I woke up gasping.
And not the cute, "oh‑my‑gosh‑I'm‑late‑for‑my‑shoot" gasp.
No. This was the full-on, "I‑just‑watched‑the‑love‑of‑my‑life passionately French‑kissing another woman in dramatic slow‑mo" gasp.
My heart was racing.
My forehead glistened with early‑morning drama sweat.
My pink silk pillowcase suddenly looked like a tragedy prop from a telenovela.
It had been a dream—obviously. But why was it so vivid? So theatrical? So… specific?
There he was: Cairo. Not cold-brooding-Cairo. Kissing-Cairo.
And not me.
Worse: vanilla‑girl‑with‑bangs.
I sat straight up, blanket clutched to my chest like a warrior's flag.
"He cheated on me!" I whispered to the empty room.
We weren't officially dating.
I'd staged that jealousy stunt with Ari. But come on: our chemistry? Everyone knew. Justice demanded clarity.
I swung my feet onto the floor in my pink silk PJs and shuffled into the hallway, slippers squeaking.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK KNOCK.
No answer.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Still nothing.
"My dream! OPEN UP! I saw your lips on hers!" I shouted.
But silence answered.
A panic bubbled up.
"What if he ran away… if he's… unconscious from guilt… or—oh my—kidnapped?!"
I'm going to call the police station.
Inside my unit, I moved like lightning: Chanel hoodie? Check. Pink phone? Check. Mini‑perfume for emergency spritzing? Check.
Bookmarked and booked Uber.
And then—
I heard a familiar tall, quiet voice.
"CAIRO!"
I sprinted.
Down three flights, past the lobby, ignoring stunned faces and water‑dispenser gossiping aunties.
There he was.
Standing right outside the entrance, alive, gorgeous, and… infuriatingly calm.
"CAIRO!" I pounced, gripping his cheeks like a dramatic soap opera scene.
"ARE YOU OKAY?"
He blinked at me like i'd interrupted his meditative zen.
"Elara," he sighed softly, "get your hands off my face."
No apology.
No explanation.
"Say sorry."
He looked genuinely confused.
"For cheating on me!" I crossed my arms dramatically.
He exhaled.
"In your dream?"
I huffed. "Dreams are the soul's trailer of truth!"
He rolled his eyes but didn't say more.
He turned to walk away.
"Where are you going?" I demanded, following like a lovesick puppy.
"Basketball. I play every Saturday."
Wait—what?
Cairo, my mystery-but-bad-at-mystery neighbor, a race‑car simulator dude… plays basketball?!
"Can i come?" I blurted. Faster than i intended.
He paused.
Glanced at me.
"Sure."
Mission change: into full‑blown girlfriend moves.
"Wait here," I chirped. "I'll be fashion‑ready in five!"
He gave a thin nod and headed to his car.
I sprinted back to Elara HQ—a.k.a. my unit—and applied makeup in record time. Lips? Popsicle‑pink. Highlighter? Surgical. Outfit? Chanel dress, heels, matching bag: the ultimate walking Chanel logo.
Back in record time, I hopped into his car like it was a limousine.
He glanced at me: half‑confused, half-Santa‑who‑got‑coal.
"Don't ask," I whispered, flipping hair. "Chanel is a lifestyle, not an option."
He didn't laugh.
Of course not.
I started blabbing:
"So i had this dream. You and vanilla‑girl‑with‑bangs were… understandable scenario. But French‑kiss?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"Who were you with yesterday?" he asked suddenly.
My jaw froze.
"Uh… Ari?" I bubbled. "My gay best friend?"
His face twitched.
Suddenly there was silence.
Uh-oh. I had womp womp'd: I'd confessed the jealousy stunt.
Out loud.
To Cairo.
Who has the emotional range of a rock but somehow still manages to judge me with his left eyebrow.
Why—WHY—did i say Ari?
I could've said anyone.
My cousin. My dentist. My imaginary husband who works at NASA.
But no.
I went with the truth.
Like an idiot.
This is what happens when i let my mouth operate before my brain.
This is what happens when i think i'm mysterious but i'm actually just an open tab with bad Wi-Fi.
This is what happens when i try to flirt strategically and end up emotionally confessing in baby pink lip gloss.
He's definitely judging me right now.
I can feel it.
He's probably thinking, "Wow. Desperate. Pathetic. Classic Elara."
Okay, maybe not that harsh.
He's not evil.
He's just… stoic. Like an overpriced cologne commercial.
But still.
He raised an eyebrow.
He twitched.
The silence stretched.
I retreated into the corners of the seat, hugging my Chanel purse like a kid hugging a teddy.
and he parked in the parking area, well of course?
I almost fainted.
We parked by a full‑on professional basketball court—jerseys, whistles, cheers, official marquee and all.
I whispered: "You… you play here?"
He nonchalantly tied his shoes.
"I just play."
I gulped.
Then i saw them.
CHEERLEADERS.
Crowds.
And in the front row: vanilla‑girl‑with‑bangs—holding a sign: TEAM CAI.
"Go, Baby Cai!" she screamed.
CAI?!
BABY?!
My heart screeched, "Stop babying my baby."
I sank into the bleachers, relieved but still weirdly heart‑spicy.
I cheered like the supportive, fake-unbothered, ex-child-star that i was.
"Go... number eight!" I shouted, waving my mini purse like a fan.
Even though i knew his jersey number was seven.
Because of course Cairo would wear seven. That mysterious, aloof, brooding protagonist number.
He moved like a storm across the court—fast, focused, annoyingly good. His expression stayed the same the whole time: unreadable. Stoic.
Classic Mr. Raceboy.
Not even a celebratory fist pump when he scored a three.
"Smile, you're hot," I mumbled under my breath.
By the second quarter, my feet were starting to hurt.
Actually no—burn.
My heels, these limited edition blush Chanel stilettos, were absolutely not meant for outdoor bleachers. My toes were on strike. My ankles were trembling. And i was getting a blister the size of Luzon on my heel.
But i kept clapping.
Fake smiling. Giggling at random things.
Until… disaster struck.
I got up to stretch, very glamorously, I might add, and suddenly—
SNAP.
No.
I looked down in horror.
One heel had bent like spaghetti.
The tip was barely hanging on. I wobbled forward, arms flailing—
"OH MY—"
—then collapsed right onto the gym floor in full, Elara-theatrical-slow-mo glory.
Gasps.
Whispers.
Cameras.
Someone muttered, "Is she okay?"
Someone else said, "Yung artista ata yan."
And then—him.
Cairo appeared above me, blocking the light like some tall, judgmental moon.
He didn't offer a hand.
He just… looked.
"I think i broke my heel," I said with a tremble in my voice. "And possibly my pride."
He blinked once.
"That was loud."
"I have hollow bones!" I snapped. "Like a flamingo!"
Still, he crouched and inspected my foot. And then, to my absolute shock, he took my ankle gently in one hand and twisted the broken heel with the other.
"What are you doing?!" I squeaked.
He ignored me. "You'll cut yourself."
With one swift move, he pulled off the damaged heel, then the other one too.
Then—then—he handed me his slides.
His actual, sweaty, oversized basketball slides.
I blinked. "Are you giving me your feet?"
"No," he muttered, standing. "Just the shoes."
I slid them on.
I looked ridiculous—like Barbie borrowing Ken's slippers—but my heart… stuttered. Just a little.
"Thank you," I said softly.
He nodded. "You can sit by the bench. You'll see better."
I did.
Not because i wanted a better view—but because my feet felt like they'd been run over by a delivery truck full of feelings.
By the end of the game, they won. Of course.
Cairo walked over, sweat dripping, towel on his shoulder.
Girls screamed.
Fans waved signs.
I stood up awkwardly in his giant shoes.
He glanced at me, then down at his slides. "You walking home in those?"
"Unless you carry me," I quipped.
He didn't even blink. "Get in the car."
So i did.
Quietly. Carefully. Silently melting inside.
The whole ride back, we said nothing.
But somewhere between my broken heel and his quiet acts of nonverbal heroism, I realized something:
Maybe Mr. Raceboy wasn't cold.
Maybe he was… just subtle.
And maybe that dream betrayal? Just only a dream.
But still—he owed me an apology for Dream Kissing Vanilla Girl with bangs.