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Camilo doesn’t know what to do.
As he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, hands shaking and eyes watering, he realizes that he has absolutely no clue what to do.
Something is wrong with him. Something is seriously wrong with him but he doesn’t know what it is and he doesn’t know how to fix it.
He has to stop shaking. He has to be quiet or else Dolores will hear him and ask what's wrong and then he’ll have to come up with something to say. Something to tell her so that she’ll stop worrying and leave him alone and let him resume his- whatever he’s doing right now.
He doesn’t want her to worry but he also doesn’t know how to make her not worry when he’s worrying himself.
And he has to leave soon. He’s been in the bathroom for a while now, people will start to look for him before long.
Or maybe not.
Because they're not looking for him are they? They’re looking for another Sofia or another Luisa or another goddamn José. And Camilo swears that if he has to be someone else for one more second he might just-
But who else could he be. And what if they are looking for him.
That’s the real issue isn’t it? Why he locked himself in the bathroom in the first place?
Who is he?
He shifts forward, hands grasping the edge of the sink.
He tries to breathe, to remember what it feels like to have air in his lungs.
His lungs. Because this is his body and that's all that really matters right? He is Camilo. He is a Madrigal and his magic is strong and his gift is as special as he is and he will use it it to help the town and-
He finally looks up. Eyes landing on the boy in the mirror.
His hands have stopped shaking now. But he’s not entirely sure that's a good thing because now he can’t move. Can’t stop staring at the boy with curly brown hair and freckled tan skin.
The question repeats itself in his mind: Who is he?
The boy that stands before him, the person standing in the mirror that moves when he moves, that blinks when he blinks… looks nothing like him.
Except it does. But it doesn’t
This is Camilo Madrigal. He can tell by the yellow poncho and the brownish-hazel eyes. This is what he’s supposed to look like but… it’s not him.
Now, he’s not completely sure what he’s supposed to look like but he can say with 100% certainty that this is not it.
So he tries shifting.
He shifts into Sofia. Then he shifts into Luisa. And then he shifts into José. And then he shifts into whoever he was before.
(He would say he’s shifting back into Camilo but he’s Camilo and he is absolutely 100% certain that whoever he is right now is not him.)
And then he’s right back where he started; knowing somethings wrong but not knowing what; knowing he has to fix this but not knowing how.
His body can move again, and so the shaking returns in full force, this time accompanied by a lump in his throat too painful to swallow.
It’s so big, hurts so bad, that it sends him stumbling back. Keeps on pushing until his knees give out and he slides down the bathroom wall.
It really does hurt, he realizes. Not just the lump in his throat or the stinging of his eyes, but this feeling of not knowing.
Not knowing who he’s supposed to be or what he’s supposed to look like. Not knowing if what he’s feeling is normal or something he has to deal with alone.
Because he doesn't want to be alone, hates the way he feels as if he’s about to cry.
He wants Dolores to come looking for him now, she always knows what to say. He wants his Mom to hold him close and tell him that everything is going to be fine. That it’s alright to not know what's wrong and that it’s fine to not know how to fix it. That it’s okay to wish, sometimes, that he didn’t have a gift at all. Maybe then this wouldn’t hurt so bad.
Maybe then he’d know who he is.
He lets out a sob as his eyes overflow with tears, squeezes his eyelids shut in a futile attempt to stop them from running down his cheeks. In an attempt to block out the voice in his head, telling him he should be grateful for the gift he has been given. In a plea for whoever is willing to answer, to give him the right body.
The one that he hopes to see when he looks in the mirror. The one he is disappointed to find is not there every single time.
He realizes, as he lays his head down on his knees and wraps his arms tight around his legs, that the voice sounds an awful lot like his Abuela.
He remembers her saying once, that without their gifts they are nothing.
And so he cries. Cries because he doesn’t know who he is. Cries because everyone wants him to be someone else. Cries at the thought of asking for help and then cries some more because he is alone. Cries because there's nothing he can do and cries because if he has to be something for everyone else then he would rather be nothing at all.