Shooting the Shooter

I stood at the side of the venue, camera pressed firmly in my hands, eyes fixed on the scene I was supposed to capture. On stage, names were being called one by one—each step forward met with applause, each recognition marking the end of one journey and the beginning of another.

I tried to focus on the frame. Keep it steady. Don’t miss the moment. But my thoughts were no longer on the people in front of me. They were on the list, and so is my name. On the realization that in a matter of seconds, I would no longer just be the one documenting the moment—I would be part of it. And I didn’t know which role to choose.

March 28 was meant to be a day of celebration for the students of Dampol 2nd National High School—a recognition, moving up, and graduation ceremony that marked years of effort finally coming into the light.

But for me, the day began long before the sun ever rose.

The night before was a blur of preparation. I stayed over at a classmate’s house, where mirrors, brushes, and hurried hands filled the hours that should have been spent resting. We laughed, we rushed, we tried to perfect every detail—but sleep never came. There simply wasn’t time for it.

By three in the morning, we were already on our way to school, carrying not just our things but the weight of everything we had to do.

The campus was unrecognizable in the dark—silent, empty, waiting. But we weren’t.

As members of the Salin-Lente Pulilan Film Society, we had a responsibility that day: to execute our first-ever livestream coverage. Equipment had to be set up, angles had to be tested, and everything had to work. There was no room for error.

I took my place behind the camera, aware of the quiet pressure that came with it. For the first time, I wasn’t just attending an event—I was helping preserve it in real time.

And yet, that wasn’t my only role.

My section had also been chosen to perform an intermission number for the opening program. Somewhere between adjusting camera settings and checking the livestream, I had to step away, prepare, and become someone else under the lights—someone who danced, smiled, and performed as if nothing else demanded my attention.

One moment, I was behind the camera, following the flow of the program. Next, I was preparing for our performance. Then back again—eyes focused, hands steady, trying to keep everything in frame. There was no clear line between my responsibilities. They overlapped, collided, and demanded everything all at once.

The realization didn’t come gently. It arrived all at once, sending a wave of panic through me. I glanced at the stage, then at the screen I was monitoring, then back again—caught in a loop of indecision.

If I stepped away, I would leave the coverage at a crucial moment. If I stayed, I would miss my own.

For a second, everything felt suspended. The noise of the crowd faded into the background, and all that remained was the weight of the choice in front of me.

Behind the lens, I had a responsibility. On the stage, I had a recognition waiting.

I tried to move, but nothing felt certain. My body was there, but my thoughts lagged behind, scattered and struggling to keep up. The exhaustion I had ignored all morning began to surface, making everything heavier—my hands, my steps, even my breathing.

For once, I wasn’t just capturing a milestone. I was being pulled into it, unprepared.

The hours without sleep began to take their toll.

What had once felt like adrenaline slowly turned into dizziness. The lights grew harsher, the air felt thicker, and the ground beneath me seemed less steady than before. I tried to push through, to hold on just a little longer, convincing myself that I could make it to the end.

But my body had already made the decision for me. The program was meant to last until evening. I left before noon.

It wasn’t the ending I had imagined. Walking away felt incomplete, like stepping out of a story before it had fully unfolded. There was frustration in that—knowing how much I had prepared, how much I wanted to stay.

But there was also clarity. Some moments demand everything from you. And sometimes, everything is more than you can give.

Still, even in the middle of that overwhelming day, there was a quiet moment that stayed with me.

On that same stage where I struggled to find my place, my uncle—an alumnus of the school—stood as a guest speaker. While I worked behind the camera and moved through the day in fragments, he stood firmly at the center, delivering his message with certainty.

We were part of the same event, the same stage, but living entirely different moments within it.

That day was not defined by perfection, yet it was defined by everything happening at once—responsibility, pressure, exhaustion, and achievement, all colliding in a single day.

Because sometimes, the most meaningful experiences are not the ones you fully witness or perfectly capture.

They are the ones where you are stretched between roles, forced to choose, and left somewhere in between—holding the lens, while being called to the stage.