I wasn't planning on seeing him again today.
Actually, scratch that.
I was hoping.
Wishing.
Manifesting.
But would i ever admit that? Not even under oath.
Not even if Ryan Gosling himself was cross-examining me, wearing his "Kenough" hoodie.
I just happened to be at the elevator lobby at the exact time he usually goes for a run? I guess.
Again. Coincidence.
Totally.
Like... totally.
So there i was, in my casual-casual attire:
Oversized Balenciaga tee (white, so people think I do yoga),
Micro biker shorts (so short I had to mentally prepare myself for judgment),
Indoor sunglasses (because my enemies don't deserve to know where i'm looking).
I leaned against the cool marble wall like i was about to do a Vogue editorial.
In one hand: a very green juice i ordered purely for aesthetics.
It tasted like betrayal and wet grass.
But again—aesthetic.
My thumb pretended to scroll.
My ears? Laser-focused.
Elevator indicator lights?
Watched them like stock prices.
I was calm.
Collected.
A mysterious socialite.
Totally not deranged.
Ding.
Seventeenth floor.
Showtime.
The doors slid open like a curtain lift.
And there he was.
Mr. Raceboy.
Six foot something of broody silence in a gray hoodie.
Earbuds in.
Gym bag slung.
Hair damp like he just stepped out of a sexy noir commercial for sadness.
He didn't look up right away.
Just walked in like the elevator should be grateful for the honor.
And of course, I followed.
But in a not-following kind of way.
We stood side by side in that golden box of awkward chemistry.
He didn't look at me.
I definitely didn't look at him.
Except for that one glance.
And the second one.
Okay, maybe three.
But all in different emotional tones.
Like a reel audition.
The elevator hummed.
The numbers ticked down. And then—
I heard him pull out an earbud.
Shift slightly.
"You always wait for this elevator?" he asked, voice low, detached. Like he could take the conversation or leave it.
Probably leave it.
I blinked.
Oh. He speaks.
"…What?" I said. Eloquently. Shakespearean.
He finally turned.
Just a flick of a smirk.
The kind that feels illegal before 9 a.m.
"I've taken this elevator three times. You were in it twice."
Cue internal screaming.
External cool.
I forced a breezy laugh. "Oh, wow. I didn't realize you were keeping score."
Nice, Elara. Flirty but mysterious.
Ten points.
I lifted my juice slightly, like a toast to fate. "Maybe the universe is trying to make us friends."
He scoffed.
Not rudely.
Just like someone who's emotionally allergic to human bonding.
"I don't do friends."
"Neither do I," I said—way too fast. "Overrated. Honestly. Exhausting. All that checking in? No thanks."
Ding.
Ground floor.
He stepped out like a man with purpose.
I stepped out like someone who just survived an invisible audition for a role that didn't exist.
He was already ahead of me, nearing the glass doors, when—
"You seriously thought i caused your kettle to explode?"
I stopped.
Oh. We're doing this.
I crossed my arms.
Tried to look proud.
Not flustered. Definitely not in love.
"Maybe i panicked," I said, lifting my chin. "The sound was suspicious. Don't take it personally."
"I don't." He shrugged.
And then?
He walked out into the daylight like he was allergic to closure.
Like the sun owed him rent.
Later that day
I was in a makeup chair getting glammed for a three-second shoot.
One outfit.
One line.
One existential crisis.
"But what if forever… isn't enough?"
Was the line dumb? Yes.
Did i deliver it like it was my Oscar monologue? Also yes.
I tried it three ways:
Soft and broken, with a hint of mascara smudge.
Slightly angry, like i'd just thrown a wine glass off a yacht.
And my personal favorite: looking up at the sky like God owed me closure.
The director didn't clap, but he nodded. Which, in this industry, is basically a marriage proposal.
After the shoot, I wandered across the street while waiting for my driver (I could drive, but the universe said no three times and I listened).
I ended up at a sari-sari store.
Cute. Chaos. Calling to me.
I bought one of those mango chewy candies that betray you mid-smile.
Then—
"Ate, isang Cobra nga."
I froze.
What.
Cobra??
As in... the snake?
Are we casually buying venom now?
I looked around.
No one was panicking.
Only me. Of course.
Then i saw the bottle.
Oh. Cobra. Energy drink.
Not reptile-based potion.
Thank God.
But still. Cobra?? Why not something comforting like "Blanket" or "Marshmallow Thunder"?
Whatever. I bought one.
It tasted like aggressive ambition and poor decisions.
Then came the phone call.
"The male lead's already attached," my agent said. "Racer. Cairo something? Cairo Emilien."
I dropped the phone.
Literally.
Onto my white rug.
It was a moment of grief.
A betrayal.
A plot twist i hadn't manifested.
No.
NO.
The Mr. Raceguy is my love interest?!
The man who said "I don't do friends" with full villain origin energy??
Is this what karma looks like?
Is this what i get for stealing my ex's AirPods in 2022?
I knocked on his door.
Again.
He opened. Shirtless. Again.
I'm starting to think he doesn't own clothes.
Rude. Also... disrespectfully attractive.
"We need to talk," I said, holding up my phone like it was legal evidence.
I walked in.
Like a storm in designer slippers.
"I got the callback."
"Okay," he said, like i just told him the weather.
"We're going to be in a film together. A romance film. Where people pretend to like each other. Wild concept, I know."
"So?"
"So we can't be like this," I snapped. "Passive-aggressive. Tension-filled. It's giving enemies-to-lovers, but we're stuck on the enemies part."
He didn't reply.
But his mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile. More like he was internally filing me under "situations to avoid." Fair.
"So you do flirt," he said, deadpan.
I gasped, one hand on my chest. "That's not—no! I'm being warm. Like a co-star should be. It's called building chemistry."
"Sure," he muttered, leaning against the wall like an emotionally unavailable cologne ad.
Silence.
"I don't hate you," he said eventually.
I blinked.
"Well… I don't hate you either."
The air shifted.
Like something almost wanted to happen—but didn't.
"So we're good?" I asked.
"Depends. You gonna drag me into another kitchen disaster?"
I rolled my eyes. "Only if you keep existing shirtless like it's your full-time job."
He actually laughed. Not big. Just a breath. But enough, still progression.
I turned to leave, clutching my one-line script like it was a full-on screenplay.
"Good luck," he said. "At the shoot."
I turned back, beaming. "Thanks. Can't wait to see how our scenes go."
A pause.
"Our scenes?"
I nodded. "Yeah! They didn't give me the full script, but i know we're both cast in Las Malditas del Amor. So obviously... I mean. You're the love interest, right?"
His expression didn't change.
"I'm doing a cameo."
My smile faltered. "Right... right, like... secret cameo. You're probably pretending to be someone else at first. Like a mysterious stranger. Who falls for me?"
"I walk past the lead in a flashback. No lines."
Silence.
"Oh," I said. Still smiling, like my dignity depended on it. "So you're... not my character's love interest?"
"Nope."
Beat.
"That's okay. They'll probably change it once they see our chemistry."
He blinked.
Then turned away.
Maybe because if he looked at me too long, he'd fall in love.
Who knows?
I started walking, whispering to the universe.
"Try not to fall in love with me on set," I called over my shoulder.
He didn't pause.
"Don't worry."
-
I practiced my one line in front of the mirror like it was a career-defining soliloquy.
"What are you doing here, Rodrigo?"
Gasp.
Again, with more desperation.
"What are you doing here… Rodrigo?"
Yes. Oscar-worthy.
Okay fine—it was one line. But still. It was my line. In Las Malditas del Amor, no less. Prime-time.
Aired right after the evening news.
My aunties would be screaming.
I fixed my hair again, checked my teeth, and made sure the shimmer on my cheek hit right under the fluorescent lights of the dressing room-slash-broom closet they stuck us in.
Extras weren't treated like royalty, but i acted like i am.
Then i heard a voice outside.
His voice.
Race Guy.
The one with the bone structure of a Greek statue and the emotional warmth of a broken thermostat.
He was talking to the director. Low voice. No effort. Calm, flat, cold.
He could've been discussing the weather and still made it sound like a breakup.
I leaned closer to the half-open door.
"I'll be out in fifteen," he said. "I don't think i'm even on camera. Just a walking frame."
A walking frame.
That's it?
I blinked.
The director laughed. "Yeah, yeah. It's just a cameo. You're just walking with the models during that flashback scene. Don't worry, no lines."
Cameo.
Flashback.
No lines.
He wasn't acting with me.
He wasn't Rodrigo.
He wasn't even in the scene.
I stared blankly at the dusty vanity in front of me.
My lip gloss suddenly felt unnecessary.
So he wasn't the lead.
He wasn't my scene partner.
He wasn't my on-screen love interest.
And he definitely wasn't looking at me the way i'd written in the fake rom-com in my head.
This was all me.
I delulu-ed myself.
I sat back down in the tiny folding chair like someone had just canceled Christmas.
Around me, other starlets were doing vocal warmups or fixing their falsies.
Business as usual.
I picked up my iced coffee and took a long sip. It tasted like defeat and cheap vanilla syrup.
Still.
I straightened up.
Checked my eyeliner.
Tucked a strand of hair behind my ear like i was about to face paparazzi.
Because maybe i wasn't in a love story.
Maybe i was just a girl with one line and a dream.
And maybe—maybe—Raceboy Guy would look at me on his way out.
Maybe he'd notice the shimmer.
Maybe he'd fall in love with the professionalism.
Or maybe he wouldn't.
Whatever.
I was still here.
I had one line to deliver.
And i was going to deliver it like i was the damn lead.