Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 127: Someone I Used to Be

Chapter 127: Someone I Used to Be

The last sip of coffee had gone cold, untouched on the table. Outside, the city brightened with noise and movement, but inside — the apartment remained wrapped in the quiet hush of an untouched morning.

Billy sat at the table, one hand on the phone Camila had brought back, the other idly tracing a faint scar on his wrist — something from before.

Camila stood by the window, glancing down at the street, arms loosely crossed.

"You know... there’s a studio not far from here," she said casually. "One of your old directors still works there."

Billy looked up, unsure.

"The studio?"

She turned, nodding.

"Yeah. Not the set where everything happened. That’s further out. But this place... you used to go there to rehearse. Sometimes even when you weren’t working. It was quieter."

"Did I like it?" he asked.

Camila tilted her head, thinking.

"I think you liked the quiet parts. The stuff between the lights. The moments you got to disappear into a role without the cameras."

She hesitated, then added, softer now:

"But acting... it was never really your dream, was it?"

Billy stilled.

"No?" he asked, uncertain.

"No," she said gently. "It was Dad’s."

The words hung in the room like dust in sunlight.

"He saw something in you early. Said you had a presence. A face that could hold the world’s attention. And you did. You do. But when you talked about what you loved..." She paused. "It wasn’t lights or scripts."

Billy leaned back slowly, processing.

"Then why didn’t I walk away?"

Camila gave a sad smile.

"Because you didn’t want to disappoint him. And maybe... because you thought, eventually, it might feel like yours too."

A long pause.

Then she crossed the room, sat down beside him.

"But I remember this one night. You’d just finished a big shoot. Everyone was calling it your breakout role. I came to see you at the apartment. You weren’t celebrating. You were playing." She gestured toward the piano.

"Something soft. Something beautiful. You didn’t even hear me come in. You were just... lost in it. And I remember thinking—" Her voice trembled slightly. "This. This is the real you."

Billy’s gaze shifted to the piano — his fingers twitching, as if remembering something his mind couldn’t name.

He didn’t speak, but the sudden stillness in him said more than words could.

"Do you want to go?" she asked. "To the rehearsal space?"

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think I do."

Camila rose from the couch, dusting crumbs off her hands.

"Alright, sleepyhead," she said with a playful nudge. "Let me show you around. You’ve been living here long enough, you should know what your own place looks like."

Billy smiled faintly, still quiet. But he stood and followed her as she moved through the small apartment with casual ease.

She opened the hallway closet first.

"Your jackets... though I’m not sure why you kept all of them when you only wear like, two."

Then the small laundry space, half-hidden behind a sliding door.

"You always forgot to do laundry until the last pair of socks."

Billy glanced at the half-full basket. Some things, apparently, never changed.

Next, the tiny guest room — more of a storage room now. Camila pointed to the corner shelf.

"Your old photo books are up there. And those tapes you kept for ’inspiration.’"

He gave a slow nod, eyes scanning everything like he was seeing it all for the first time.

Because in a way... he was.

They circled back to the main room.

"And here," Camila said, tapping the piano gently, "is your church, your diary, your punching bag — depending on the day."

Billy stopped.

Ran his fingers gently across the keys.

No sound this time. Just touch.

"Thanks for doing this," he murmured.

"You’re my brother," she said simply. "Where else would I be?"

He looked around one last time, letting the space settle into him.

Then he took a slow breath.

"I’ll get ready."

Camila nodded. "Take your time. I’ll wait."

She moved back to the window, giving him space, letting the silence wrap around him like a second skin.

Billy stepped into the bedroom. The door didn’t fully close.

He opened a drawer — old clothes, carefully folded, some still with faint scents of laundry soap and cologne.

He picked a soft blue shirt — nothing fancy. It felt familiar.

He changed slowly, buttoning the cuffs with care.

Then from the dresser, he lifted a black leather bracelet.

He stared at it.

Not sure why... but something about it made his chest ache.

He slipped it on.

Then paused at the mirror.

The reflection staring back felt half-familiar — a ghost stitched together with shadows of memory.

He didn’t know this version of himself... but he didn’t flinch either.

"Let’s see where you’ve been," he whispered to his own reflection.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Billy stepped out first, blinking slightly at the light. The air was warm — not heavy, but full.

The scent of city trees and passing car exhaust mixed with the soft aroma of fresh bread from the bakery downstairs.

Camila locked the door, then looped her bag across her shoulder.

"It’s weird, huh?" she said as they began walking. "Everything’s exactly the same, and yet it probably feels like none of it belongs to you."

Billy looked around slowly — the corner store, the bike chained to the rusted railing, the orange cat dozing under the bench near the florist.

"It’s like déjà vu... but without the knowing."

Camila glanced sideways.

"You used to get coffee every morning at that shop," she pointed. "Same order. Cinnamon latte, two sugars. The guy at the counter called you ’Movie Boy.’"

Billy let out a quiet laugh.

"That sounds embarrassing."

"You loved it," she grinned.

They turned the corner, falling into a steady rhythm. Not rushing. Not avoiding.

Just walking.

At one block, Billy slowed down.

He didn’t say why.

His eyes were fixed on a narrow alley tucked between two buildings.

Camila followed his gaze.

"Something there?"

Billy didn’t answer at first. He stepped closer. The alley was quiet, lit only by a cracked lamp and patches of filtered sunlight from above.

He stood there, breathing in the stillness.

A soft image flickered — not quite a memory, more like a feeling.

Rain. Someone pulling him in from the downpour. Laughter echoing off wet pavement. A quick kiss. A promise whispered too fast.

Then it vanished.

Billy blinked.

"I think I’ve been here before."

Camila watched him carefully.

"Maybe you have."

He didn’t push it.

Just nodded once, then turned and kept walking.

The sidewalk beneath their feet was warm from the afternoon sun.

Leaves rustled faintly overhead, and the noise of the city remained a low, distant hum — more alive than overwhelming.

Camila walked just ahead now, checking street signs, her voice drifting back to him like a soft echo.

"It’s just a few more blocks. You always used to complain about the walk but never once took a cab."

Billy didn’t reply — his eyes were fixed on the buildings around them.

Every now and then, something would tug at the edge of his awareness.

A bakery’s bell. The smell of old paper from a bookstore. A faint jingle from a street performer’s guitar.

He didn’t remember them. But they stirred something quiet inside him.

Then—he stopped.

Across the street, tucked between a faded billboard and a scaffolding post, was a tall, framed movie poster.

His name in bold white text. The title beneath: "Beneath the Light." And above it all, his face.

Eyes slightly narrowed. Wet hair. A tear rolling down one cheek. A scene mid-emotion — grief, hope, maybe both.

Billy stood frozen.

Camila followed his gaze, then stopped too.

"That’s... one of your last films," she said quietly. "You never got to see it premiere. It came out after you went missing."

Billy stepped closer, slowly crossing the street.

He stood in front of the poster. His own eyes stared back at him. But they felt like someone else’s.

"I don’t remember being him," he said.

Camila joined him, standing beside him in the shade of the frame.

"He doesn’t exist without you," she said softly.

Billy looked down. His reflection ghosted in the glass, layered over the printed face behind it.

Two versions of himself, flickering together.

"Do you think he was happy?" he asked.

Camila hesitated, eyes still on the poster. "I think... he was trying. And that counts for something."

Billy let the silence sit there.

Then turned away.

Not out of rejection — but because he wasn’t ready.

"Let’s keep going," he murmured.

Camila nodded, falling into step beside him again.

And as they walked on, the poster stood behind them — still, silent, watching. Not forgotten.

Just... waiting.

The studio sat just beyond a row of trees and a low iron gate, tucked off a quieter street — almost like the world had folded it gently into itself.

Billy paused at the sidewalk, staring through the open gate.

The building wasn’t grand or intimidating. Just familiar in structure, like a place meant to be used, not shown off. Pale walls. Tall glass doors. A faint glimmer of lights inside.

Camila placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

"You okay?"

Billy nodded slowly, even though his chest was tight.

"This is it?" he asked.

"You spent hours here. Sometimes whole weekends. Rehearsals, auditions, or just... being in the space. Said it made you feel real."

They walked in together.

The glass doors opened with a soft push. The air inside was cooler — a little dry.

The smell of paper, sawdust, and old coffee hung faintly in the air. Somewhere deeper in the building, someone’s voice echoed faintly on a stage.

Billy took it all in.

The waiting area. The soft carpet. A corkboard still cluttered with cast lists and scribbled rehearsal times from productions that had already come and gone.

A young assistant looked up from the front desk, blinking in surprise.

"Mr. Leon?"

Camila gently stepped forward.

"He’s just visiting. Is the rehearsal space open?"

The woman nodded quickly.

"Yes, Studio 2 is empty today. It’s yours if you need it."

Billy’s name still had weight here.

He looked away.

They walked down the hall — long, echoing, lined with old posters and framed stills.

Each one, a snapshot of someone else’s passion... someone else’s pain. But none looked back at him.

At the final door, Camila stopped.

"This was your favorite room," she whispered. "Big windows. Quiet light. Wooden floors."

Billy reached for the handle.

His palm hovered a second too long — then pressed.

The door opened with a soft click.