I was already composing my dramatic monologue before the elevator doors even opened.
No music. No audience.
Just me, bathed in overhead lighting that made my highlighter glisten like i was ready to accept a posthumous acting award.
It was a betrayal of Shakespearean proportions.
I wasn't his love interest.
Not. Even. A. Side character.
Just a blurry background starlet in a teleserye scene that's gonna last what, four minutes?
I even practiced my one line in front of my mirror with three different emotions: hopeful, heartbroken, and hungry-but-trying-to-hide-it.
I was ready.
Iwas glowing.
I was practically Emmy bait.
They said he was in it.
So naturally, I assumed we were in it.
Together.
Like destiny.
But no. No Mr. Raceboy—whose cheekbones alone deserve their own credit roll—was just doing a cameo. A cameo.
And I, Elara Celestine Zulueta—full legal name with extra syllables—was once again the woman with one line and an overachieving contour.
I was devastated.
Like, emotionally pancaked.
Steamed flat by the waffle press of rejection.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened with the same coldness Mr. Raceboy always delivered in his eyes.
And then i saw it.
The hallway floor.
Wet.
A crime scene.
A tragedy.
A hostile work environment for YSL heels.
It was giving… Flooded Dior Runway meets Slippery Corporate Sabotage.
"Ew, What is this? What in the Milan Fashion Week is THIS?" I gasped, clutching the strap of my handbag like someone just tried to rob me.
It wasn't even that wet.
But still—there was a glisten.
A subtle sheen.
The kind of wetness you feel in your soul.
I pressed myself against the elevator wall like the floor was lava and i was the main character in Survivor: Condominiums Edition.
And then—like Zeus descending Mt. Olympus in Uniqlo—he appeared.
Mr. Raceboy.
Of course.
Fresh from wherever the cold-hearted beautiful people come from.
His hair looked unfairly perfect, his shirt obviously expensive, and his expression? Still no signs of a soul.
He stared at me like he'd accidentally subscribed to a reality show and forgot to unsubscribe.
"Oh, thank God," I whispered like i had been stranded on a deserted island for forty days and he was a jet ski. "Can you help me from this storm?"
I pointed at the water.
Okay, it wasn't a storm.
It was probably a maintenance guy spilling a water bottle.
But my heels were suede.
Suede.
I wasn't about to risk my Yves Saint Laurents for tap water.
He blinked.
Literally just blinked.
Like i'd asked him to carry me across an actual ocean instead of six semi-wet tiles.
"You want me to…?" he asked, like English had just been invented.
"Carry. Assist. Provide moral and physical support," I explained, hands fluttering like i was on the Miss Universe stage trying to summon the spirit of Tyra Banks.
He stared at the floor.
Then at me.
Then at the floor again.
Then back at me like i was the irrational one.
"It's… water."
"Yes," I said, eyes wide. "And i'm wearing four-inch heels that cost more than my last five TV paychecks combined. I cannot—will not—be sacrificed to moisture."
Another pause.
I could practically hear him judging me in Helvetica font.
Then, to my surprise, he stepped closer.
Closer.
Until he was in the elevator with me, our bodies just one luxury-brand sneeze apart.
I didn't breathe.
And then without a word, he leaned down and…
Nope.
Not to carry me.
Not to sweep me off my feet like a real leading man.
He took off his shoes.
And dropped them.
Right in the wet spot.
Then pointed. "Use those."
Excuse me?
"Are you offering me your shoes as stepping stones?"
He nodded.
I blinked. "You know what, Mr. Racecar, you might be cold, but you're also weirdly considerate in the most unromantic way possible."
"No problem," he said, already walking away barefoot like it was nothing.
I tiptoed across his leather shoes like a bougie goblin escaping a puddle, whispering a prayer to the gods of fashion and floor dryness.
When i reached the door to my unit, I turned back.
He was already down the hall, unlocking his own door, not even looking back.
"Hey!" I called.
He paused.
"Thanks," I said. "Try not to fall in love with me next time."
He didn't smile.
Didn't flinch. Just said—
"Unlikely."
I blinked so fast i think i gave myself temporary whiplash.
My jaw dropped so hard i'm pretty sure my highlighter changed undertone.
Later that night…
I sat cross-legged on my pink velvet couch, still replaying everything in my head like it was an Oscar-nominated short film.
I even lit a candle for dramatic ambiance. Sandalwood vanilla.
It didn't match the mood, but i was committed.
He didn't carry me.
Didn't flirt.
Didn't even smile.
And yet—
There was something about him.
The way he didn't give in.
The way he didn't apologize for not being warm.
The way he didn't look at me like i was a joke—he looked at me like i was… real.
And that made him more dangerous than any man who ever said i was pretty.
Maybe i don't need a love interest in this teleserye.
Maybe my life is the drama.
Or maybe…
Maybe he's the cold twist in the plot i didn't see coming.
I reached for my glass of wine, took one sip, and immediately regretted it.
Too bitter.
I poured orange juice into it. Better.
I opened my group chat.
Well, we're only two people in this GC, Ari, me and an AI.
I typed:
"I think i met the human version of an ice cube."
ARI:
"Girl, i saw you again in CCTV! You look like a pale tomatoes who's looking for someone to recue you"
ME:
"But still, he offered me his shoes! Well i gues he's starting to fall in love with me?"
ARI:
"Elara, Wake up!"
But i saw him…smile?
"Did he smile? That's usually a no for me."
I stared at ARI messages.
I didn't have a selfie with him.
Just my memory.
A glitchy mental screenshot of him standing there, barefoot, offering up his designer shoes like they were lily pads and i was the bourgeois frog princess he couldn't be bothered to save.
I didn't reply.
Not yet.
Instead, I stood up and walked over to my window.
From here, I could see the courtyard of the building. The reflecting pool. The manicured trees that didn't look real. And across from me—two floors below—his balcony.
The light was on.
Curtains open.
And he was… standing there. Shirtless. Drinking something. Tea maybe. Or black coffee or whatever it is.
The brooding kind that makes your stomach hurt but your soul feel poetic.
He wasn't looking at me.
Obviously.
But i saw him.
Stillness, defined.
The kind of man who probably read manuals for fun. Who separated his laundry by fabric type and didn't cry during Pixar films.
And for some twisted, stupid, undeniably
Elara reason—
I wanted to bother him again.
Not flirt. Not seduce.
Just… confuse.
I wanted to be the interruption in his quiet life.
Like color spilling into a black-and-white film.
Like a sequin dress at a funeral.
Like me.
"Elara," I whispered to myself, "you have two options. Be normal. Or be… you."
Guess which one i picked?
I cracked open my balcony door and stepped out, wind immediately slapping my hair into a state of disarray that still, somehow, looked editorial.
"Hi!" I called.
He looked up.
Of course he looked up.
I was impossible to ignore.
Like a tax audit in heels.
He blinked. "What?"
I leaned on the rail. "Do you always just… give women your shoes?"
He sipped his drink. "Only when they're too dramatic to walk on water."
"Dramatic?" I gasped, clutching my imaginary pearls. "I was in distress."
"You were in Louboutins," he deadpanned.
"YSL," I corrected. "Please don't mix up your saints."
There was a pause.
And then—barely, barely—a smirk.
A smirk so quick, so faint, it could've been a trick of the light.
But i saw it.
I grinned. "There it is. Emotion. Like E-M-O-T-I-O-N"
"I wasn't aware this was a performance review."
"Oh, it is," I said, crossing my arms. "You're being evaluated."
He didn't say anything.
Just leaned back, eyes on me. Steady. Unreadable.
Like a locked journal in Helvetica font.
"What's your name, anyway?" I asked. "I've decided to stop calling you Mr. Racecar, but i need a replacement."
He hesitated. "Cairo."
Cairo.
Of course he had a name that sounded like wind slicing through a mountaintop or the scent of a luxury men's cologne only available in Paris.
"Elara," I offered, though i was sure he already knew.
He nodded once. "I figured."
"What, from the drama?"
"From the mail on your door."
Touche.
"I'll see you around, Cairo," I said, already backing into my apartment with all the flair of a movie star in the final scene.
"You will," he replied, and this time—this time—I swear i heard the faintest curl of amusement in his voice.
I closed the balcony door behind me and pressed my back against it.
Okay.
So maybe i didn't get the role in the teleserye.
Maybe i wasn't the main love interest.
Maybe i wasn't even a character anyone expected to care about.
But that was the thing about me.
I didn't wait for someone else to write me a love story.
I made the rain wet.
I made the puddle cinematic.
And i made the cold boy give me his shoes.
Tomorrow, I'd go to the casting call again.
Tomorrow, I'd fix my eyeliner and say my one line with enough conviction to break hearts.
But tonight…
Tonight i'd sip my wine-orange juice combo, stare at a name like Cairo, and wonder—
What happens to the girl who doesn't get the guy on-screen…
…but might be getting to him off-script?