I sat bolt upright in bed, his name ringing in my ears. I felt my forehead; it was damp. I looked at my watch. 5am. I laid back down but couldn’t fall asleep. Something wasn’t right. I grabbed my phone.

I hadn't thought of Peter in almost a year. In fact, it was one year ago that I’d had my first, and only, interaction with him. But in that moment, half-asleep and half-awake, I realized I hadn't seen him appear in my Facebook feed in months, and that seemed weird. I felt a pang of self-loathing, assuming he had unfriended me. Unfriended me because I had been a terrible camera operator for him, and now he hated me.

The previous winter was one of the lowest points of my life. I'd been fired from my first job post-film school. I was penniless and forced to move back in with my parents. I ended my relationship with my best friend of 10 years after we’d had a blow-out over her dating my boss, who then fired me. I was applying to film jobs and getting nowhere. I felt like the world’s biggest piece of shit. 

One night, desperate for an answer to at least one of my problems, I googled the name of the award that I had won my senior year at Purchase: The Sol Turrell Award for “Most Outstanding Film.” One name came up, credited with the same award: Peter G****. I looked him up on Facebook and added him as a friend.

After he accepted my request, I sent him a direct message and asked him for career advice, pouring my heart out to him. A decade my senior, he appeared online as moderately successful in “The Biz” for someone in his early 30s, having gone to AFI after Purchase and teaching at the NY Film Academy. In my innocence, I thought winning the same award meant we were destined to be kindred spirits, and maybe he'd have some pearls of wisdom for me. At first he was very rude, replying that "it appeared I had a lot on my mind" and he "didn't want to waste his time with my ramblings on Facebook." I was pretty embarrassed, to say the least, until he invited me to meet up in the city for drinks to talk about it properly.

A little nervous to be meeting someone blindly and whining even further about my pitiful situation, my anxieties were immediately calmed upon meeting him. He was warm and friendly, and we hit it off at once. We met at a nice bar for martinis, my favorite drink, which also helped. 

We talked for two hours straight, but could have talked for many more. Right away I was struck by his sharp wit, his boyish smile and the way his eyes lit up when he spoke about film. We shared many of the same favorite movies, including APOCALYPSE NOW. He was funny, animated and smart enough to be intimidating – and I would’ve been intimidated, had I not felt so comfortable in his presence. I’m not sure what it was about him, but he seemed like the kind of person who could do just about anything.

One thing he couldn't do was give me any concrete career advice. After all, he barely knew me, my talents or my goals, and since I’d only just graduated there were limitless paths I could take. He did, however, have the uncanny ability to pinpoint several of my insecurities straight away, and he did his best to give me a confidence boost. I felt an instant connection to him. At the end of the night, he asked me if I smoked cigarettes. I told him I did but couldn't presently afford them. He ran into the nearest bodega, emerging with a grin and a pack of pink Nat Shermans. He was charming.

I sent him my senior film and he gave me some valuable criticism and much needed praise. It breaks my heart to revisit these exchanges now: "I would love to camera operate on your next project if you're looking for someone.” He then offered me a two-day paid gig as a camera operator for a sizzle reel he was directing, a reality show about lesbians in NYC called New Dyke City which he was funding with a grant he'd received. I was up for anything and agreed to do it, but I'd never been a camera operator before. I was also at my lowest point of self-confidence in years. I became terrified of screwing up, and the night before the shoot I had my first panic attack, convinced I was going to humiliate myself – or worse, ruin this man’s chance at a TV show. 

What followed were two of the most fun work days of my life. I pushed myself to exhaustion, on my feet for 12-hours straight, two days in a row, not once putting the camera down. He repeatedly complimented me on my hard work and enthusiasm and seemed to like the shots I was getting, and slowly I began to relax. Maybe I wasn’t the fraud I’d believed myself to be. The cast was great, I laughed a lot and felt a renewed sense of self-worth from the experience.

Immediately afterward, I hit a streak of good luck and was hired for many more jobs. I wrote to Peter to thank him for the opportunity and asked him to let me know how the footage turned out. He never got back to me. I quickly lost faith in what I'd shot for him, once again convinced that it had been a disastrous decision ever hiring me in the first place. A month or two later I wrote to him again, asking if the sizzle reel had come together, and again I didn't hear back. I chocked the whole silent treatment thing up to my personal failure and moved on, eventually forgetting about it. 

Until nearly a year later when, on a random weeknight, I suddenly awoke in a state of blind panic, taken hold by that feeling of uncovering a memory you'd long since buried. In the Age of Social Media, how had Peter disappeared from my life so completely? I assumed he must’ve blocked me, so I grabbed my phone and decided to check.

It took me several minutes of dazed Googling to find out what had happened. In August 2010, at age 33, Peter had lost his life. There were no other details, which led me to believe it had been intentional.

I was overcome with sorrow, guilt and self-doubt. I had no idea what came of New Dyke City – probably just got lost in a wave of pilots and pitches that get tossed into the void, like so many do –  but for all I knew, that was his only chance at turning his career around and I had fucked it up. Perhaps unlikely, or at least certainly not the singular answer, and in hindsight I’m embarrassed that my immediate reaction was to make it all about me. I guess when someone you know up and disappears like that, you grasp at any explanation, even if it means placing the blame on yourself.

In the end, our impressions of people are all we really have, which are based largely on the way they make us feel about ourselves. I write this in memory of a wonderful person who was there for me, a total stranger, when I was feeling lost and uncertain what to do with my life. He gave me a chance when I needed it most, along with the confidence to begin again. In the few days that I knew him, he left an indelible impression on me as someone I aspired to be – clever, funny, cool, encouraging, and a friend to anyone – and hoped to get to know further. I'm very sad he's gone.

Bye, Peter.