Today, I was going to audition for a role that could possibly define my career or end it.
But let's not be negative—I shaved my legs for this.
And I wasn't even wearing a skirt.
I stood in front of the mirror, giving myself the pep talk every misunderstood, overacting actress deserves. "You are talented. You are fabulous. You are the girl best friend with emotional depth and amazing screen presence… kahit three seconds ka lang sa frame."
I flipped my hair.
Then flipped it back.
Then I immediately regretted it, because I hit my nose with my own highlights and almost sneezed off my premium concealer.
—
By 10:00 AM, I was in the studio lobby surrounded by girls who looked like they could pass for both the love interest and the villainess.
Like, pick a struggle, please.
Give the rest of us a formatting chance.
I checked in with the production assistant who barely looked up from her iPad.
"Hi, I'm Elara Zulueta," I said, batting my lashes for no reason other than muscle memory. "Here to audition for the role of Becca?"
She hummed in acknowledgement.
Hummed.
As in, didn't even use a real, contractually structured word.
Okay.
Cool cool cool.
Fast forward to the actual audition, and let me tell you, I served.
I gave personality, I gave warmth, I gave sassy one-liners like I invented the concept of sass.
I mean—if there was an award for most dramatically supportive best friend, I deserved the trophy.
I even teared up when the lead actress in the scene told me her heart was broken.
Never mind that I secretly imagined she was talking about a missing designer shoe on a 70% off clearance sale.
Afterwards, I walked out of that room with my chin held high.
Like, not too high because gravity exists and my neck started cramping, but high enough to look expensive.
Then, hours later, my agent called.
I didn't get the role.
"BUT," she said, dropping it like it was a plot twist in a primetime telenovela, "they're offering you five lines as a mean girl. AND—get this—you have a boyfriend."
Hold up.
"What kind of boyfriend? Like, real love-team boyfriend or blink-and-you-miss-him background talent kind?"
"He holds your hand in one specific scene. So yes, technically, a love team."
I screamed.
As in, legit screamed while crossing the street and almost got hit by a food delivery bike.
The rider looked at me like I was mentally unstable. Joke's on him—I absolutely was.
Five lines.
A love team.
My villain era has officially begun.
I texted Cairo immediately.
Me: BOYFRIEND DUTY. Pick me up plz. I got five lines and a fake jowa in a drama. We need to celebrate.
No reply.
Weird.
Usually, he texts back in two seconds.
One if he's bored and wants to make fun of my outfit choices.
I waited.
Then, finally, my phone rang.
"Hello—"
"Elara…"
Oh no.
His voice.
His voice sounded like it had been violently filtered through a dying vacuum cleaner.
"Cairo?! What's wrong? Are you being held hostage? Blink twice if yes!"
"I think I have a fever," he croaked.
My world stopped.
Okay, not that OA, but still.
"Don't die!" I shrieked into the phone, clutching my chest like I was auditioning for a teleserye death scene. "Cairo, don't go into the light! You still haven't tasted my world-famous, non-existent adobo!"
"Elara," he groaned, "stop screaming in my ear."
But it was too late.
I was already hailing an Uber, storming into the city traffic like a tita with no umbrella but all the structural drama.
Next thing I knew, I was at our building, punching the elevator button like I had personal beef with the machinery.
By the time I got to his unit, I didn't even knock.
I just bypassed security and entered using the spare key he gave me "in case of emergency."
THIS WAS AN EMERGENCY.
"Cairooo," I whispered as I stepped in, fully expecting dramatic background violin music to start playing. "Where are you?"
"Bedroom."
I tiptoed in, trying to channel Florence Nightingale meets e-girl nurse.
Cairo was lying in bed, hair messy, face flushed, and... completely shirtless.
I mean… focus, Elara.
Not the time to objectify the patient.
"Oh my god. You look like a sexy ghost."
"Thanks?"
"That was a compliment. But also, you're dying!"
"I'm not dying. I just have a slight fever."
"LIES. You sounded like literal death on the phone."
He groaned again, covering his eyes. "Why are you yelling?"
"Because I'm emotionally unstable!"
I sat beside him on the mattress and dramatically took his temperature using the back of my hand like how they do in black-and-white movies. "You're warm. Like, super warm. Like you've been microwaved on high power."
"Elara…"
"Don't talk. Save your energy. I will take care of you."
"You?"
"Yes, me. I am nurturing and caring and very calm under pressure."
(Reader, I was absolutely none of those things.)
The truth? I had zero clue how to take care of a sick person.
I once managed to burn a hot compress.
A compress.
So I did what any reasonable, intelligent woman with a smartphone would do.
I Googled: "how 2 take care of a sick man 😭😭" while simultaneously messaging Ari.
Me: Ari. Cairo is sick. What do i do???
Ari: Give him water. Check his temp. Don't kiss him unless you want his germs.
Me: Rude. What if I AM the medicine?
Ari: Girl. No.
I turned back to Cairo. "Do you want water, tea, or my unconditional love?"
He just groaned.
"Okay. I'm gonna get a towel and wipe you down."
"You don't have to—"
"LET ME BE THE HERO OF THIS STORY, CAIRO."
I ran to his bathroom, found a small towel, soaked it in warm water, then ran back like it was a gold-medal race in the Olympics.
He blinked at me as I hovered near him with the wet cloth.
"Okay, question."
"What now…"
"Can I start with your abs?"
"Elara."
"What? I just feel like… they need targeted medical attention."
He rolled his eyes, but I swear I saw the tiniest, faintest smile.
Giddy, I sat on the edge of the bed and dabbed at his forehead with the warm towel.
I was trying to be gentle but also secretly posing like there were hidden cameras capturing my profile.
"Are you okay?" I asked softly.
"Mmhmm."
"You sure?"
"Elara."
"Yes?"
"You're sitting directly on my leg."
"Oh." I looked down. Oops. "Sorry!"
I scrambled backward, slipping off the mattress and nearly falling face-first into his modern closet door.
"I'm fine," he said again, adjusting his position. "You didn't have to come all the way here."
I sat back down, cross-legged beside him on the floor. "I did, though. Because you're important to me. And boyfriend duties go both ways. You pick me up, I wipe your face with warm water. Emotional balance."