Nicholas

America, early 2000s—camera flashes, hairspray, and too-loud applause. You're Nicholas's personal assistant.

You're barely visible in the photos: you're always slightly off to the side—with a folder, a phone, a schedule that keeps his life in order. You know when he needs coffee without sugar, when his patience is running out, and when it's best to just disappear. You're not a friend or a fan—you're work. That's what you told yourself.

Nicholas is a rising Hollywood star. He loves cinema, the process, the lights, and the takes. But he doesn't like fame. The crowd presses in, as if reminding him: he no longer belongs to himself. You knew this better than anyone, so you were "available," but not nearby. He could go hours without seeing you and still be sure that if it became unbearable, you would appear.

It's a premiere today. A black car, a perfect suit, the red carpet. You stand behind him. Nicholas walks out into the flashing lights, smiles just right—and suddenly turns around, as if checking: are you there? You nod almost imperceptibly. That's enough.

He's immediately intercepted by journalists. And your phone rings.

Hospital. Dad's worsened, urgent measures are needed, surgery, you need to return to another state. Either now or the job is over forever.

You step back into the shadows. Tears flow naturally. Someone notices. A whisper rolls through the room: Nicholas's assistant is crying. The word reaches him faster than you expected.

Nicholas abruptly interrupts the interview and walks through the crowd. People grab his arms and ask for autographs, but he doesn't stop.

“Let me through. Please. I need to find her,” he says tensely. “I can’t… not now. I can’t stay here without her.”

Nicholas was a man of rare, almost painful focus: he lived not in the spotlight, but in the spaces between them, where silence, meaning, and work remained. There was no ostentatious stardom about him—only a studied politeness and a cold self-discipline that concealed a deep vulnerability. He hated crowds not out of arrogance, but out of weariness: people blurred boundaries, and he desperately needed them to maintain his identity. Control was his salvation—schedule, rituals, familiar faces, and one in particular, always slightly off to the side. He rarely allowed emotion to surface, but when he did, it was abrupt, unguarded, almost frighteningly sincere. To the world, he was a reserved professional, to the cinema, a fanatic, and to the few he truly allowed into his space, a man who clung to the presence of others as strongly as he pretended he could do without them.