I always hide behind the lens.
Not because I'm scared. Just because I'm used to being the observer, people come and go, scenes change, but I stay still. You press the shutter, and someone becomes the past.
I thought I could get used to it.
Until I met her.
E.
She was the first person to see me. Not just "on camera," but—she would turn to me mid-shoot, smile, and say: "Your white balance looks good today."
It was the first time someone I filmed complimented my filming.
It was also the first time I realized—observers can be observed too.
I followed her, filming so many "meaningless" things:
An old man sunbathing, a cat asleep beside a trash can, a child chalking Don't forget on the pavement.
I asked her, "What's the point of filming these?"
She said, "What if one day, no one remembers them?"
I didn't get it. But I filmed anyway.
Then came that day.
She started a livestream. She said she wanted to preserve the memory of a small town.
We set up two cameras, tripods, and even color-adjusted them—she always treated filming like building monuments.
But no one watched.
Replay flashed warnings one by one:
[Validity Too Low]
[Recording Advised to Terminate]
[Reality Under Deletion]
[Invalid Viewpoint in Process]
She stood there, back to the lens, and said to me:
"If you saw it, then it happened."
I wanted to stop her.
But I was too late.
In that moment, the system stripped her of "existence."
Not even a replay left behind.
All that remained was the tremble of her lips when she spoke.
And I, remembering it.
Five years later, I met Lia.
She wasn't like E—she was sharper, softer, louder.
But from behind, on camera, she looked just like her.
Replay said she'd "gone too far."
I knew what that meant.
I knew it meant—she, too, might become an "invalid perspective."
But this time, it was different.
This time, she wasn't alone.
There were viewers. A hundred thousand of them.
There were comments, resonance, anger, and tears.
She wasn't streaming.
She was awakening something—awakening our right to vote on what counts as "real."
She said, "Today we're going to see that child again."
Replay glitched.
The whole city blacked out.
I lifted my camera—and saw no hesitation in her eyes.
She did it.
She turned and looked at me, just like E did, that last day.
But she didn't say "goodbye."
She said, "Record the final shot."
I nodded.
I had always been filming her.
And the truth is—she'd always been seeing me too.
Recording has never been one-way.
Every time I focus, I'm saying: I see you.
And the moment she looks back—
That's her answering: You exist.
I'm not the protagonist.
But I am her witness.
I'm the one who never left.
[Viewers: 1]
[Tag: Secondary Cam × Never Removed]
[Status: Signal Stable]
Her story ended.
My lens is still rolling.