my stupid documentary and kiss my stupid not‑boyfriend and pass my stupid math test without wondering who's clipping my life for content."
The car went quiet.
In the back seat, Seraph and Niqua exchanged a look.
"Then let's weaponize it," Seraph said suddenly.
I twisted in my seat. "What?"
"Not like that," she said quickly, seeing my face. "Not, like, dox people. I mean… we keep talking about how we're gonna do this 'Stories & Screens' segment. Maybe that's where we drop the gloss and say it plain."
"Plain how?" I asked.
"Plain like," Niqua chimed in, "'if you've ever reposted somebody's breakdown without thinking about who they are, this is about you.' Plain like staring down the camera and saying, 'We see you seeing us. Now what?'"
A chill ran through me.
"That's… risky," I said.
"So is existing with a face in 2026," Seraph replied.
She wasn't wrong.
Miles's hands tightened on the wheel. "You sure you want to poke that hornet's nest?" he asked.
I thought about the boy with the cap. About Dan's pinned comment. About Makayla's apology half‑hanging in my messages.
"I think," I said slowly, "the nest is already poked. We're just pretending not to see the bees."
No one said anything for a while.
The city moved around us—sirens in the distance, somebody blasting music at a red light, a woman dragging two kids across the crosswalk like she was late for her whole life.
"We don't have to decide tonight," Miles said eventually.
"No," I agreed. "But we have to decide soon. Before someone else tells that story for us too."
That night, after everyone left and the house exhaled into quiet, I sat on the bathroom counter, phone in hand, staring at my reflection.
Same hoops. Same eyes. New shadows.
I opened my DMs.
There were more messages.
From strangers. From cousins. From girls back in San Ángel. From girls in other cities.
One caught my eye.
@mirrorwaves:
saw you outside school today
sorry my cousin was being weird with his phone
for what it's worth
some of us are rooting for you irl
not just on screen
I reread it three times.
Then I opened Makayla's thread.
She'd finally replied.
Makayla:
Okay.
I can do that.
No him.
Just me.
You say when.
My heart stumbled.
No him.
Just me.
Did I believe that?
I didn't know.
But for the first time, it felt like maybe this wasn't just about Dan anymore.
Maybe it was about all of us trying to step out of the roles we'd been cast in.
Villain. Victim. Background noise.
I thought of Ms. Torres's voice:
Balance isn't always about both sides. Sometimes it's about finally hearing the side that's never gotten a full sentence.
My story had finally gotten a sentence.
Maybe it was time to let other stories—messy, complicated, even painful ones—get theirs.
On our terms.
I typed slowly.
Me:
Media room.
Friday.
After school.
If you're not ready, don't come.
If you are, bring the version of you that existed before all this.
That's who I want on camera.
– J
I stared at the message for a long beat.
Then hit send.
The three dots popped up almost instantly.
Then disappeared.
Then popped up again.
Makayla:
Okay.
Just tell me one thing.
Are you going to be the one asking the questions?
My breath caught.
I looked at my reflection—at the girl who'd started this with one line about the ocean and had accidentally launched an entire storm.
I thought of hiding behind the camera.
I thought of stepping in front of it.
Finally, I typed:
Me:
Yeah.
I am.
Her reply was just one word.
Makayla:
Good.
I set my phone down and pressed my palms into the cool porcelain of the sink.
Friday.
Three days.
Three days until I sat across from the first person who ever turned my life into content without my consent—and hit record on my terms.
If fear had a rhythm, it would be the click‑whirr of a camera starting to record.
But underneath it now, there was something else.
A steadier beat.
Mine.
Growing louder.
Ready—or almost ready—for whatever came next.