One in a Million, He Was

'“One In A Million, He Was” is a soulful narrative of fleeting encounters with a videographer whose artistry sparks admiration and introspection. Through vivid storytelling, she captures the ambiguity of connection, weaving moments of longing and self-reflection.

Caught in the Frame, Left in the Fade 

There you were, camera in hand, weaving through the crowd like you owned the light itself, so focused, so much purpose. Everyone around was being tended to, drinks offered, but I couldn’t take my eyes off you working, channeling all that energy into every precise shot. I hung back, mesmerized by your intention, the way you captured the chaos like it was art waiting to be born. So I did the only thing that made sense: I offered you something to drink. Not once, but twice, because one felt too fleeting for the pull I felt. You came back later, and we exchanged a few words, light and easy, before you slipped back into the crowd’s chaos again. As it wound down, I gathered the courage: “Can I get your Instagram?” We swapped socials, and that was supposed to be the end. Or was it the beginning? 

Isn’t it always the small exchanges that sneak up on you, turning strangers into stories? 

Your stories popped up on my feed, your content taking shape in ways that drew me right in, and I was hooked on how talented you were, how effortlessly skilled. Watching you turn those raw moments into something polished was electric. I wanted in, wanted to learn you, so I messaged, asking if you needed any help. Truth be told, it was as much about assisting as it was about absorbing your world. You had a shoot planned , a passion project you called it, and you invited me to handle lighting. I showed up ready and willing, but there you were once more, so intentional behind the lens, every move a lesson. I loved observing it all, studying the way you navigated, sensing you had volumes to share. Our chats stayed sparse after that, mostly story swipe-ups, until your message lit up my screen: “What are you doing, Danni?” Nothing much, I replied, just wrapping up work. You asked me to swing by Privacy Place on my way home. So I did. You were there with a friend, we traded smiles and a quick hello. I never imagined you saw me that way; I pegged us as friends, maybe, or just casual acquaintances. You, the skilled visionary; me, the quiet admirer, always tuned in from afar. 

There was that one invite to your place that I let slip by, but I tucked it away like a keepsake. Then the volleyball game with your friends rolled in. I got the text and felt that rare thrill, the kind that simmers. No camera this time, but you were just as commanding on the court, zigzagging across the field from my side to yours with that same fierce skill. I had a blast, replaying in my head how you’d even thought to ask me along. I’ve always been drawn to those open-air escapes, the simple joy of it. Game over, you won, I lost, naturally. Then you turned to me, eyes steady, and said it outright: “I like you. I just thought you should know, ” I froze, a total child in that moment, words failing me. No follow-up, no elaboration, just “I like you.” I can still hear the cadence of it, see the certainty in your gaze. We never pursued it further after that, the days blurring as our conversations trailed off, until. Your event brought us back into the same space. 

Isn’t it curious how a bold confession can promise so much one moment , then dissolve into silence the next?

I’ll admit it: I was lost. The last time our paths crossed, you’d laid it out so clearly, you liked me. But here? The confusion hit hard. Maybe it was the Cutwater loosening tongues. But was that confession about me, or had the moment dissolved like an unrendered clip? You seemed uninterested, barely talking or interacting with me at all. I left feeling lost, all sorts of questions rushing through my mind, wondering if that bold moment was just you coming down with a case of Cutwater courage after all. So I decided to let it be, to laugh at the confusion and live for whatever came next. If next never came, that was okay too. 

Don’t we all wonder how, just when you’ve surrendered to the silence, fate rewinds the tape for one more unscripted scene? 

I stepped into the Sugar Shack, the air already filled with that pre-show promise. Living in the moment, heart racing with that electric thrill of what’s to come, I caught your walk out of the corner of my eye. Was it you? Doubt lingered until your profile sharpened into focus. I tapped your shoulder, said hey. You turned with a quick hello, a smile softening into a laugh, and that was it. We split off, me to the bar for an Aperol spritz.You melted into the night. But soon enough, we bumped into each other again. I admitted spotting you by your stride; you said the same, my hair tipping you off like a giveaway. Laughter sparked, jokes easy as the rodeo topic surfaced. You raved about it but needed outfit inspo for round two. I gushed over horses, how riding them feels wildly free. Then came your line, eyes glinting: “I would love to see you ride a horse.” Double entendre? Hard to say. We chuckled it away, diving back into the music. Before drifting apart, we floated plans to link up soon, you dead serious about it.Are you hot and cold by design, or is this just the universe’s playful jump cut, leaving me to wonder if the real twist is in the edit we never filmed? 

So here I sit, framing those stolen glances and half-spoken truths, replaying : when does admiration from the sidelines grow into something mutual, or does it just echo in the what-ifs? Will you step out of the observer’s shadow and claim the light for yourself? I’m Talkin’ to You, I’m Talkin’ to Me Too.