So, I just came from an audition for a teleserye about car racing.
I know. Me. In a car racing drama. As if my biggest speed record wasn't tripping in stilettos across a slippery parking lot last week.
But guess what?
I got the part.
Two lines.
Yes, you heard that right. TWO. WHOLE. LINES.
Lines that will be broadcast nationwide, baby. I memorized them like my rent depended on it, which, technically, it does.
So even if i'm playing "Girl by Pit Stop #2" whose only job is to hand a bottle of water and say, "You can do this!" with passion and emotional depth, I took it seriously.
I went method.
I needed to understand the craft… of race cars.
And because i am that committed, I did what any responsible, highly dedicated starlet would do, I Googled "Where to watch car racing near me" with one manicured finger.
And to my utter surprise and maybe destiny's little nudge, there was a race happening.
Today.
Within driving distance.
Open to the public.
Fate?
Or low-key stalking behavior?
I called my driver immediately.
"Kuya, make it faster," I said, fixing my eyeliner in the mirror as the car roared to life. "I'm off to become one with the world of… vroom vroom."
The moment we arrived at the racetrack, it was as if the entire world turned grayscale and noise.
Engines growled like angry tigers.
People screamed.
Tires screeched.
And I—wearing a pink off-shoulder top and glittery sunglasses, looked like i'd taken a wrong turn on the way to a pop concert.
I strutted in anyway.
And that's when it happened.
That's when i saw him.
Oh, shock.
Cairo.
Mr. Raceboy himself.
I almost dropped my Dior clutch.
I completely forgot this man was an actual car racer. I mean, sure, the universe had already revealed to me that he had the personality of a frozen dumpling and the face of someone who ruins girls for other men, but ididn't know he was… like, professional?
And now i'm here.
Looking like a walking pink cupcake.
At his turf.
Amazing.
As if this plot couldn't twist any further.
He didn't see me at first.
He was already suited up, helmet under one arm, standing beside his car like some dystopian Greek god, cold, distant, a little bit rude-looking.
The pit crew buzzed around him like ants, fixing tires, checking gauges.
I watched, fascinated.
Not just by the race—no.
Let's not lie. I was fascinated by him.
And he looked… unfairly hot.
Not in a "Hi, I'm here to flirt" kind of way.
More like a "Get out of my line of sight or perish" type of vibe.
Ugh. Why do i like that?
Why do i like that??
He looked up.
Our eyes locked.
Or well—mine locked.
His just did a brief sweep in my direction like i was an accidental human standing between him and a fire extinguisher.
I waited.
Surely he'd say something.
A nod. A smirk. Maybe even a "What are you doing here?"
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
He turned away.
Cold.
I felt personally rejected by air.
So naturally, I did what any self-respecting almost-background-artist would do.
I marched right over.
"Cairo!" I said, waving like we were old college friends who once shared a trauma bonding session during finals week.
He glanced back, mildly startled. "Elara?"
Yes. He remembers my name. That's practically intimacy in his language.
"I didn't know you were into car racing!" I said, twirling a strand of my hair. "Wait—kidding. I forgot. You race. Like, seriously race. Not-for-Instagram-reels race."
He stared.
Still unreadable.
He had the resting expression of someone watching a microwave slowly rotate a frozen burrito.
Then: "What are you doing here?"
Aha. There it is.
"I'm studying the art of racing," I replied, as if i was about to enroll at the Racing Louvre. "I have a role, see. In a teleserye. Two lines."
He said nothing.
Which is fair.
Most people don't really know what to say to that.
"But my character's emotionally invested in the race," I added dramatically. "So i have to be, too. That's what they call immersion."
"You have two lines," he said flatly.
"Yes. But they carry weight."
Before i could continue, someone called his name.
Race marshal or something.
Cairo nodded and turned to go.
"Break a leg!" I called after him. "Not literally though. That would be… messy."
He didn't respond.
Again.
Cool.
Ice cold.
He slid into the car like a smooth criminal.
The engine roared.
And then—
Zoom.
Just like that, he was off.
I stood there, arms crossed, mentally writing my Oscar speech in case anyone decided to hand me an award for Best Actress in Heels Watching a Man Who Doesn't Like Her Race in Circles.
But as i watched him maneuver that car, weaving through curves with brutal grace and blistering speed… I felt something weird in my chest.
Admiration? Respect?
Or maybe indigestion.
By the time the race ended, the air was electric.
People were cheering.
Cairo's car pulled up, first place.
He stepped out. Sweaty. Beautiful. Still distant.
Like a K-drama lead on his third trauma arc.
I clapped.
Like, really clapped.
I made eye contact with a stranger just to make sure someone saw that i was clapping for him.
He removed his helmet, ran a hand through his damp hair like it was a Pantene commercial filmed on the edge of war.
I ran to meet him.
"Knew you'd win," I said, smiling.
He nodded once. "Thanks."
"Do you want water?" I offered my fancy bottle like i was selling it for triple the price on Instagram. "It's alkaline and infused with moonlight. Probably."
He took it wordlessly. Drank. Gave it back.
Our fingers brushed for a split second.
Shut up.
SHUT UP.
Butterflies?
In this economy?
We walked toward the building together in silence.
He didn't talk.
I talked enough for both of us.
"Do you always race like that? So… aggressively?" I asked.
"It's a race."
"Right. But like… do you practice in secret? Like in the mountains or a warehouse or something?"
"No."
"You're very talkative," I said.
He stopped walking.
Deadpan. "Are you flirting with me again?"
"No," I lied. "Maybe. Yes. A little. I don't know. It's hard not to when you keep walking around all intense and high-octane."
He looked at me. "Elara."
Oh my God.
He said my name again.
That's practically a declaration of war… or affection.
Either one.
"I don't date actresses," he said.
I blinked.
"Okay, wow," I said. "One—rude. Two—I'm not just an actress. I'm also a struggling online entrepreneur who once sold lip tints on TikTok."
No reaction.
"And i'm a really good kisser."
Nothing.
"Oh come on," I muttered. "You can't just be hot and cold. That's not emotionally fair."
He smirked—a little. Barely. But i saw it.
"I have to go," he said, heading toward the locker area.
"Sure," I called. "But you'll miss me."
"I doubt it."
But he didn't say no.
He didn't say i was annoying.
And that, my friends, is what we call progress.
-
Later that evening…
I was back in my condo, wrapped in a silk robe, eating instant noodles like it was a luxury meal. Well, yeah! Maybe you guys are asking how i cooked the instant noodles? I just poured hot water on it.
My phone buzzed.
A message.
From an unknown number.
"You forgot your water bottle."
A picture followed.
My bottle.
Sitting on a countertop.
I blinked.
Wait.
That was his countertop.
Cairo texted me?
Is that what just happened?
I stared at the message like it was an ancient prophecy.
I replied quickly.
"Keep it. Maybe you'll absorb my personality."
A minute passed.
Then:
"I'd rather not."
And i don't know what's wrong with me.
I don't know why i'm giggling like a schoolgirl while scrolling through my own Instagram just to see if i look cute enough to deserve this chaos.
I don't know why his bluntness makes my stomach flutter like i just drank three cups of coffee.
But i do know this:
I might only have two lines in that teleserye.
But this?
This is starting to feel like a story.