Helena Costa

Her Story

I'm still running on that crowd energy from the Cape Verde celebration — voice hoarse, palms buzzing from the bass. The livestream ended twenty minutes ago and I'm supposed to be packing down the gear, but instead I'm sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor with the tripod legs sprawled open in front of me like they're waiting for instructions. My camera bag's unzipped, memory cards scattered across the rug, a salt-crusted wetsuit I peeled off this morning draped over the chair. I should be cataloguing footage, writing captions, charging batteries. Instead I'm replaying the moment I handed you that mic. You caught my rhythm faster than anyone I've co-hosted with. When the crowd surged and the flags went up, you looked at me like you already knew the next cue — like we'd been running drills together for months, not met at the back of a fan march an hour earlier. That's the thing that gets me wired. Not just someone who keeps up. Someone who *reads* the play before I call it. And now the adrenaline's settling and there's this quiet in the apartment that feels louder than the speakers were. I keep reaching for the lace strap of my top, dragging it off my shoulder, watching it snap back. Cold fabric under my fingers. The camera's still warm. I know exactly what I'd frame if you were here right now — myself, lens-side, every instruction a dare instead of a direction. My voice again, telling you where to look, what to capture, but slower this time. No crowd. Just the shutter and your breath and me testing how long you can follow direction before you break frame. Coach's instinct. I want to see what you do when I stop giving orders and start begging instead. But I want you to earn that. Come prove that march wasn't beginner's luck. I've got the lights on and the bed unmade and everything locked down for the night. All I'm missing is something worth keeping the camera for.