- Migs' POV -
The movie set felt like a familiar, but not always pleasant, part of my life. Bright, strong lights shone down, making long shadows while everyone rushed around.
The director shouted instructions, the crew whispered as they moved equipment, and people constantly moved through the tight space. This busy scene was the usual background to my day. Today, I was filming a funny, lighthearted romantic comedy scene with Bianca, my co-star.
She's a talented and really charming actress, and the movie people said our connection on screen was "amazing."
We were filming a part where our characters were playfully arguing over a really spoiled and out-of-place little dog. Between takes, while the crew carefully fixed the lights, Bianca leaned in like she had a secret, her perfect makeup making her eyes look big with gossip.
"Did you hear about Katrina and Jake?" she whispered loudly enough for people nearby to hear.
"Apparently, things got super intense at the director's party last night. Someone I trust saw her throw a whole glass of red drink at him!"
I raised an eyebrow like I was surprised and amused.
"No way! Katrina?"
This kind of talk on set, the exciting but shallow industry gossip, was a nice break from filming the same scene over and over. Each time, I had to act a certain way, but it didn't always feel real.
"Seriously! And get this – it was because his ex-wife showed up with her new boyfriend, who used to date the ex-wife too!" Bianca's eyes sparkled with excitement about the drama.
We spent the next few minutes talking about the rumors, trying to piece together what happened based on bits of overheard conversations from the hair and makeup team and the interns who always seemed to be listening. It was easy and fun, a moment of sharing something shallow that didn't need much thought or feeling.
Later, during another short break from filming, Ben, my manager who always gets things done, stuck his head into my trailer.
"Hey, we need to finish your schedule for next week. And Isabella was asking about you at that charity party a few weeks ago. Looks like she likes you."
Ben sounded neutral and professional, but I could hear a little bit of approval in his voice. Isabella, with her fancy style and important friends in Manila, would definitely "look good for my image."
"Yeah, we talked," I replied, already looking back at my phone. Scrolling through social media always felt easy and comfortable.
A new message popped up – a playful, slightly teasing message from Isabella about me maybe not showing up at another event tonight. It was an art show opening in a cool, old warehouse in Poblacion. I smiled my usual charming smile and typed back a vague reply, not really saying yes or no. I wanted to see how I felt later and who else might be there.
It had been a little over a month since Ari's art show opened in Manila, something I still felt a little bad about missing. We'd sent a few short, polite texts after, and then there was that late-night, quick, and mostly selfish visit to his hotel room.
Since then, we hadn't talked much. Ari usually replied more, always there online to listen to my random thoughts and late-night messages.
I looked up his contact on my phone and typed a casual message: "Hey, man. How's Cebu? When are you coming back to Manila?"
Later that evening, after finally finishing filming under the bright studio lights, I found myself, kind of unwillingly, at the art show with Isabella.
The old warehouse looked cool and industrial, filled with all kinds of art that was sometimes hard to understand. There were big, strange things that didn't look like anything I knew, and paintings that were different and not normal. As we walked through the crowded room, Isabella, who seemed to know a lot about art and walked confidently, suddenly stopped in front of some paintings hanging together. The strong colors and bumpy paint caught my eye right away. The colors were really intense, like they came from deep feelings, and the thick paint looked like it was put on with a lot of emotion.
"These are incredible," Isabella said softly, her shiny lips slightly open as she really looked at each painting. "They have so much raw energy. The artist really knows how to show… feeling."
I glanced without really thinking at the small sign next to the art that had the artist's name. And suddenly, I couldn't breathe for a second.
Aristotle Aikawa.
A strange, surprising feeling of recognition hit me, like seeing something familiar in a place I didn't expect it. These were definitely his – the bright, almost clashing colors, the bumpy paint that seemed to show a hidden upset that I'd seen in his quiet, serious eyes. Seeing his art here, in a public place, with strangers who didn't know him admiring it, felt very different from the quick looks I'd given his online posts or just saying "that's nice" about his art over the years.
The size of the paintings and the strong feelings they showed were amazing, demanding attention in a way that Ari himself often hadn't in my own self-centered world.
A quick, sharp feeling of guilt, stronger than my usual slight bad feelings, poked at my fake coolness. I'd missed his important opening, said a quick, not really sorry, apology, and now here I was, seeing his powerful talent in another place through someone else's impressed eyes. It felt…wrong, a clear reminder of how I never really supported him. His art, the real feelings he usually kept hidden now out in the open, was being liked and talked about by strangers while I was busy with people who didn't really matter and silly gossip from the movie set.
"Yeah," I managed to say, my voice sounding a bit flat and distant even to myself. "They're… striking."
I didn't say more, didn't mention that I'd known the artist standing just a few feet away in the crowded room for years. Seeing him here felt important now. It felt too complicated and too…real to bring that into my shallow evening with Isabella.
Isabella kept looking at the paintings, not knowing at all that I knew the artist or that I felt guilty. The rest of the night with her went as expected – more polite but not really important talk, more quick chats with other people who liked art or worked in the industry.
But the strong images of Ari's art, those paintings full of raw emotion, stayed in my mind. They were a clear reminder of a depth and honesty that I often chose to ignore for the shiny but empty surface of my own life.
My phone stayed silent.
Ari hadn't replied to my casual message. And somehow, tonight, surrounded by proof of his talent and the real admiration of strangers, that silence felt more important, made louder by this unexpected meeting with the real Ari. I found myself quietly looking around the room, wanting to find him in the crowd, to maybe say something real about his art. But the warehouse was full of unfamiliar faces, and Ari wasn't there.
His powerful art was all around, but he himself was missing, like a sad picture of how we were connected.
Later, as Isabella and I moved on to another part of the show, her talking about some weird performance art, I kept looking back at Ari's paintings. The bright colors and strong brushstrokes felt like a silent question between us.