I swear, I woke up today with a full-on movie montage playing in my head.
Like, not even a chill indie movie or like, a quiet slice of life drama. No. I woke up like it was a Fast & the Furious x legally blonde crossover and I was both the car and the blonde.
And my brain? My brain was like,
"Elara Zulueta, it's time to serve. With delusion. With energy. With wholesome chaos."
And so i did what any well-raised emotionally stable girlie with no real problems would do—
I signed up for a racing bootcamp.
Yes. As in car racing.
Yes. As in under the sun. With helmets. And gears. And oil. And physics?!
Like... what in the name of broken nail extensions was i even thinking?
To be fair, this whole decision came from seeing my boyfriend—yes, I said it, boyfriend, label unlocked, Cairo freaking Lazarré—laughing with three hot female racers during training yesterday.
Okay. Okay, I know what you're gonna say.
"Elara, don't be insecure, you're THEE Elara. You're beautiful, rich, and iconic."
Yes, true. Period.
But also? Territorial much?!
Like... she's not mad, but she IS gonna show up in heels and a visor like she owns the racetrack.
So now, I'm sitting here, inside this makeshift little tent-slash-registration booth, in my Juicy Couture tracksuit, applying for something i have zero qualifications for.
"Name?" the lady with the clipboard asked, not even looking up.
"Elara Celestine Zulueta. With an E."
"Age?"
"Don't ask a woman that," I smiled sweetly.
She looked up. Didn't smile. "Age."
"Fine. Ugh. Twenty-four, but emotionally? Seventeen."
She just wrote it down like i didn't just give her personality. Rude.
Then she said, "Do you have any experience driving manual transmission?"
I blinked.
Manual… as in what?
Manual like… manly?
Manual like… paper manual?
"Is that the one with, like, an extra stick?" I asked innocently. "Or is that automatic with… spice?"
The woman looked at me like i just sneezed in her coffee.
"You're aware this is a high-performance racing camp, right?"
"I am very aware, yes." I nodded, hands folded. "I am actually dating a very fast boy. Like, very fast. Zoom zoom fast."
"Ma'am, this is not a fan club."
"Oh, I'm not a fan. I'm the reason the fan clubs exist."
I would've dropped the mic if i had one.
But instead, she sighed and gave me a waiver to sign. Honestly, it was kind of slay. I felt like i was entering a secret society of speed and sweat and sports bras.
Except, I was wearing a pink halter top and matching earrings. So, like… I clearly did not get the memo.
Okay. So here's the thing.
I thought applying would be the hard part. Like, hello? Me? In sports? That's like asking a swan to do CrossFit. Not impossible, pero very much illegal sa aesthetic laws of the universe.
But no. The actual chaos began... after i signed the waiver.
Because suddenly, this giant man appeared out of nowhere—like literally, materialized. He looked like someone took a protein shake and turned it into a human. And he was wearing this black sleeveless top na sobrang revealing, I was like, Sir, do you have a permit for those biceps?
"Elara Celestine Zulueta?" he asked, holding a clipboard that looked like it was trembling under his grip. Or baka ako lang yung nanginginig.
"Yes?" I answered, smiling like i wasn't two seconds away from fainting.
"I'm Coach Leo. You're with me."
Okay. Calm down. Coach? Why does it suddenly feel like i'm auditioning for a Marvel movie?
"Wait, with you… for what?" I asked, already clutching my Gucci tote like it was a holy artifact.
"You're training with me. Now. Suit up."
And then—get this—he hands me a bag. As in, this ugly, military-style duffel bag na mukhang galing pa sa World War II.
I peeked inside and almost threw up and cried: there was a helmet, gloves, a racing jumpsuit in navy blue, and… wait for it… combat boots.
Combat. Boots. With my acrylics?! Is this a punishment?
"Coach," I said sweetly. "Just checking… there's no, like, glam team involved in this? Like a hair-and-makeup girl or… a mirror?"
He blinked at me.
"Ma'am, this is racing. Not Drag Race."
The disrespect.
But you know me. I don't back down. I slay. I survive. I serve.
So i did what any iconic woman would do—I changed. Into. That. Horrific. Suit.
And let me tell you: I looked like a sad blueberry. Like a fashionable fruit that gave up. My waist? Gone. My hair? Flat. My pride? Crushed under steel-toed boots.
When i emerged from the porta-dressing-room-tent (yes, porta-dressing-room, I swear I saw a cockroach in there whispering "you don't belong here"), Coach Leo gave me a once-over and just said:
"Okay. We're starting with the basics."
Cut to: me, standing in front of a manual racecar that looked like a Transformer mid-anxiety attack.
"Okay, hop in," Coach Leo instructed.
I opened the door.
It didn't budge.
"Pull harder," he said.
"I am pulling," I replied, still tugging.
"Ma'am, that's the hood."
Oops.
Strike one.
When i finally found the actual door, I slid inside—and I swear to you, I sat down and immediately felt like i lost half my IQ. Where were the buttons?! Where's the drive-thru mode?? The Bluetooth? The cup holders?!?
"Elara," he said slowly, "do you know what a clutch is?"
I smiled confidently. "Of course. It's a small handbag you bring to events."
Coach Leo blinked three times.
"No, ma'am. It's the third pedal."
"There's a third one?!"
"Yup. Gas, brake, clutch."
"You mean this car has trust issues? It needs three types of convincing before it moves?"
He didn't laugh.
Anyway, he started explaining the basics: clutch down, shift to first gear, slowly release clutch while pressing gas, blah blah engineering blah...
And then he said the scariest sentence i've ever heard in my entire life:
"Now you try."
…
Excuse me?
Try?? As in me? On this actual vehicle that costs more than my condo furniture set??
I stared at him, trying to find a way out. Like maybe fake a nosebleed. Or a vision from the Holy Spirit telling me to cancel.
But no. My pride was on the line. My name. My womanhood.
So i pressed the clutch, grabbed the gear thingy (yes, I called it thingy in my brain), and whispered under my breath, "In Jesus name…"
Then i released the clutch.
And the car JUMPED like it saw a ghost.
I SCREAMED. Like, full-on horror movie scream.
The car jerked. Died. Coughed. Stalled. Whatever you wanna call it.
"Elara! You released too fast!"
"I THOUGHT THAT WAS THE POINT?!"
Coach Leo ran over and tried to revive the car like it was in a hospital emergency room.
I just sat there, dramatically wiping my forehead with a satin handkerchief i pulled out of my bra. (Yes, I keep one there. Always prepared.)
Then i heard someone laugh in the distance.
And oh my God. Of course. OF COURSE. Guess who just happened to pass by?
Cairo. In his training shirt. Hair a mess. Face glowing. Laughing. At. Me.
He didn't even say anything at first. Just… smiled.
"You good there, babe?" he said, voice smug, leaning on the side of the tent like he wasn't the most distracting human on this whole racetrack.
"I am thriving, thank you," I said, wiping engine oil off my cheek and smudging my blush in the process.
"I didn't know you applied for training."
"Surprise," I said, voice cracking slightly.
"Need help?"
"No. I'm independent now. Like, Beyoncé post-Destiny's Child."
He raised an eyebrow. "Okay. Just don't kill anyone."
Coach Leo was trying not to laugh.
Betrayal.
Let me tell you something about humiliation.
It doesn't always come as a loud boom. Sometimes, it shows up as a tiny, judgmental giggle from a Greek god in training shorts who just happens to walk by while your entire soul is stalling… alongside the car you just killed.
There i was, still seated like a malfunctioning Barbie behind the wheel, while Coach Leo desperately tried to explain torque, friction, clutch control—concepts i swear were not covered in International School.
Meanwhile, Cairo was STILL THERE.
Just standing.
Watching.
Smirking.
Smirking with the audacity of a man who probably invented manual transmission with his bare hands and abs.
"You sure you're good?" he asked again, hands inside his hoodie pocket like this was a telenovela he personally wrote.
I adjusted my helmet, which—by the way—was way too tight. I looked like a bobblehead with anxiety.
"Yup," I replied, smiling through clenched teeth. "I'm thriving."
"You're in neutral," he pointed out, his tone gentle but annoyingly amused. "You're not even in gear."
Oh. Right.
I looked down.
And true enough, the stick was just chilling like it was on a coffee break.
Completely uninterested in moving forward—just like my love life.
"That's… intentional," I lied. "I'm manifesting stillness. For control."
He chuckled again.
STOP CHUCKLING, SIR.
I am trying to maintain dignity here.
Coach Leo had that look like he wanted to say something encouraging but also low-key regretted his life choices.
"Elara," he said carefully, "maybe we should try with assistance. Just for now."
ASSISTANCE?! Do i look like i need a driving tutor?!
Okay… maybe i do.
But i didn't want it from him. Cairo was the last person i wanted seeing me flop.
Because—let's be real—my crush was already escalating at an unsafe speed and I didn't need him catching me at my weakest.
Unfortunately, fate said: "LOL. Too bad."
Because the next thing i knew, Coach Leo was walking away and saying, "Cairo, just help her go around the track once. One lap. Easy."
My soul left my body.
Cairo? Driving with me?
Inside the same car? Like, breathing the same oxygen?
I turned to object—strong, independent woman style—but he was already opening the passenger door, slipping in with the grace of a Disney prince who secretly moonlights as a professional racer.
And when he shut the door?
The silence in that tiny cockpit was so loud.
I could hear my lip gloss screaming.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked, buckling his seatbelt.
Okay, wow. Even the way he buckles is hot.
Focus, Elara.
"I'm fine," I said, adjusting my grip on the steering wheel like i wasn't internally spiraling. "I just… don't like being observed when i'm learning."
"You mean when you're endangering lives?"
"EXCUSE me—"
"I'm kidding," he grinned. "Mostly."
I glared at him, but it was difficult to be angry when my entire leg was shaking trying to hold the clutch.
"So," he said gently, leaning closer—TOO CLOSE—"we're gonna start super slow. Okay?"
I nodded.
"You press the clutch all the way in—yeah, like that—then gently shift to first gear."
"Like this?" I asked, moving the gearstick. It felt… illegal. Like i was breaking into something sacred.
He watched me, amused. "You're holding it like it's a Dior bag."
"Well, it's not exactly ergonomic," I muttered. "It's poky and violent."
He laughed.
Laughed.
Like, leaned-back-in-the-seat kind of laugh.
"Okay, next," he said. "Now slowly release the clutch while pressing the gas. Don't panic. I'm right here."
Which, honestly? Was the problem.
Because how do you concentrate when the man next to you smells like confidence and luxury shampoo?
I took a deep breath.
Whispered, "Lord, wag po kayo tatawa."
And released the clutch.
Jerky movement. Screech. Engine coughs. My heart leaves the chat.
But we didn't die.
"Hey!" Cairo said, impressed. "You actually moved!"
I blinked. "Wait… that worked?"
"Yes! Look at you!"
And suddenly—suddenly—I was driving.
Not fast. Not gracefully. Definitely not quietly. But moving.
I was screaming internally but externally? I was pretending to be cool.
"Is it normal for the wheel to vibrate this much?" I asked, gripping it like I was clinging to the last shreds of my reputation.
He nodded. "It's just the engine talking to you."
"Can it… talk softer?"
We turned a corner, slowly. My palms were sweating. Cairo reached over and gently corrected my steering angle.
"Hands at ten and two," he said. "Like a clock."
"I don't use analog."
He snorted. "God, you're spoiled."
"I call it specialized."
We finally completed the lap—barely. The car didn't explode, which i counted as a win. And the moment i parked (okay, slammed the brakes while kinda sliding into position), I looked at him with wide eyes.
"Did we survive?" I asked.
"You did amazing," he said. "For someone who thought the clutch was a handbag."
"Don't expose me."
We sat in silence for a beat.
And then he said it.
"You know… I'm kind of glad you joined training."
"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"You make things… less boring."
I blinked.
Wait, what?
Was that… a compliment?
"Is that your way of saying i'm chaotic?"
"Yup. But in a fun way."
My heart did a little zoom-zoom.
Then i remembered i was still wearing a helmet three sizes too small and had engine grease on my cheek.
Supermodel era = CANCELLED.
But still.
I turned to him and grinned. "Well… you're not as annoying as i expected."
He smiled, tilting his head. "I'll take that."
We got out of the car. My knees? Shaking like Jenga blocks during an earthquake. My boots? Unforgivable. But my soul?
Kinda… happy?
Then i heard Coach Leo shouting something from the distance.
And when i turned around—oh God.
It was MY MOM.
Holding a phone.
Recording.
"Elaraaaaaaa!" she yelled, waving. "I saw everything!! You looked like you were giving birth to the car!"
"DELETE THAT VIDEO!" I screamed, running toward her like a lunatic.
Too late. She was uploading it to her Instagram story.
With a poll.
"Should Elara be allowed on the road again?"
💀 YES
💀 NO
💀 Let's pray for her