I woke up at 6:04 AM without an alarm.
Yes, that early.
My body practically jolted upright like I had somewhere urgent to be, and technically, I did.
Cairo said we'd start driving lessons at 7:00 AM sharp. Sharp, not "Filipino time," not "Elara time"—sharp.
And I… was ready.
I brushed my hair into a high ponytail, complete with my oversized sunglasses—even if the sun wasn't up yet. I even wore my comfiest (and cutest) pink workout set, the one that screamed, "I don't sweat, I sparkle." I spritzed perfume because, you know, what if he leaned too close while adjusting the wheel?
You never know.
Professional preparation is key.
By 6:55 AM, I was already outside his unit.
Deep breath, Elara.
This is it.
Today, we learn how to drive again... or die trying.
I knocked once.
Then twice.
Then I checked my phone just in case he texted me to cancel. But nothing.
And then—the door opened.
Cairo.
Barefoot.
Messy hair.
Wearing a plain white shirt and gray joggers. Still half-asleep. Looking like a walking Calvin Klein ad.
"Good morning!" I chirped, way too cheerfully for seven in the morning.
He squinted at me against the hallway light. "You're early."
"I was born ready," I said, flipping my ponytail over my shoulder. "Let's drive, Coach."
He leaned his shoulder on the doorframe, rubbing his eyes. "Can't. Something came up. Nadine asked for help."
Wait. What?
"What do you mean you can't?" I blinked, my smile freezing in place.
"She needed a ride. Something about car trouble. I told her I'd drive her to her meeting."
"Oh." I nodded slowly, trying not to let my heart fall straight through the floorboards down to the parking lot.
Nadine.
Of course. Nadine. "That's totally okay," I said, my voice going up an octave. "I mean, it's fine. I'm totally fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?"
He blinked at me, sensing the tectonic shift in my energy. "You sure?"
"Me? Hurt? Devastated? No way. I'm as solid as a nail extension from a five-star salon."
He looked at me for a moment like he didn't know whether to laugh or run for cover. "I'll make it up to you."
I forced a tight, corporate smile. "Sure. Go save Nadine. Drive her. Be her hero. I'll just… sit here and rot."
Before he could say anything else, I turned on my heel and marched back to my unit with all the dignity of a woman just publicly dumped by her driving coach.
Back inside, I plopped down at my kitchen counter and stared at my sink. "You were supposed to be eaten while I was in love," I whispered to the empty air.
Then I pressed a finger to my temple. "Okay. Dramatic thoughts aside. Breakfast. Let's order."
I tapped away furiously on my phone and got myself a full luxury brunch set—eggs benedict, croissants, smoked salmon, a giant pancake stack, and a mimosa.
Fine. Two mimosas.
When it arrived, I set it all up on the table like I was on a picnic date with destiny. I sat down, took a bite of the croissant, and then the mental spiral began.
"So Cairo can drive Nadine, but he can't drive me?" I asked the croissant. The croissant said nothing. "And he has time to eat breakfast with her? Maybe they're even laughing. Laughing while I'm here… dying." Still nothing.
"You were supposed to cheer me up," I whispered to my mimosa glass. "But even you taste like structural betrayal."
Finally, I snapped and called Ari.
Ari arrived at my door wearing a hoodie and dark shades like he was actively avoiding the paparazzi.
"What happened now?" he said, tossing his bag onto my couch.
"Cairo ditched me," I wailed, draping myself across the armrest like a classic damsel in distress. "For Nadine."
He raised a brow. "That girl again?"
"Yes! And I thought I was the main character!"
Ari rolled his eyes. "You are. He's just a bad side quest. Get up, we're going out."
But I wasn't done being miserable.
Still, we decided to go out for a second brunch.
Because if I had to suffer, I wanted to suffer in public with cute lighting and overpriced coffee.
We went to a cozy, aesthetic café nearby.
I was poking at my salad (because I ordered healthy to prove to the world that I was strong and independent) when my eyes locked onto the window.
I completely froze.
"Don't look now," I whispered, my voice dropping to a panicked hiss.
Ari looked immediately.
Across the street, by the big glass windows of a chic restaurant, was Cairo.
With Nadine.
Laughing.
Smiling.
Eating pancakes.
My pancakes.
"Oh no," I gasped, dropping my fork. "So food is more important than me now?"
"Elara—"
"He said he couldn't teach me because he had to help her with car trouble, but he's here, being a pancake father!"
"Elara, you don't even like pancakes."
"That's not the point!" I pulled out my phone and aggressively opened my Notes app.
"What are you doing?" Ari asked, leaning over the table.
"Drafting my will. Cairo gets nothing. Not even my Chanel bag collection."
That night, I tried to act completely normal.
I cleaned my condo (meaning, I told Alexa to play upbeat cleaning music while I half-heartedly folded exactly one silk shirt).
I lit a luxury scented candle.
I changed into cute silk pajamas.
Then, a heavy knock echoed through the door.
I opened it.
It was Cairo.
Holding two large takeout bags.
"Hey," he said, his voice quiet.
I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe.
"Don't tell me. Nadine got full, so now you're feeding your second choice?"
He exhaled a long breath. "I brought food. Thought maybe we could eat."
"Why? Out of pure, unadulterated guilt?"
"No. Because you looked sad this morning. And I said I'd make it up to you."
I blinked, looking down at the bags. "Is that chicken satay from that place I like? The one with the long line?"
He lifted the bag slightly in response.
I immediately stepped aside. "You may enter."
We ended up eating on the floor.
I don't know why.
I had a perfectly nice, overpriced dining table, but Cairo just sat cross-legged on the plush living room carpet like it was the most normal thing in the world, and I—like the emotionally unstable star of my own indie film—followed suit.
So there we were.
Him: composed, quiet, unbothered.
Me: trying to eat dumplings gracefully while pretending I hadn't cried over pancakes like an abandoned bakery wife earlier that morning.
I watched him open the second box—my absolute favorite peanut rice bowl from that Thai place.
The one that always gets sold out by 6:00 PM.
He ordered ahead.
I know he did.
He knew I'd want this.
"Did you add extra egg?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him suspiciously.
He nodded, chewing.
"Soft-boiled?"
Another nod.
I inhaled dramatically. "You do love me."
He choked slightly on his water, coughing into his fist. "Don't start."
"I'm just saying. Pancake betrayal aside, this is a deeply romantic gesture. Bringing food. Knowing my exact protein preferences. Sitting on the floor."
"You're the one who sat on the floor."
"You sat first! I just didn't want to make you feel weird by eating alone at the table. I'm polite like that."
He said nothing, just gave me that look.
That signature Cairo look.
The one that's 60% unimpressed, 30% skeptical, and 10% secretly amused.
I took a bite of the rice and sighed happily. "This is so good. It's annoying. I can't stay mad when my mouth is this happy."
"Good," he said simply.
We ate in silence for a bit.
It was comfortable, weirdly.
Like I hadn't seen him laughing with another woman over stolen pancakes that very morning.
Like I hadn't mentally erased him from my nonexistent will.
Like I didn't already plan to upload a cryptic Instagram story about betrayal using a Lana Del Rey lyric and zero context.
"You're really not gonna explain the Nadine thing?" I said finally, setting my chopsticks down.
He glanced at me. "She needed help."
"So you helped. At a restaurant. With pancakes."
"She was meeting a potential racing client. She didn't want to go into the meeting alone."
"And you volunteered as tribute? What are you, her emotional support engine?"
Cairo sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Elara."
I turned my head dramatically to the side, pretending to look at the curtains. "No, it's fine. I'm just a sad, abandoned driving student with a poor sense of direction and a newly discovered fear of right-hand turns."
"You'll survive."
"I won't."
He didn't reply.
But then I heard the tiniest sound.
A suppressed, low chuckle.
Victory.
I looked back at him, a small smile tugging at my own lips. "So tomorrow, you'll teach me again?"
"If you promise not to fake-cry at intersections."
"I don't fake-cry! That was real emotion, Cairo. REAL. As in R-E-A-L."
"You said your mascara was waterproof."
"That's not the point!"
He smiled again.
This time, slightly wider.
Still subtle, but definitely there.
We finished eating, and he started efficiently packing up the plastic containers.
I watched his hands move, my brain suddenly shifting gears into the final scene of a K-drama—where the guy finally realizes the chaotic girl he's been trying to avoid is actually his entire destiny.
And just like that, without thinking, I asked it. "Why do you always come back?"
He looked up at me, momentarily confused.
I twirled my chopsticks lazily in my hand. "I mean… you don't have to. I'm dramatic. I say weird things out loud. I make you drive me around and panic over urban pigeons. You could just… not answer the door. But you do. You always come back."
His expression didn't change much, but something deep in his dark eyes softened completely.
"I don't know," he said, his voice dropping to a quiet, steady murmur. "Maybe I'm the type who likes chaos."
I stared at him, my heart stopping for a literal second. "Oh my god," I whispered. "That's the nicest insult I've ever received."
We cleaned up (meaning he did the structural lifting while I offered high-quality moral support), and then he stood by the front door, ready to leave.
I followed him closely, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe as he adjusted his keys.
"Thanks for the food," I said, my tone much quieter now.
He nodded once. "Thanks for the commentary."
"I'm free tomorrow," I added quickly. "In case you want to resume training. Or if you need company for another breakfast betrayal."
He didn't look at me directly as he stepped into the hallway, but I saw the smile return to his face.
The one he always tries to hide like it's some kind of top-secret government file.
"I'll knock," he said, and the door clicked shut.
I stood there for a moment, then turned around, looked at the clean living room floor, and let out a long, dramatic exhale.
Love is complicated.
But food? Food is a language.
And Cairo spoke it fluently.