I had exactly two lines today.
Two. Well they changed it by the way.
"Start your engines, gentlemen," and, "Winner takes the crown, baby."
I delivered both with the grace of a seasoned Oscar nominee stuck in a Fast & Furious knock-off directed by a man named Joey who insisted on calling me "Miss Elle" like we were in Vegas.
Was it acting? Barely.
Did i eat that up? Obviously.
And was i wearing leather pants in thirty-three degrees Celsius?
I was. I absolutely was.
Because darling, when the role demands speed and sass, you give it.
Now here i was, five hours later, peeling the same leather pants off inside my Uber like a snake shedding regrets, dreaming of ice-cold water and air-conditioning that didn't smell like gasoline and despair.
As we pulled into the driveway of my building, I gave my driver the most heartfelt "thank you" I could muster with a throat dry from fake cheering and a soul wilting from background-acting trauma.
He nodded, bless him, clearly unfazed by the half-unzipped pants and my lip gloss melting into my chin.
I stepped into the elevator and stared at myself in the mirror.
Hair? Still full.
Highlight? Hanging on for dear life.
Self-esteem? Recovering.
Ding.
The doors opened.
I stepped out like a survivor of a fashion disaster documentary, humming a little victory jingle to myself.
Something between a Beyoncé riff and a Jollibee commercial.
But then—
Pause.
Freeze-frame.
Zoom in.
Dramatic score.
Because who did i see right there in the hallway, one door away from my unit?
Cairo.
And a girl.
A. Girl.
Not just any girl, no. A girl with sleek hair, a flowy dress, and the kind of casual confidence that screamed, "I bake sourdough and do yoga without needing to post about it."
And I, Elara Celestine Zulueta, stood in my post-shoot sweat, leather pants halfway down, watching as Cairo unlocked the door to his unit while this mystery woman giggled.
She giggled.
And worse—he smiled.
I stood still, Chanel bag clutched to my chest like a weapon.
My brain froze.
My heart went straight to What does he think about me? A sidecar?
They entered.
The door clicked shut.
Oh no, no, no.
Not on my floor.
Not in this economy.
Not while my heart was still auditioning for its first real kilig.
I stomped into my unit like a woman wronged.
Didn't even take off my shoes.
Just threw my bag on the couch, turned around, and stormed back out like i was in an early-2000s teleserye and someone had just stolen my family's hacienda.
What was i doing?
I didn't know.
Why was i pacing in front of his door like a cat with unresolved issues?
Still didn't know.
But did that stop me? Absolutely not.
I passed by once.
Then twice.
Then paused dramatically and checked my nonexistent watch.
I even pretended to look for my keys, despite them being very much inside my bag, inside my unit.
Still, nothing.
So, naturally, I did what any rational woman would do.
I knocked.
Just once.
Lightly.
Okay. Twice. A little louder.
Fine. Thrice. With intent.
Nothing.
But just as i was about to fake a cough and knock again—
The door creaked open.
Not all the way. Just a sliver. A suspicious, guarded sliver.
And there he was.
Cairo.
Hair a little messy.
Hoodie too expensive to be accidental.
That same expressionless face like he was permanently trapped in a silent film with subtitles that just said [cold stare].
"Elara," he said, as if my name tasted bland.
"Hi!" I chirped, like i didn't just knock on his door without any reason beyond crippling curiosity and delusional jealousy. "Do you have a pet?"
There was a pause.
His brow creased slightly.
"A what?"
"A pet," I repeated. "Like a dog. Or a… cat. Or a hedgehog, if you're quirky like that."
He blinked. "No. You have?"
I tilted my head and gave the fakest innocent smile i could muster.
"I don't. But if you're willing to be my dog, why not?"
BOOM.
He blinked again.
This time, slowly. Like he was buffering.
Then?
He closed the door.
Just like that. Click. Silence.
I stood there, stunned.
Slightly impressed. Deeply annoyed.
"RUDE!" I shouted through the door, like that would help.
I turned around dramatically, hair flipping, Chanel bouncing and marched back to my unit with the resolve of a woman scorned but still extremely hydrated.
But the worst part?
I still didn't know who the hell that girl was.
I flung myself dramatically onto the couch like a rejected reality show contestant, the kind that just got voted off for "not being emotionally available." Which—rude, because i am extremely emotionally available.
Ask my journal.
Anyway.
There i was, legs dangling off one armrest, head draped over the other, Chanel bag clutched to my chest like a wounded soldier.
I stared at the ceiling and whispered, "Who. Is. She."
No answer, of course.
Just the soft hum of my overpriced air purifier and the sound of my dignity slowly packing its bags.
Okay. Maybe i overreacted.
Maybe.
But in my defense, Cairo had a girl over. A real, living, giggling girl.
And it wasn't me.
Which is tragic, because if life were fair, I'd be the one entering his apartment, tossing my heels by the door, and asking if he had oat milk in his fridge.
But no.
Here i was. Alone.
Dressed like a sweaty motorsport extra with leftover eyeliner clinging to dear life and a heart spiraling faster than a teleserye plot twist.
"Okay," I said aloud to no one. "Maybe they're related. Or maybe she's a client. Or a ghost. A ghost with bangs."
I sat up.
No. I needed more than wild theories. I needed answers.
I grabbed my phone and opened Notes. Titled a new entry: Possible Identities of the Girl at Unit 1706.
Cousin? But he doesn't look like a "let me introduce you to my family" kind of guy.
Business partner? Okay. Possible.
Maybe they're pitching socks or something.
Girlfriend? NO. Not allowed.
Denied by the HOA of my heart.
Secret twin? Too K-drama.
Hired actress pretending to be his girlfriend to ward off attention from his real crush, which is obviously me?
Yes. Plausible. We'll circle back to this.
I reread the list.
It gave me no peace.
So i did what any completely stable, emotionally grounded, 23- single woman would do.
I stood up.
Put on tinted lip balm.
Combed my hair.
And walked back out into the hallway.
What was my plan?
No idea.
But i felt like i needed to be near the… scene of the crime.
I paced once.
Twice.
Then pretended to check my mailbox, which, by the way, I haven't opened since April.
Bills scare me.
I leaned casually against the wall and tried to listen.
Nothing.
Except—wait.
A laugh.
Soft. Female. Inside the unit.
Why i still hear that shit laugh? His unit is soundsproffed.
I froze.
Oh, so she's still there.
So this is a lingering guest.
Not a drop-by. A "let's eat leftover pasta and watch a movie on your couch" kind of visitor.
The audacity.
I checked my reflection in the silver elevator panel.
Fluffed my hair. And before i could stop myself—
I knocked. Again.
Don't ask me why.
I don't know.
The heart has reasons reason does not understand, okay?
This time, Cairo opened it a little wider.
Not wide enough to see the girl, but enough for me to get a waft of was that vanilla? Oh god.
The girl wears sweet perfume.
That's threatening.
He raised an eyebrow.
His version of yelling, I assume.
"Elara," he said, again with that bored baritone that makes me want to throw a pillow at him. "What now?"
I leaned slightly, like i could see past his shoulder. "Sorry to bother, just... forgot to ask.
Do you need sugar?"
"No."
"Oh. Well, do you have sugar?"
"Yes."
"Good," I nodded. "So we're both sweet people. Balance."
He blinked.
Stone-faced.
A human loading screen.
"I'm a really good neighbor," I offered.
"Clearly."
"Want to hang out sometime?"
"No."
Rude.
There was a pause.
Not awkward on my part, okay? I thrive in awkward.
He's the one being difficult.
Then i smiled sweetly. "You know, I've never had a dog, but i hear they're loyal."
"Elara."
"Yes?"
He didn't say anything.
Just… sighed.
The sigh of a man whose peace had been interrupted by a monologue he didn't audition for.
Then—
A voice. From inside.
A girl's voice.
"Cai, who is it?"
Cai?
Cai?
WHO IS "CAI"?
WHO GAVE HER PERMISSION TO NICKNAME HIM LIKE THAT?
His jaw tightened.
But he didn't turn around.
Didn't call back.
Just looked me dead in the eye and said, "Go home, Elara."
And that?
That was my cue.
I straightened my back.
Smiled.
The most unbothered, beauty-queen-in-an-endorsement-deal smile i could muster.
"Okay," I said. "But if she breaks your heart, don't come crying to me. Actually, do. I give good hugs."
He closed the door. Again.
Honestly, I deserved that.
But the mystery had deepened.
My pride? In shambles.
My curiosity? Louder than ever.
Back inside my unit, I flopped on the bed, fully clothed.
Let out a sigh so dramatic it deserved its own voiceover.
Then i grabbed my phone again.
Google Search:
How to find out who your neighbor's mystery guest is without getting arrested.
No results.
I opened Instagram.
Typed in Cairo's name.
Nothing.
Of course his account was private.
Of course.
I debated messaging him.
Just a friendly, non-obsessive, casually jealous question like:
"Hey, is the girl with the vanilla perfume your cousin, or should i start emotionally detaching now?"
But i didn't send it.
Because i'm not insane.
I'm just… romantically curious. Intensely.
I sighed.
Then laughed.
Because this is ridiculous.
What am i doing? I'm a grown woman.
I have a career.
I have a following.
I have a group chat that loves me unconditionally, which only ARI and the Bullshit AI.
And yet here i am, spiraling over a man who once offered me his shoes like they were stepping stones and then slammed a door in my face.
I pulled the comforter over my head.
"Lord," I whispered into the darkness, "if he's meant for me, give me a sign. Like… his door accidentally swinging open and the girl being revealed as his tax consultant. That works."
Silence.
No sign.
Still, somewhere in my delusional little heart, I felt a flicker of hope.
Because cold or not, rude or not, Cairo was... something.
And maybe, just maybe, the story wasn't over yet.