Chapter 3: First Take, First Fire
April 1996 – Shooting Begins
The first day of filming for Hearts on Fire began at 6:00 a.m., with a blood-orange sunrise bleeding over the hills of Tagaytay. The crew had taken over a rented villa for the week—a sprawling, half-finished mansion that served as the fictional home of Bella's character, Celeste. The surrounding gardens were overgrown in places, untamed like the emotions the script demanded.
Inside the makeup trailer, Bella stared at her reflection. A stylist worked silently on her waves while a makeup artist gently dabbed concealer under her eyes. She'd barely slept. Her body was in full actress mode—still, practiced, camera-ready—but her thoughts spun elsewhere.
Today wasn't just a shoot. It was her first time headlining a major teleserye. Her first time working opposite someone untrained and, worse, unpredictable. She'd asked her manager twice if they could still replace him. Each time, the answer had been a firm "no."
"You ready, Miss Bella?" a production assistant asked, peeking into the trailer.
She gave a short nod, slipped on her robe, and walked out.
Enzo had arrived before sunrise.
He'd been the first on set, sipping hot instant coffee from a styrofoam cup, pacing through his lines under a dim halogen lamp. Unlike the others, he didn't have a trailer or a stylist—just a foldable chair with his name written in masking tape and a mirror propped against a toolbox.
He was nervous. Not because of the camera, but because of Bella.
Their chemistry in the auditions had felt natural. But this? This was a high-stakes production with a hundred eyes watching. He wasn't sure if that same spark could survive pressure—or if Bella even wanted it to.
"Rivera, you're in the first scene," a second AD called. "On the balcony with Bella."
He nodded, rubbing his palms together. Show time.
The cameras rolled as the early morning mist hovered in the garden. The director shouted, "Scene 12, take one. And... action!"
Bella stepped out onto the mock-balcony, barefoot, wearing a silk robe, her eyes trained on the horizon. Enzo's character, Joaquin, approached from behind.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, voice low.
She turned slowly, and their eyes met. The script said she was supposed to look away, but she didn't.
"I'm not used to quiet," she whispered. "It makes me think too much."
Enzo delivered his next line with restraint, but it was in the look he gave her that the real emotion shimmered—unscripted, searching.
Cut.
"Again," the director said, brows furrowed. "Same lines, but more tension. Bella, less polish. Let it break a little."
The second take went worse.
Bella fumbled a line. Enzo hesitated on his cue. They both stiffened.
"Cut. We're going again," the director barked, already losing patience.
By the fifth take, the atmosphere had shifted. Lights were reset. Crew members exchanged glances. Sweat gathered on Enzo's brow, and Bella's jaw tightened each time the clapboard snapped shut.
At lunch, Bella sat alone, picking at a salad while flipping through her sides. Pia sat nearby but didn't speak. She knew when to give her boss space.
Enzo, meanwhile, stayed on the set stairs with his own container of rice and adobo, replaying the morning in his head. He was drowning—and he knew it. He wasn't trained for this. He didn't have the instincts to recover mid-take or cover a partner's mistake with grace.
But that afternoon, things changed.
The next scene was unscheduled—added last minute by the head writer, who had seen a "missed opportunity" for emotional depth. It was short: Joaquin sits beside Celeste as she confesses a childhood memory. Simple. Raw.
Bella sat with her script in hand, scanning it.
"This wasn't in the table read," she muttered.
"I know," Enzo said, sitting beside her on the stone bench where the scene was set. "You good?"
She looked at him. For the first time that day, her expression softened.
"Are you?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I don't know what I'm doing. I'm just trying not to screw it up."
She laughed—a dry, surprising sound. "Welcome to showbiz."
Silence.
Then, without warning, she reached into her bag and handed him a yellow highlighter.
"Mark the pauses. Not just your lines. Mine, too. See the space between words—that's where the story lives."
He took it carefully. "Thanks."
"No problem, partner."
The scene played out differently.
Under a canopy of late-afternoon light, they sat close but not touching. Bella spoke softly about her character's childhood fears—about losing her mother in a market crowd and realizing for the first time what loneliness felt like. Enzo didn't interrupt. He just listened.
And when he responded—one line, nothing grand—it carried weight. More than any earlier scene.
The director didn't call cut for several seconds after the final line. Then, quietly:
"That's it. That's the tone. We move forward from here."
That night, as the crew wrapped cables and packed up lights, Bella sat on the villa steps, hugging her knees.
Enzo walked up, hands in his pockets.
"You did great today," he said.
She looked up, surprised. "You weren't too bad yourself."
They shared a quiet moment, the sounds of Tagaytay's night settling around them—cicadas, wind, and a distant dog barking.
"Think we can do this?" he asked.
She didn't hesitate this time. "Yeah. I think we already are."
They didn't need to touch. They didn't need grand declarations. The fire had started to catch—and the real story was only just beginning.