I walk like the world's my runway—even if i'm only walking down the corridor of a high-rise condo, holding my phone up with one hand like i'm FaceTiming someone, buti i'm not, I'm rehearsing.
"My life isn't yours to ruin!"
…No, no. Too flat.
I raise my brows, tilt my chin a little higher, eyes glimmering with fake tears.
Try again.
"My life—" dramatic pause, slight head tilt "—isn't yours to ruin!"
Better.
Much better.
Oh my gosh, Elara, that's literally so close to network-level acting.
Okay, maybe cable-level or streaming. I'd accept streaming. I mean, at this point i'd accept a five-second cameo with a line like "He went that way, ma'am!" as long as i'm seen.
I stop walking dramatically right in front of my unit.
I'm still recording.
Still in character.
"MY life…" I emphasize the "my" like i've just been betrayed by the love of my life and my gay best friend at the same time. "...isn't YOURS to ruin—ugh, that was sooo close."
And then—
Out of nowhere, my eyes catch something.
Movement.
Next door.
Unit 1706.
Hold up.
That unit was empty yesterday.
No curtains.
No plants.
No soul.
Just plain, boring beige.
I pause the video and lower my phone ever so slowly.
The actress inside me wants to stay in character. The chismosa inside me wants to zoom in.
There's a guy standing by the doorway, dragging in a giant black duffel bag like it owes him money.
He looks... annoyed? Or maybe he's just born that way. He's tall, lean, wearing a plain black shirt and gray joggers, and his hair is slightly messy like he doesn't care if people stare at him.
Which, of course, makes me stare more.
Who is that?
He turns his head slightly, his jawline could literally cut through emotional baggage and I swear he just looked through me like i'm air.
Okay, rude. I mean, I wasn't expecting a wave or a "Hey, neighbor," but at least acknowledge the person openly staring at you? Right?
He walks back inside with a box in his arms and slams the door with the elegance of a thunderstorm.
I blink.
What the hell was that?
Am i being haunted by a Greek God who hates noise?
I lean in toward the door next to mine like a certified creep.
I'm not opening it.
Just checking if the name tag is up.
Nothing.
No surname, no sticker, no trace of identity. Intriguing.
Also slightly illegal.
Should i knock? Should i offer cookies? Wait—Elara, you can't cook, neither bake.
"Get a grip," I mutter, pushing my door open and slipping inside my unit like the day didn't just slap me with a mysterious, emotionless Greek statue who wears joggers.
Once i'm in, I do what any true starlet would do in times of emotional turbulence:
I go straight to my vanity, fix my lip gloss, and continue talking to the camera lens like i'm the only person in the universe who matters.
"People are calling me a starlet again," I say, clicking the record button like i'm going live, even if i'm not. "Like, sorry po? How is that an insult? That's literally my job. You're mad i have a line and you don't? Honey, be serious."
I zoom into my face dramatically.
Eyes rolled, lip gloss shimmering, sarcasm glowing.
"They say 'She's just a starlet' as if i'm out here scrubbing floors on set.
Okay, maybe sometimes they make me do that. But still—screen time is screen time."
I toss the phone on the bed and fall face first into my cloud of a comforter.
I'm not mad.
I swear i'm not.
I just—
Okay, fine. I'm a little mad.
Because yes, I'm rich.
Yes, I'm connected.
And yes, I look like i could sell lipstick in every shade ever made.
But do i have fans? No. Do i have haters? Sadly, yes. Do i have range? Debatable. But i'm trying, okay?
I lift my head slowly and groan as i stare at the wall, still remembering the guy next door.
He looked like he belonged in an action movie—the kind where the hero doesn't speak until the third act or in one of those midnight racing scenes where the only light comes from neon signs and engine sparks.
He'd probably play the "bad boy with a past."
Ugh!
Those types never like girls like me.
Too shiny. Too loud. Too... me.
I drag myself off the bed and head to the kitchen.
I say "kitchen" loosely, as it is the part of the condo that stores my aesthetic pans and untouched spatulas.
My mom once sent me a rice cooker and a frying pan set.
I used the box as a plant stand.
But i try. I really do.
I open the fridge.
There are exactly three items inside:
Sparkling water
A sad half-lemon wrapped in cling wrap
And an unopened pack of turkey slices that expired two weeks ago.
I close it and pretend i never saw anything.
I end up making instant coffee, yes, I can do that, thank you very much and sit by the window.
For a moment, I look at my reflection in the glass.
Do i look like a failure?
Nope. Never. Not even on my worst day.
I mean, okay, maybe i'm not famous famous. Not yet.
But i have good skin, great angles, and the kind of presence that makes people stop scrolling, Even if it's just to hate.
I adjust the camera again, practicing the same line for the fourth time today.
I pout.
I blink dramatically.
I whisper.
I shout.
I even try the crying while cute version.
Then i burst into giggles. "Ugh, Elara, stop. You're too much," I say to myself, wagging a manicured finger at the screen.
I scroll through the comments on my last post.
A one-liner role.
Secretarial realness.
I had one job: pass the documents and say, "Sir, he's waiting outside." And honestly? I slayed.
But the comments? As always, mixed.
"Who's this starlet again? 😂"
"She acts like she owns the set but she's barely in frame lol."
"Her outfit's louder than her line."
"Why is she kinda iconic tho 💅"
I pause. Then i laugh. A real one.
Because here's the truth: I am a starlet.
The word doesn't offend me.
Starlet means I'm starting. It means i sparkle, okay? It means I'm on my way. And yes, I may only have five seconds of screentime, but guess what? They watched.
They noticed.
They commented. I won.
I toss my phone on the bed and do a little spin. "Okay! Back to being productive!" I declare to no one.
Productive meaning:
Reorganizing my lipsticks by emotional tone.
Pretending i know how to cook by boiling water for vibes.
Or—
Wait.
Knock knock.
I freeze.
Who even knocks anymore?
I tiptoe to the door. Is it… him?
My mysterious new neighbor.
The one with the quiet, serious, racer-boy energy. Tall. Sharp jawline. Eyebrows that don't trust anyone.
We made eye contact earlier and i swear my blush reached my collarbone.
I open the door with the poise of a girl who definitely didn't trip on a slipper seconds ago.
But it's not him.
It's the building manager with a clipboard and a polite smile. "Miss Zulueta, just letting you know your new neighbor officially moved into 1706 today."
"Oh, yes," I say, casually tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like i wasn't peeking through my peephole ten minutes ago. "I noticed."
"He requested soundproofing during renovations. Apparently, he uses racing simulators. Might be a bit noisy."
Racing simulators.
Of course.
Explains the arms.
And the broody energy.
He probably listens to engines rev instead of music.
"Good to know," I say with a smile.
As soon as she leaves, I shut the door, lean against it, and whisper:
"Well, well. A brooding racecar boy next door."
I glance at myself in the mirror. Hair slightly messy from all the practicing. Lip gloss still perfect.
And then i grin.
Could be worse.
Could've been an old man with cats.
At least this one's cute.