You know those moments in movies when the girl dramatically yells, "Stop the car!" and the guy slams on the brakes, thinking someone died, only for her to say something completely unnecessary but emotionally pivotal?
Yeah. I wanted that.
I didn't need a reason.
I just needed the moment.
It started off normal.
Me and Cairo were in his car after grocery shopping, which was basically our version of a wholesome date because apparently, buying cheese sticks and arguing over oat milk counts as intimacy now.
He was driving, looking all chill and dangerously attractive in a white shirt with the sleeves slightly rolled up.
One hand on the wheel, the other casually resting on the gearshift like it wasn't the most seductive position known to mankind.
I was sitting beside him, legs crossed, sipping my overpriced soy matcha latte, pretending i wasn't staring at his profile like a woman possessed.
We were listening to some chill background music—Ben&Ben or something equally sentimental and i was trying to act normal.
Until it hit me.
The urge.
The drama.
I stared at the road.
Then at him.
Then back at the road.
"Elara," Cairo said without looking, "why do i feel like you're planning something?"
I sipped loudly from my straw and ignored him.
And then—
"Stop the car," I said.
He blinked. "What?"
"Stop. The. Car."
He immediately stepped on the brakes.
Not too hard, but enough to make the grocery bags in the backseat shuffle like they were gossiping.
He turned to me, alarmed. "What? What happened? Are you okay?"
I blinked slowly. Tilted my head for maximum cinematic effect. "I just… always wanted to say that."
His jaw dropped. "Elara."
I placed a hand on his arm. "You don't understand. I've seen it in every rom-com. The girl yells 'stop the car,' the guy stops, and something important gets said. It's iconic."
He leaned his head back against the headrest and sighed. "You gave me a heart attack for aesthetic purposes?"
"Emotional realism," I corrected, dead serious.
He looked at me, deadpan. "You're insane."
I smiled sweetly. "And you love me."
He didn't respond.
Cue internal panic.
He was still staring, unreadable, and I swear i felt every insecurity i've ever had rising from the dead like a telenovela zombie.
"Babe?" I said, voice suddenly small. "You do, right?"
And that's when he smiled.
Not a grin.
Not a smirk.
But the smile.
The one that made me feel like i was the only girl in a world of car alarms and cheap mascara.
"You're ridiculous," he said.
"But lovable?" I asked.
He leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "Very."
-
After The Iconic Stop-the-Car Moment, which I now consider one of my top three life achievements, right next to learning how to contour and not crying in front of my mom during a breakup, we finally drove back to Cairo's unit.
I thought that would be the climax of my day.
I was wrong.
The real climax came in the form of an apron.
"Are you seriously cooking again?" I asked, stepping into his condo like i didn't spend a whole week practically living here last month. "You just made pasta the other night. Are you trying to win a Michelin star, or are you just obsessed with impressing me?"
Cairo, now in a black apron with "Let's Get Baked" printed across the chest (classy), glanced at me from the kitchen. "Do you want to eat or complain?"
"Both," I said brightly, slipping off my shoes and floating toward the kitchen island like a drama queen drawn to a ring light. "What are we making today, Chef Cai?"
He shot me a look. "Don't call me that."
"Why? It's cute." I batted my lashes. "Chef Caiii~"
And that's when the universe decided to punish me for my crimes.
Because right on cue—
Knock.knock.
I froze. "Did you… order something?"
He looked confused. "No."
We both stared at the door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Okay, whoever that is has zero chill," I whispered.
Cairo sighed, wiped his hands on a towel, and went to open the door.
And then she appeared.
In slow motion.
Hair sleek. Skin glowing.
Wearing a linen co-ord that probably cost more than my entire closet. Her lips curled into a perfect smile and—
"CAI~!" she squealed, throwing her arms up like we were suddenly in a Korean drama.
I felt my soul leave my body.
"Hey, you," Cairo said, amused but not surprised. "You didn't text me you were coming."
"I wanted to surprise you," she said, twirling into the room like she owned the place. "I brought your favorite dessert from that little café near Mom's!"
She held up a box wrapped in ribbon.
Of course it had ribbon.
Of course.
I stood stiffly by the counter, blinking.
Cairo turned to me.
"Oh—Elara, this is—"
"Vanilla Girl?" I said sweetly. "Yeah. We've met."
She smiled at me, eyes twinkling. "Right. You're the girlfriend. Hi!"
I waved politely with the kind of energy one might use in a hostage video. "Hello."
Cairo narrowed his eyes at me. "Vanilla Girl?"
"It's an endearment," I said through gritted teeth.
"She calls me Chef Caii," he muttered under his breath.
"Because it's cute," she chimed in, flipping her hair.
I was about to crawl under the counter and die when Cairo finally—finally—cleared it all up.
"Elara, she's my sister."
…
…
Excuse me?
I blinked. "Come again?"
"Half-sister, technically," he said, casually opening the box of pastries she brought. "Same dad. Different moms. She just moved back to the Philippines from Singapore."
I looked at her.
She smiled like a Disney princess who moonlighted as a lifestyle vlogger.
I turned to Cairo. "You… you have a secret sister?"
"She's not a secret," he said, shrugging. "I just didn't think it would come up."
I clutched the countertop. "Oh my god. I was jealous of your sister. Do you know how humiliating that is?"
Vanilla Girl—Vanessa, I learned—giggled.
"It's okay, you're not the first."
"What?!"
Cairo covered his mouth to hide his laugh. "She's not lying."
"I hate both of you," I muttered, but honestly? I was too relieved to stay mad.
She wasn't a threat.
She was family.
Which meant i could redirect all my passive-aggressive energy elsewhere, like her tastefully over-styled tote bag or the fact that her nail polish never chipped.
Vanessa set the pastries on the table. "I hope you don't mind if i stay for dinner?"
"Oh no, not at all," I said in my best fake-nice voice. "We love surprise guests who scream at the door like a banshee and give our boyfriends questionable nicknames."
She just giggled again and took a seat like this was her house.
Cairo handed me a spatula. "Help me with the pasta." As if i can cook.
"You owe me for this emotional rollercoaster," I said, stomping over in my socks.
"I'll make you garlic bread," he said.
"…Okay. We're good."
We sat down for dinner twenty minutes later.
Cairo served some bougie pasta dish with a name i couldn't pronounce but pretended to appreciate.
Vanessa praised everything like we were contestants on Top Chef, and i tried very hard not to throw a spoon at her every time she said "Cai~ you're such a good cook!"
But eventually… I warmed up to her.
We talked about travel, our weird families, and the time she accidentally slapped a waiter because she thought he was her ex.
Iconic behavior, honestly.
And i had to admit—she was kinda fun.
-
The second i stepped back into my own condo unit, just one unit away from Cairo's—I was hit with an emotional whiplash so intense, I nearly tripped on my own welcome mat.
God.
The silence.
It was deafening.
I dropped my bag dramatically by the door, flung off my shoes like i was in a telenovela, and stared at the ceiling like it owed me answers.
"Wow," I said out loud to no one. "So this is what heartbreak feels like."
I wasn't heartbroken, to be clear.
I was just suffering from Post-Cairo Dinner Withdrawal Syndrome.
My condo felt too cold.
Too quiet.
Too... un-Cairo.
There was no smell of olive oil.
No faint humming of some random playlist he'd pretend he wasn't vibing to.
No stupid comments like "You cut garlic wrong" or "That's not how you wash rice."
Just me.
Myself.
And a wall clock that ticked louder than my common sense.
I sighed and paced the living room, arms crossed like i was in a K-drama finale. "Okay, Elara. You're fine. You're independent. You're the moment. You don't need a man to—"
knock knock knock
My heart flipped.
I froze.
Was it…?
No.
Nope.
I tiptoed toward the door and peeked through the peephole like a psycho.
It was just the neighbor's dog peeing on the hallway rug.
I slumped back dramatically against the door like the lead in a tragic indie film. "Ugh. This is pathetic. I'm talking to myself. Again."
I marched to the kitchen to "make tea" like a functional adult, but ended up just leaning against the counter and whispering to my kettle.
"Do you think he miss me too?"
My kettle said nothing.
Rude.
I flopped on the couch next and stared at the ceiling. "I'm not texting him. I won't. I have pride. I have boundaries. I am a strong, independent woman who—"
grabs phone
I opened our convo.
My last message was a "Thank you for dinner :)" with a stupid smiley face that made me want to punch my own soul.
I typed:
"Do you want to come up?"
Paused.
Deleted.
Typed again:
"Are you watching anything good rn?"
Deleted.
Typed:
"Stop cooking if you're not going to share."
Deleted.
Screamed into a pillow.
This was hell.
I finally threw my phone across the couch and stormed to my mirror.
"Girl, get it together," I told my reflection. "You're not gonna be that girl. You're not gonna knock on his door like some desperate telenovela side character na hindi mahal ng male lead. Hindi ikaw si Gemma. Ikaw ang bida."
My reflection blinked back, unconvinced.
I ended up lying on the floor.
Flat on my back.
Arms sprawled.
Existential.
And like clockwork, I started narrating my own life like a diary entry from a mental breakdown:
Day 1 without Cairo, actually maybe 3 minutes.
The wind feels colder.
The garlic bread no longer has meaning.
My walls echo with memories of his sarcasm.
I miss him but i won't say it.
Because i am strong.
I am Elara.
And I—
(pause)
…really want pasta again.
I rolled over and screamed into the rug this time.