I woke up with one pillow on the bed, a blanket tangled around my legs like a python, and my left cheek stuck to Cairo's shirt—which smelled suspiciously like me.
You know that faint vanilla-rose scent that only expensive shampoos and dramatic women have?
Yup.
That's me.
But you know what wasn't there?
Cairo.
"What?!" I shrieked, sitting up like a freshly summoned zombie bride. "He's gone?! Where is my emotional support racecar boyfriend?!"
I checked the couch.
Just me and my drama.
No note.
No goodbye kiss.
No trail of rose petals leading to the kitchen with an avocado toast surprise.
Just an empty unit.
Like my inbox.
Wait.
I bolted to the door, still in my Hello Kitty pajama shorts and oversized white tee that literally said Don't Touch Me, I'm Delicate.
I peeked out dramatically into the hallway, like I was in a suspense-thriller starring me as the clingy girlfriend who just wanted cuddles.
Of course, he wasn't there.
Because training again.
Priorities.
Commitment.
Discipline.
Ugh.
I rolled my eyes and muttered, "Fine. Be an icon. I'll just go back to my condo and spiral."
So I walked the two feet to my unit next door, dragging my fuzzy slippers like I was being evicted from my own feelings.
The door slammed a little too dramatically behind me—like even it was tired of my behavior.
Inside, I stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes.
And then I stared at my air fryer.
And then I opened the fridge like something new would magically appear.
It didn't.
So I decided to do what any normal, unemployed actress with a chaotic relationship and severe attachment issues would do.
Grocery shopping.
"Today," I declared, standing in front of my mirror with one hand on my hip, "I will be a chef. A domestic goddess. The Julia Child of aesthetic breakfast, and I will not burn the kitchen."
But not mine.
LOL, no.
Cairo's kitchen, of course.
He had better pans.
And fire extinguishers.
So I got dressed like I was starring in a 'Grocery Girl Aesthetic TikTok Vlog in Seoul' even though I was literally just going to SM Supermarket in BGC.
I wore beige cargo pants, a baby pink cropped cardigan, and sunglasses bigger than my future.
Then I stared at my car keys.
Then I stared at my past trauma. "Nope," I whispered. "We're not going to jail again."
So I booked a Grab.
And yes, I triple-checked if I brought my license. I even whispered to my bag, "Stay with me this time, girl."
The Grab driver tried to make small talk, but I just smiled, nodded, and internally replayed every time
Cairo smiled at me in slow motion like a drama lead.
—
By the time I got to the grocery store, I had already imagined our future with two kids, one golden retriever, and a shared TikTok cooking channel called "Where there is Adobo, there is Love."
The automatic doors whooshed open like I was entering Narnia, but instead of a snowy forest, it was rows and rows of vegetables I didn't recognize and meat that looked like it needed therapy.
Okay.
I got this.
I grabbed a cart—no, a pushcart, the one with the wobbly wheel because of course.
And then I stood in the middle of aisle one, surrounded by early morning titas in leggings, all moving with a purpose.
Like they actually knew what they were doing.
Me? I was Googling: "How to cook something impressive but easy but also not burnt please"
And Google was like: scrambled eggs.
Google, please.
Cairo deserves more than scrambled eggs.
He deserves burnt bacon and my emotional damage.
I mean, love.
I passed by the veggie section and tried to touch a bell pepper, but it rolled away like it could sense my fear.
"Okay, no to vegetables. We'll circle back to that. Maybe. Probably not," I whispered to myself while clutching a bunch of spring onions like they were weapons.
Then I saw it.
The hotdog aisle.
Of course.
My first cooking trauma.
I remembered the last time I cooked hotdogs and they exploded like they had a personal vendetta against me.
I flinched a little, not gonna lie.
PTSD is real and it smells like burning oil.
Still, I threw three packs in my cart.
Because delusion is the solution.
Next, I headed to the egg section like I was on a high-stakes mission.
I gently picked up one dozen eggs with both hands like they were Fabergé and whispered, "I believe in you. Please don't betray me today."
Then came the meat section.
Okay, here's where things got a little… chaotic.
Me vs. Chicken Thighs: A Memoir
I was just trying to look confident while holding plastic-packed chicken like it didn't make me want to cry.
But tell me why every pack looked like a CSI crime scene?
I turned to the tita beside me who looked like she had been marinating meats since birth. "Hi, sorry, but… is this chicken okay? Like… do you just cook it... like that?"
She blinked. "You need to clean it first, dear."
Clean?? With what?? Micellar water??
I nodded respectfully, said thank you like I understood, and threw the chicken in the cart with a smile that screamed "fake it 'til you don't poison your boyfriend."
Of course, I forgot the fish sauce.
So I walked up to a staff member in an apron and confidently said, "Hi! Where's your... like, that thing? The Filipino soy sauce but not soy sauce? The salty one? For flavor? The smelly one? Starts with a F?"
The guy blinked. "Fish sauce?"
"Yes!! That's the one! Love her."
He pointed to aisle six.
I went there, stared at fifteen brands of fish sauce, and picked the one with the most aesthetic label. Because priorities.
After grabbing garlic (pre-chopped, thank you) and one onion (that I'd probably never use), I headed to the cookware aisle.
Let's pause for a moment.
Why are there so many pans??
Like... why are there so many sizes??
There's non-stick, there's stick-for-life, there's sauté pans, there's magic pans.
I swear, I almost cried.
Eventually, I just whispered, "What would Cairo use?" and picked the blackest, shiniest pan on the shelf.
It cost ₱1,500. For one pan.
Did I care?
No.
Because if I was going to burn food, I'd do it fashionably.
My arms were practically falling off as I struggled with five reusable grocery bags because, yes, I care about the planet and Cairo's sodium levels.
I texted him before I booked an Uber:
Me: Don't eat dinner. I'm cooking. Please be emotionally ready.
He didn't reply.
He didn't even react.
Which either meant (1) he was busy with training or (2) he was preparing his last will and testament.
Inside the Uber, I sat like a tita fresh from the supermarket, hugging a bag of rice like it was my actual child.
The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror and smiled. "Ma'am, those groceries look like you're preparing for a festival."
I giggled. "Haha, not really. Just cooking for my… boyfriend."
Oh my god, I said it.
Boyfriend.
As in, my boyfriend.
My literal Cairo.
Wow. What a plot twist.
—
By the time we arrived, my arms were shaking.
Grocery bags are no joke, okay? They were 80% heavy, 20% regret.
I reached my unit first but didn't even enter.
I just threw the bags on my kitchen counter, then stood in front of Cairo's door, breathing like I was about to commit arson.
But no.
Today was about redemption.
I knocked.
No one answered.
I used my spare key.
Yes, I have one.
No, I don't feel guilty.
Location: Cairo's Kitchen (a.k.a. Battlefield No. 2)
I changed into one of his shirts because cooking in tight jeans is illegal in at least six countries.
Then I tied my hair in a bun. Actually, it was more like a "bun-slightly-held-by-hope."
But it was fine.
I looked like a woman who meant business.
I arranged everything on his pristine kitchen island like I was about to launch a new show on a lifestyle channel.
Then I whispered to myself, "You will not cry. You will not burn anything. You will not call your driver to buy cooked food and pretend you made it. You're stronger now."
Then I opened YouTube.
Search: How to cook a hotdog but make it classy. No results.
Okay, we improvise.
I got the pan.
Heated it.
Put oil.
Not too much.
Just enough to say "I care."
I placed one lonely hotdog.
It sizzled.
I screamed.
Then I remembered I was supposed to poke it.
I grabbed a fork and stabbed it like I was in a drama series and it just revealed it was cheating on me.
Result: Burnt hotdog.Texture: Lava rock.Smell: Regret.
But did I stop? No.
Because Elara doesn't give up.
She is beauty.
She is grace.
She is... slightly charred.
Next, I cracked two eggs.
One was fine.
The second one landed half in the pan, half on my slipper.
I just stood there for three seconds, processing.
Then I whispered, "Cairo doesn't have to know."
I tried bacon.
Apparently, you're not supposed to fry it on high heat?? Because it curled like it was trying to escape me. Still, I kept going. I made four batches of each.
Batch One: Burnt.Batch Two: Raw.Batch Three: Almost perfect, except it tasted like sadness.Batch Four: Passable. Slightly edible. Would probably not send him to the ER.
I cooked chicken last.
And girl, let me tell you—I seasoned that thing like a woman on a mission.
Salt.
Pepper.
Garlic powder.
Feelings.
Then I pan-seared it. It looked okay. It smelled… smoky.
But it was cooked.
Was it dry? Yes.
Was it dead inside? Probably, like me during math class.
But hey—it was food.
And just like that, I filled his entire table with:
One lonely burnt hotdogTwo overcooked eggsBacon that could double as roofing materialChicken that was salty but full of loveThree candles for ambience (all lavender because there were no other options)
Then I sat on his couch, legs crossed, and waited like a dramatic wife.
I was sitting on Cairo's couch like an elegant war criminal.
Hands clasped.
Back straight.
Face calm.
But deep down, I was literally screaming.
I cooked.
As in—I cooked.
Like a whole meal.
With fire.
And zero blood loss.
Except for my self-esteem, which was now medium-rare.
Every few minutes I would sniff the air.
It smelled like… smoked tragedy.
At exactly 8:03 PM, I heard keys jangling outside. Then—click.
Door opening.
Footsteps.
I shot up from the couch like a contestant on a game show. And there he was.
Sweaty, tired, perfect.
Wearing a black hoodie and joggers like he just came from a movie set where the lead character dies.
Cairo.
My boyfriend.
My soon-to-be victim.
He looked up and froze. "Elara," he said slowly, like he wasn't sure if I was real or a gas leak hallucination.
"Hi," I said with a bright smile and jazz hands. "Welcome home. I made dinner."
His face did a full reboot. Like—processing… buffering… ERROR.
"You what?"
"I cooked," I said proudly, grabbing his hand like it was a peace offering. "Come. Sit. Eat. I promise nothing will explode. This time."
He let me drag him to the table like a toddler being led to timeout.
I pulled out his chair for him.
Like, full-on five-star level of customer service.
"Wow," he muttered, staring at the table. "It smells… intense."
"Thank you," I said. He didn't say it was bad, okay? He said intense.
That's practically a compliment.
I handed him a fork.
He picked it up like he was holding a loaded weapon.
I sat across from him, beaming like a proud domestic goddess.
He stared at the plate.
First, the hotdog.
He poked it with his fork.
It bounced.
Yes, bounced.
"Elara," he whispered. "This… this hotdog is fighting back."
"It's crunchy on the outside," I said defensively. "Texture is important!"
He bit into it.
CRACK.
I winced.
He blinked.
Silence.
"…It's… crunchy," he agreed, chewing slowly.
Very slowly.
Like he was buying time for his soul to leave his body.
Next, the egg.
He sliced into it.
Half of it was okay.
The other half was like… fossilized.
"This part's good," he said diplomatically.
"You're lying," I gasped. "Is it that bad?"
"No! No. It's… adventurous."
Adventurous.
Okay, we're using interesting vocabulary now.
Then came the bacon.
He picked it up.
It made a snapping noise. "Elara, this bacon could be used as a weapon."
"You're welcome," I said sweetly. "Multifunctional."
He tried the chicken next.
I held my breath.
He bit into it.
Chewed.
Blinked again.
"…It's salty," he said. "Like, aggressively."
"I seasoned it with emotion."
He coughed. "And apparently, unresolved trauma."
I pouted. "I tried, okay? I really did."
"I know, baby," he said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "And I love that you did. I'm just concerned my kidneys will stop functioning after this meal."
"You're so dramatic," I said, but I was already laughing.
He smiled. "Seriously, Elara. Thank you. This is… sweet. Chaotic, but sweet."
Then he stood up and walked to the kitchen.
"Wait, what are you doing?"
"I'm making us ramen."
I stood beside him, arms crossed, watching him move like a domestic god.
He boiled water.
Poured it over the noodles.
Added seasoning with surgical precision.
No mess, no drama, no internal screaming.
"Why does it look so easy when you do it?" I asked, genuinely offended.
He shrugged. "Because I've been feeding myself since I was sixteen. You… haven't."
"Excuse me, I have," I said. "I just… usually order it through an app."
He handed me a bowl. "Here. Dinner."
I pouted. "But I wanted to impress you."
"You did," he said. "I've never seen food commit this hard to being inedible. That's a unique talent."
"Rude!"
"I'm kidding," he said, wrapping an arm around me as we sat on the couch. "I appreciate the effort, babe. Seriously. It means a lot."
We ate ramen together, our legs tangled on his couch, the scent of burnt chicken lingering like a memory we couldn't erase.
Then he said, "You staying here again tonight?"
I raised a brow. "Do you want me to?"
He looked at me and smirked. "Elara, you've basically burned my entire kitchen. You might as well burn my bed."
I gasped. "Cairo!"
He laughed. "What? You started it."
I rolled my eyes, slurped my noodles, and leaned on his shoulder.
I wore one of his hoodies again.
He was brushing his teeth while I jumped on his bed like a child on a sugar rush.
By the time he lay beside me, I was already half-asleep.
"Goodnight, arsonist," he whispered against my hair.
"Goodnight, victim," I murmured back.
And just like that, I fell asleep with the scent of garlic powder and domestic dreams.