Cut To Us

Kairo Lucius Madrigal’s POV

There were three things I hated when I was filming.

Bad lighting.

Unnecessary noise.

And people who didn’t understand the concept of staying out of the frame.

Unfortunately, college seemed to have an unlimited supply of all three.

I stared at the camera monitor, my fingers resting against the focus ring of the lens.

“Move it two inches to the left.”

My classmate, Jethro, sighed from behind the tripod.

“Two inches?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

I looked at him.

He immediately moved it.

“Two inches.”

The camera shifted slightly.

I crouched down until my eye was level with the monitor. The hallway of the College of Arts building appeared exactly the way I wanted it to—long, narrow, and slightly dim, with sunlight spilling through the windows at the far end.

The scene was supposed to feel lonely.

Not sad.

Not depressing.

Just lonely.

There was a difference.

Most people wouldn’t notice it.

I did.

I noticed everything.

The angle of the camera.

The amount of light hitting the floor.

The shadows against the wall.

The distance between the actor and the background.

Even the stupid poster taped crookedly on the bulletin board was bothering me.

I stood up and pointed at it.

“That poster.”

Jethro followed my finger.

“What about it?”

“It’s crooked.”

He stared at the poster.

Then at me.

Then back at the poster.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Fix it.”

“You’re impossible, Kairo.”

“I know.”

He muttered something under his breath but walked over to straighten it.

I turned back toward the camera.

“Okay. Quiet, everyone.”

The three students acting in the scene immediately stopped talking.

One of them raised his hand.

“Can I ask something?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He lowered his hand.

I heard someone snicker behind me.

I ignored it.

This was our second-year film project. We had been working on it for almost two weeks, and our professor had already reminded us that the final output would count heavily toward our grade.

I wasn’t about to submit something mediocre.

Filmmaking wasn’t something I did because I thought cameras were cool.

I liked stories.

I liked the way a single shot could say something a hundred lines of dialogue couldn’t.

I liked controlling what people saw.

What they didn’t see.

What they thought they saw.

Every frame mattered.

At least to me.

“Ready?” I asked.

The actors nodded.

I adjusted the tripod one last time.

Checked the exposure.

Checked the focus.

Checked the composition.

Perfect.

I lifted my hand.

“Rolling.”

Jethro pressed the record button.

“Action.”

The actor began walking down the hallway.

Slowly.

Exactly as rehearsed.

I watched through the monitor.

His footsteps.

The lighting.

The framing.

Everything was finally working.

For once, nobody was talking.

Nobody was laughing.

Nobody was walking through the background.

I could already imagine the final edit.

This was it.

The shot we’d been trying to get all morning.

The actor reached the middle of the hallway.

I held my breath.

Five seconds.

Six.

Seven—

A blur suddenly crossed the frame.

A stack of papers appeared.

Then a girl.

She walked directly in front of the camera.

Not beside it.

Not behind it.

Directly in front of it.

The entire screen became a moving wall of white blouse, black skirt, and flying sheets of paper.

I stared at the monitor.

The actor stopped.

Jethro lowered the camera.

Everyone went silent.

The girl continued walking.

Three steps.

Four.

Five.

Then she suddenly stopped.

Apparently, she realized there were people behind her.

She turned around.

Her eyes met mine.

She was holding a thick stack of theater scripts against her chest, several loose pages sticking out from between them.

Her dark hair was slightly messy, as if she’d been running.

Which, judging from the way she was breathing, she probably had.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then I looked at the camera.

Then at her.

Then back at the camera.

“You ruined the shot.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“Excuse me?”

I pointed at the camera.

“The shot.”

She looked at the camera.

Then at me.

“I don’t see it.”

I blinked.

“You walked into it.”

“Oh.”

She glanced down at the floor.

Then back at me.

“Well, I’m sorry.”

The words sounded polite.

Her expression wasn’t.

She turned to leave.

I stared at her back.

“That’s it?”

She stopped.

Slowly turned around.

“What else do you want?”

“An actual apology.”

“I apologized.”

“You sounded sarcastic.”

She frowned.

“You sounded rude.”

“I was being honest.”

“And I was being sarcastic.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

She stared at me.

I stared back.

Jethro suddenly coughed.

I knew that cough.

He was trying not to laugh.

The girl looked around at our equipment.

Then at the tripod.

Then at the camera.

Then at me.

“Maybe don’t put your camera in the middle of the hallway.”

I frowned.

“We’re filming.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why did you walk through?”

“Because this is a hallway.”

I looked at her.

She gestured around us.

“People walk through hallways.”

“Not when we’re filming.”

“Did you put up a sign?”

“No.”

“Then how was I supposed to know?”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

She smiled.

Not a nice smile.

A victorious one.

That irritated me even more.

“We were standing here with a camera.”

“And I was carrying scripts.”

“So?”

“So I was clearly going somewhere.”

I looked at the stack of papers in her arms.

The top page had a large title printed across it.

SCENE 7 — THE CONFRONTATION.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

“Where are you going?”

“Rehearsal.”

“Then you’re late.”

She looked at the clock hanging above the hallway.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh, crap.”

She turned around and hurried away.

Then stopped.

She looked back at me.

“You should move your camera.”

I stared at her.

She pointed toward the equipment.

“People are still going to walk through.”

Then she disappeared around the corner.

I stood there for several seconds.

Jethro finally burst out laughing.

I turned toward him.

“What’s funny?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“You two sounded like an old married couple.”

“I don’t know her.”

“That makes it worse.”

I gave him a look.

He immediately stopped smiling.

“Okay. Let’s just film again.”

I looked at the hallway.

The girl was gone.

Good.

“Reset.”

We managed to finish the shot thirty minutes later.

But my mood didn’t improve.

Every time someone walked past the hallway, I found myself looking up.

Not because I was expecting her.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

By the time we finished packing up, our professor had already sent a message asking us to proceed to Room 304 for an announcement.

I hated announcements.

They usually meant one of two things.

More work.

Or a change to an existing project.

Neither was good.

We walked into the classroom with the rest of our block.

The room was louder than usual.

Students were talking, comparing notes, complaining about deadlines.

I took my usual seat near the window.

Jethro sat beside me.

“You’re still thinking about her.”

I opened my laptop.

“No.”

“You’ve been glaring at the door for five minutes.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I was looking at the clock.”

“The clock is above the board.”

I ignored him.

Then the door opened.

A group of students entered.

Most of them were from our department.

But a few were unfamiliar.

Then I saw her.

The girl from the hallway.

I didn’t know her name yet.

But somehow, seeing her again made my headache worse.

She walked into the room carrying the same scripts.

This time, she wasn’t rushing.

She was laughing with another girl as they took seats near the front.

She looked completely different from the irritated girl who had just nearly started an argument with me.

Relaxed.

Confident.

Bright.

Then she turned.

Her eyes found mine.

Her smile disappeared.

“Oh.”

I raised an eyebrow.

She whispered something to her friend.

Her friend looked at me.

Then at her.

Then back at me.

The friend started smiling.

I already disliked her too.

Our professor entered before anything else could happen.

“Good afternoon, everyone.”

The room quieted.

He placed several folders on the table.

“I have an important announcement regarding your upcoming semester project.”

Everyone immediately started complaining.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You won’t be doing this one alone.”

That made the room quieter.

“You’ll be collaborating with the Theater Arts department.”

I sat up slightly.

A collaboration between Film and Theater wasn’t unusual.

But the timing was.

Our department had been preparing for an independent short film project.

Our professor continued.

“The project will be a short narrative film. The Film students will handle cinematography, directing, editing, and production. The Theater Arts students will handle performance and character development.”

Someone raised a hand.

“Sir, will we be choosing our own actors?”

“No.”

A few students groaned.

“The departments have already selected the teams.”

I glanced at Jethro.

He looked equally concerned.

Our professor began reading the names.

I barely listened.

Until—

“Kairo Lucius Madrigal.”

I looked up.

“You’ll be part of the directing and cinematography team.”

That wasn’t surprising.

I nodded.

Then he continued.

“And your female lead will be…”

He paused.

I don’t know why I suddenly had a bad feeling.

Maybe it was instinct.

Maybe it was the universe warning me.

Maybe I should’ve simply left the room.

Instead, I stayed.

“Caelith Lucille Velasco.”

Silence.

I slowly turned toward the front.

The girl from the hallway was staring at me.

Her eyes widened.

My jaw tightened.

No.

Absolutely not.

Our professor continued explaining the project, but I wasn’t listening anymore.

Caelith looked at me.

I looked at her.

She raised one eyebrow.

I shook my head.

She smiled.

It was the same victorious smile from earlier.

I leaned back in my chair.

“You’re kidding.”

Apparently, I said it louder than I intended.

Because Caelith heard me.

She turned fully in her seat.

Her smile widened.

“Don’t worry.”

She lifted her scripts.

“I’m not thrilled either.”

And just like that, I knew this project was going to be a disaster.

Or worse—

Interesting.