For as long as I can remember, Celeste has always had a knack for drawing attention to herself.
Whether it was school talent contests, birthday parties, or just brunch with friends, somehow she always seemed to be the centre of attention.
And all the while, I let her have it.
We met at university.
I was studying media production, Celeste was studying communications.
She had an infectious laugh and a wardrobe like she’d stepped out of a fashion advert.
I was more quiet, observant.
I loved stories – telling them, filming them, finding meaning in them that others missed.
She liked to be the story.
We became fast friends.
She pulled me into her world and I let her lead – at parties, in conversations, even in creative projects.
It didn’t stress me out.
At first.
I thought, ‘It’s just who she is. She shines.’
But as time went on, I started to notice cracks.
When I proposed a short film idea to the class and it was later selected for screening, Celeste offered to help ‘shape the vision.’
Within weeks, professors were mentioning only her name.
‘Celeste’s film is brilliant!’
‘Celeste has such a unique voice!’
And I was the one who sat up nights editing, rewriting the script, directing every shot.
She came late to the shoot and left early – but she knew how to talk about the project.
She knew how to sell it.
That was her superpower.
I kept telling myself it didn’t matter.
We’re friends.
If she’s winning, so am I… right?
And then came The Moment.
In our final term, I submitted a documentary short film called ‘Still Blossoming’ – a very personal piece about my mum’s struggle with depression and the quiet strength of women carrying their families through the pain.
The film was selected for a national student competition.
It was a huge deal.
I was overwhelmed.
I was finally being noticed.
The screening took place in Lisbon.
The day before, Celeste offered to fly with me.
‘To support you,’ she said.
She showed up in a red dress and with confidence enveloping her like the scent of perfume.
I was in a black jumpsuit and with trembling hope.
After the screening there was a small panel with interviews of selected directors.
I stepped away to get some water – and came back when I saw Celeste talking to the panel.
Not introducing me.
Not pointing at me.
Talking about ‘our’ vision.
About ‘our’ decisions.
About ‘our’ story.
My stomach clenched.
That night, as we shared a hotel room, I talked to her.
‘You do this all the time,’ I said. – Taking up space that doesn’t belong to you.’
She rolled her eyes.
‘Chiara, if you can’t stand up for yourself, don’t blame me for filling the silence.’
It was like a slap – without a sound.
I’d left Lisbon earlier.
Alone.
I came home, cried for two days straight and thought about never making films again.
But then something strange happened.
One of the judges, Ana Ribeiro, a famous Portuguese film director, contacted me.
She said: ‘Your voice came from the screen. I want to be your mentor.’
Not yours and Celeste’s.
Just mine.
With Ana’s guidance, I developed a new project.
A documentary series about underappreciated women storytellers from different cultures.
For the first time, I wasn’t hiding behind someone else’s light – I was creating my own.
And it worked.
The series was bought by an independent platform.
It won an award at the European Digital Arts Festival.
Suddenly I was no longer a quiet creative shadow in the background.
I became a leader.
And it was noticed.
Celeste got back in touch.
She publicly congratulated me on Instagram, and in private messages asked if I needed help ‘building my public image.’
I didn’t respond.
Not because I was angry – but because I realised something important:
A true friend doesn’t put out your light to make their own seem brighter.
A true friend helps you shine – and is happy when you do.
Celeste taught me something, albeit with the wrong intention:
That staying small for the comfort of others is another form of betrayal of self.
That silence is not humility if it takes away your voice.
That sometimes the best revenge is not revenge at all, but success, sincerity and peace.
I now run masterclasses for young women in film – especially those who don’t speak the loudest.
I remind them:
You don’t need permission to be seen.
You don’t need someone louder to tell your story.
Your voice is important – even if it’s shaky.
Celeste is still out there somewhere.
Still networking, still charming, still taking credit where she can.
But I don’t think about her anymore.
Because while she was busy taking up space, I was building mine.
And now that I’m in it?
I’m not getting out.
