My phone buzzed aggressively under my pillow, like it was personally judging me for sleeping in despite my tragic, misunderstood actress schedule.
I groaned, blinked one eye open, and tapped the screen.
[Agency]You have five lines today. Call time: 9:00 AM. Location: Network Lot 3, Studio 5. Wear neutral glam. Don't be late.
Five. Lines.
FIVE.
I shrieked.
Like, a high-pitched, banshee-on-Broadway, early-morning opera shriek.
Birds flew.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled.
Even my aircon made a rattling noise like it was suddenly terrified of me.
"Oh my god, Green!" I gasped, turning to the small cactus resting by my mirror, who—yes—is named Green. "We made it. We're climbing, baby. From three lines to five! Next thing you know, I'll be doing full theatrical monologues!"
I leapt out of bed like a possessed Disney princess.
Except instead of singing woodland creatures helping me get dressed, I just had an unwashed bowl of cereal watching me from my desk.
I didn't care.
This was momentous.
And obviously, monumental things must be celebrated immediately.
So naturally, I grabbed my fluffiest hoodie—the one that literally says I Deserve an Award for Existing—and bolted down the hallway.
There was only one person I wanted to celebrate with.
The only person who had been there since I cried into cheesecake and clung to him like a soggy emotional towel.
Cairo.
I stood in front of his unit, fixed my hair into a state of messy chic (very now), and raised my hand to knock—when I heard it.
A laugh.
A female laugh.
Nadine.
Nadine.
Again? In the morning?
At 8-freaking-AM?!
I froze, my knuckles hovering mid-air like a rejected marble statue.
My smile slipped off my face like expired lip gloss. Inside, there was more laughter.
Cairo's low, rare chuckle blended with her high, sparkly laugh, which was clearly designed in a laboratory somewhere to destroy women named Elara.
I took a slow step back.
He's cheating on me again, I thought irrationally.
We weren't even dating, but my soul just got cheated on.
I stared at the door for two seconds longer, just enough to feel like I might actually combust on the hallway carpet.
Then I did what any rational, emotionally stable woman would do: I spun on my heel and walked away like the heroine in a high-budget breakup music video.
Dramatic.
Tragic.
Scented like dry shampoo.
I decided I didn't need him.
Or his Nadine-flavored morning laughter.
I had five lines.
I had massive career growth.
I had Red.
For once, I would take charge of my life.
I would drive myself to the network lot.
"Red," I said seriously, tapping my keys as I reached the basement, "this is our moment. We don't need a man. We don't need Cairo. Especially if he's too busy being emotionally available to other women. We are independent, strong—"
And that's when I hit the curb.
But I didn't cry.
No.
I backed up with the absolute delicacy of a toddler parallel parking a military tank and whispered to myself, "You are grace. You are power. You are slightly swerving into the wrong lane, but still powerful."
I drove down the main road like a turtle on melatonin.
Cars honked.
A tricycle overtook me.
A biker overtook me.
And then I missed a turn.
And then I panicked.
And then I went entirely the wrong way down a one-way street.
And then—
"Ma'am. License and registration."
—
Freaking police station.
I was seated on a plastic chair that smelled heavily of expired hand sanitizer, shaking like a leaf in a microwave.
A very dramatic leaf.
My eyeliner was sweating.
My confidence? Obliterated.
My five lines? Lost forever to the television gods.
I grabbed my phone with trembling fingers and called Cairo.
He picked up on the third ring.
"Elara?" His voice was raspy, sleepy, like he had just woken up.
Like maybe he had a fun, late night with Nadine and now he was—
"I'M IN JAIL!" I shriekED into the receiver. "Okay, not jail-jail, but like… the pre-jail! The police station! There were sirens, Cairo! A man had a clipboard!"
"Elara, what the—where are you? Why didn't you ask me to drive you?"
"Oh, you mean this morning when you were busy entertaining women?!" I snapped, my voice echoing off the concrete walls.
A long pause on the line.
"…Are you talking about Nadine?"
"I heard her laugh, Cairo. At 8:00 AM. Inside your apartment. We slightly confessed our feelings last night and then you immediately choose emotional betrayal?!"
"Elara," he groaned, the sound of him rubbing his temples practically radiating through the phone. "She came over to return a book."
"At 8:00 AM?!"
"She's an early riser."
"I HATE EARLY RISERS."
"Where. Are. You."
I aggressively sent him my location, still hyperventilating into a half-used tissue.
Cairo said nothing after that.
He just let out a heavy sigh like he was actively debating if I was truly worth the lifelong chaos.
Rude.
I am.
I sat on the bench outside the station, clutching my phone like a dying man would grip a rosary.
Red was still parked somewhere around the corner.
My baby.
My tiny, dusty, traumatized baby.
Probably wondering why we betrayed her by driving her into a one-way street with zero warning or emotional support.
I'm so sorry, Red.
I didn't mean for this to happen.
You're not just a car.
You're my first love.
You're family.
The morning wind blew my hair wildly across my face, like the universe was trying to hide me from my own embarrassment.
I wiped it away like I was in a dramatic shampoo commercial—the kind that says, "This woman has severe personal issues, but at least her hair has bounce."
Cairo had arrived earlier, but he wasn't next to me right now.
He had immediately gone to sort things out, traveling between the station and the impounding lot to fix my massive legal blunder.
The man literally dropped everything and ran off like a dependable, emotionally stunted superhero.
But still, the silence on the bench was too loud.
My brain wouldn't stop spinning.
What are we?
That question kept looping in my head like a bad ringtone.
You know the kind—that awful MIDI version of an old love song? It was exactly like that.
A love song with heavy commitment issues.
We held pinkies last night.
That's intimate.
That's a thing.
That's more than friendship, right?
We shared meals.
He stayed when I cried.
We made metaphors about popping bubble wrap. He saw me in my crustiest hoodie and still voluntarily handed me an ube cheesecake.
And then Nadine laughed in his unit like she owned the very air inside it.
Am I being delusional?
Okay, maybe a little.
But still, something was happening between us.
Or at least… something was supposed to be.
Ugh. I hate this.
I hate liking someone who makes me question the very fabric of my personality.
I used to be cool.
I used to be collected.
Now I'm a walking BuzzFeed quiz with titles like "Are You Overthinking or Just Doomed?"
I checked the time.
Cairo had been sorting out the paperwork for almost an hour.
What if he got arrested too?
What if they thought he was the accomplice to the girl who drove a red tomato like a sleepy grandmother through a one-way death trap?
And then I saw him.
Crossing the street, holding a stamped slip of paper in one hand and my car keys in the other.
I may or may not have choked on my own relief.
I stood up so fast the plastic bench squeaked under me. "Did they torture you?" I demanded.
He blinked at me, completely unbothered. "They gave me a receipt."
"…Same thing."
He handed me Red's keys. "You owe me chicken."
I gasped, my eyes wide. "You flirt when you're mad."
"I'm starving."
"Oh my god, same."
We didn't say much on the way back.
It was a tired, heavy silence—the kind you share after both surviving something mildly traumatic and deeply ridiculous.
But by the time we reached our building's elevator lobby, I knew I couldn't hold it in anymore.
I stood there, watching him look for something on his phone, and I just blurted it out.
Because my mouth works faster than my brain. Always.
"What are we?"
He stopped mid-scroll. He slowly lifted his eyes to mine. "What?"
I immediately panicked. "Like, I know we're not… together-together. But also we're not not together? And you held my pinky last night. That's legally binding in at least five countries. So like, I don't know, do I bake you a cake? Should I get you a toothbrush for my unit? Am I gonna meet your mom officially? Does she even like loud women, ohhhh! Or maybe she won't like me because I made a massive scene the first time I saw her?!"
He just stared at me.
"I'm spiraling," I added helpfully.
"Yes," he agreed.
"But seriously."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, which—completely rude—made him look even more attractive in his disheveled state. "I like you," he said simply.
My stomach did a literal backflip. "Like, like-like?"
"Yes."
I gasped, clutching my neck. "You like-like me?"
"Are you five?"
"Answer the question."
He sighed again, like my mere presence took actual years off his life expectancy. "Yes, Elara. I like-like you."
I clutched my chest dramatically. "That's what I needed! That's what I deserved!" I pointed a stern finger at him. "But I have standards, mister. High ones."
"Oh god."
"If you want to date me—officially—you have to court me. Like a real man."
He blinked, entirely unimpressed. "I slept on your couch two nights ago."
"And yet you didn't bring flowers today. Shameful."
"I brought you an ube cheesecake. We held hands."
"Yes! You held my pinky. That's a coward's grip, Cairo."
He stared.
I crossed my arms, holding my ground. "Look, I'm a woman with dignity. With boundaries. You don't just confession-drop and expect me to fall directly into your arms. You have to prove it."
He narrowed his eyes, a tiny glint of amusement passing through them. "You're going to make this hard, aren't you?"
"I'm going to make this entertaining."
He took a slow step closer, towering over me. "I like a challenge."
I grinned, my confidence rushing back. "Then welcome to the circus."
The elevator dinged, opening behind us.
He didn't get in.
He just stood there, looking at me like he was trying to solve a very complicated math equation made entirely of glitter and chaos.
"I'll see you later," he said.
"You better. I'm actively logging your absence on my emotional calendar."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's not a real thing."
"It's very real."
"See you later."
"Okay, see you later, my suitor."
The doors slid shut.
And I—okay, I may have twirled.
Just a little.
A very small, micro-twirl in the middle of the lobby.
Because what are we? Well, we're becoming something.
And for once, that's not completely terrifying.
Even if I did miss my chance to act my five lines.