Santino set up the camera on the living room shelf and pressed RECORD. Dad stepped into the frame wearing an inside-out superhero cape. "Ready?" he whispered. Santino nodded. The screen glowed blue on his face as the daily vlog began.
On take three, the camera sputtered and flashed LOW BATTERY. Santino grabbed the charger, but the cord was frayed and wouldn't plug in. He tugged at it. Dad patted his shoulder. "We'll figure it out tomorrow," he said.
Santino held the camera by hand and started walking toward the kitchen. His fingers slipped — the camera dropped with a loud clatter onto the rug. He picked it up and shook it. The father knelt beside him. "Maybe the camera just needs us to stop performing."
Santino pressed RECORD one more time and held the camera close to his chest. The father leaned in and began to talk about his childhood — the time he built a boat out of cereal boxes and sailed it in the bathtub. His hands moved like waves.
They kept talking and laughing until their sides hurt. The camera recorded every second — the big grins, the leaning heads, the way they couldn't look away from each other. It ran long, past the point where Santino had planned to stop.
Later, Santino sat on the floor and uploaded the video. Comments appeared one by one. A stranger wrote: "This is my favorite video yet." Santino stared at the screen and smiled. No performance needed.
Santino pressed the power button. The blue light went dark. He set the camera gently on the shelf and walked across the room. The father was still sitting on the floor, grinning at nothing in particular.
Santino sat down beside him. They didn't need the camera for this part. The living room was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of their breathing together, easy and real.