I woke up like it was my wedding day.
Not that i've been married before, okay? But i swear to all the gods of mascara and manicurists, today just felt like that kind of day.
You know? That kind of day where the sun peeks through the blinds perfectly, your skin behaves like you had 12 hours of beauty sleep even though you were stress-scrolling until 3AM, and your brain whispers: "GIRL. You're about to be iconic."
Why? Because today… was Cairo's Big International Car Race.
And of course, I had to look like the main character.
"Babe, are you going to a fashion gala or to a racetrack?" Ari deadpanned the moment i stepped into the living room in a silver sequined bodysuit, thigh-high boots, and a custom-made visor that said "CAIRO'S #1 BABY."
"No, because both?" I flipped my perfectly curled hair and posed in front of the mirror. "Do you think the pit crew will get distracted by my look and crash into the barricade? Be honest."
"Honestly," Kenneth said from the couch, sipping his oat milk latte with the serenity of someone who does pilates at sunrise, "you look like you're about to steal a NASCAR driver's husband."
I gasped. "I am the NASCAR driver's future wife."
Ari rolled his eyes so hard i heard a click. "Girl, Cairo doesn't even do NASCAR—this is like, European Grand Prix level, chill."
"I won't chill. My man is about to risk his life for glory, and the least i can do is wear this Swarovski-encrusted belt that spells out 'VROOM' across my hips."
We arrived at the track with my heels stabbing into the gravel like they had a personal vendetta against nature.
Let me just say this: racetracks? Are not made for stilettos. Or fashionistas. Or, like, anyone who isn't wearing dad sneakers and a team cap. But did i let that stop me? No.
Because i am Elara Celestine Zulueta—daughter of drama, sister of sequins, enemy of subtlety—and i came here to serve.
"This is not Coachella, babe," Ari whispered, holding my elbow like i was going to fall over at any second.
"It's my Coachella," I said, swaying like I was on a runway. "The lineup is just Cairo. Headlining. Performing at 200km/hour."
We found our seats and OH MY GOD, they were so close to the track i could basically smell the gasoline.
Which is… disgusting. But also kind of hot? Is this what being a supportive girlfriend feels like? Risking lung capacity for love?
Anyway, Cairo wasn't on the track yet. The announcers were screaming something in French, people were waving flags, and i was sitting between Ari and Kenneth trying to understand how racing even works.
"Wait. So, like, do they all go in a circle? Or is it more like… Mario Kart?"
Kenneth blinked. "It's not Mario Kart."
"Okay, but if someone throws a banana, is that legal?"
Ari smacked his forehead. "BABE. This is Formula racing. They have rules."
I nodded solemnly, pulling out a rhinestone-covered pair of binoculars from my Dior tote. "Then i will respect the culture."
When Cairo finally appeared in his race suit, I gasped so loud people in Row 4 looked at me.
He looked like a walking Marvel reboot.
Black jumpsuit. Gloves. Helmet under one arm.
The way he walked toward his car like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders but still somehow looked hot doing it?
I was ready to throw my bra on the track.
"Look at my man," I whispered, zooming in with my binoculars. "Look at him. That's my boyfriend. That's my Egyptian god in a speed suit."
"Girl, people can hear you," Kenneth murmured.
"I want them to. I'm manifesting. I am affirming that the love of my life is also a winner."
As the engines started revving, I swear my soul left my body.
Like, why is it SO LOUD? Why does it sound like a dragon having an existential crisis?
I clutched Ari's arm like we were on a roller coaster. "What if he crashes? What if his tires explode? What if—"
"Girl," Ari said, patting my shoulder, "he's literally the best racer in Asia. Chill."
"I CAN'T CHILL, ARI. THIS IS FAST & FURIOUS: EGYPT EDITION."
The flag dropped.
The cars zoomed.
My heart sprinted.
And i screamed so loud the pigeons in the parking lot flew away.
I don't remember breathing.
Like legit, I don't think oxygen was part of my experience for the first three laps. All i heard was NNNNNNNNNNGHHHHHMMMMMMMMMMM — the sound of twenty-something cars trying to outrun God.
And then there was me.
On my tiny folding seat.
Clutching my Dior binoculars like a church tita clutches her rosary during final judgment.
"Is that him?!" I screeched, pointing at one of the black cars that zoomed past.
Ari squinted. "Babe, that's a tire."
I gasped. "WHAT?! WHERE IS HE?!"
"Lap 4 na, Cairo's leading the middle pack. He's the one with the gold stripes—"
"GOLD STRIPES??!! Like my nails?? Oh my God, we're spiritually synced."
"Sure," Kenneth said, already texting someone.
Anyway. Let me tell you something: watching your boyfriend race at 250 km/h is not for the weak. It's for emotionally unstable, fashion-obsessed, drama-prone girlies like me who scream every time a car turns slightly left.
Every time he disappeared from my view, I panicked.
Every time he reappeared, I gasped like i saw Harry Styles in the flesh.
And when one of the other drivers almost bumped into him on Turn 6?
I stood up, flung my purse at the air, and screamed:
"DO YOU WANNA DIE, HUH?! DO YOU WANNA FIGHT ME?!"
"Girl," Ari whispered urgently. "Sit. Down."
"I'LL SIT DOWN WHEN HE'S SAFE."
"Security is looking."
"I HOPE THEY'RE LOOKING. I'M READY TO FIGHT."
By Lap 12, I was no longer a woman. I was a concept. A myth. A creature made entirely of stress and setting spray.
Kenneth handed me a cold water bottle. I pressed it against my temple like a telenovela wife catching her cheating husband in church.
"Breathe," he said gently.
"I am breathing," I panted. "I'm just breathing dramatically. Like Audrey Hepburn if she were Filipino and dating a race car god."
Then, I saw him.
Zooming past the front pack.
He overtook two cars like it was nothing. Like he was just switching lanes on EDSA. Like he was saying, "Excuse me po" but with 700 horsepower under his butt.
And just like that—
Cairo was leading the race.
I screamed.
I grabbed Ari's face with both hands. "DO YOU SEE THAT?! DO YOU SEE HIM?! THAT'S MY MAN!"
"Yes, yes," Ari said, eyes wide. "He's—he's very fast."
"He's not just fast. He's FATE."
By the final lap, I was shaking.
Not like the cute kind of shaking. Like, I think my soul detached from my body and was floating three feet above my head wearing a crop top and screaming YAAAAAAS in the astral plane.
The announcers were losing it.
The crowd was screaming.
Flags were waving.
People were on their feet.
And me?
I was on my knees.
Like, no shame. I literally knelt down on the bleachers, whispering, "Please Lord, if you let him win, I swear i'll stop online shopping for one whole week—okay three days—but still, that's like, a LOT."
And then—
The finish line.
A blur of black and gold.
A heartbeat. A silence. And then—
"CAR NUMBER 7—CAIRO EMILIEN LAZARRÉ—TAKES FIRST PLACE!!"
I think i blacked out.
When i came to, I was screaming and crying into Ari's armpit.
He was patting my back while half-hugging Kenneth who was like, "Why are you crying, you knew he would win."
"BECAUSE I LOVE HIM," I wailed. "AND HE DID THAT! FOR ME! FOR US! FOR LOVE!"
Ari laughed. "Girl. He did that 'cause he's a champion, not because you manifested it with a bedazzled visor."
"Excuse me," I sniffled. "You think it's a coincidence he won on the exact day i wore my 'lucky glitter bra'?!"
"Your what."
"DON'T ASK QUESTIONS YOU'RE NOT READY FOR."
Anyway, chaos exploded.
The crowd roared. Confetti cannons fired off. Cairo did the hot guy thing where he jumped out of the car and took off his helmet in slow motion like a Pantene commercial from the Fast & Furious franchise.
And I—
I levitated.
"Oh. My. GOD," I whispered. "He looks like a chocolate statue. Like he was sculpted to ruin lives."
Ari was already dragging me toward the restricted zone, whispering, "Girl, act natural."
"I am natural. I'm naturally fabulous."
Kenneth showed the security guard some kind of all-access pass and boom—we were through.
And then—
CAIRO TURNED.
And saw me.
There are moments in life when time slows down.
Like in rom-coms. Like in music videos. Like when you're walking in slow motion while wearing heels you definitely can't afford, with wind that somehow knows it's time to blow.
This was one of those moments.
Cairo looked at me.
Helmet off. Hair slightly messy. Sweat on his forehead but, like, cinematic sweat.
The kind of sweat that glistens, not glistens.
He looked like the final level of a video game. Like if sin was a man. Like "Hi i just destroyed an international race and also your will to emotionally function."
And me?
I looked insane.
Mascara everywhere.
Hair? Giving "I just fought a hurricane and lost."
Lip gloss? Half-eaten by my own teeth from all the nervous biting.
And yet—he smiled.
"Hey, baby," he said.
Casually. Like he didn't just cause a global temperature spike with that win. Like he wasn't the most beautiful man in motorsports right now.
And me?
I screamed, "OH MY GOD, BABYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"
And then i ran.
Like. Full. Olympic. Sprint.
Heels and all.
Security almost tackled me but Kenneth yelled, "Girlfriend!" and Ari shouted, "Let her live her moment!" and I—
I launched myself at Cairo like a glitter-covered missile.
My arms wrapped around his neck. My legs tried to wrap around his waist but failed because coordination? Never met her. So i ended up just kind of hanging like a sloth on a Gucci tree.
But Cairo caught me.
Of course he did.
He always does.
"I'm so proud of you!" I sobbed into his collarbone.
"I did it for you," he said, cheek against mine.
I died.
Like, my soul left my body and ascended to the nearest Jollibee in heaven.
"You—YOU LOOK SO HOT RIGHT NOW I'M GONNA VOMIT," I said, unhinged.
He laughed. "You look like you wrestled a tornado."
"FOR YOU."
"I know."
Everyone was clapping. Cameras were flashing. Some reporter even asked, "Miss, are you his girlfriend?"
I turned dramatically, wind catching my hair at the exact right angle (thank you, global warming) and said,
"No.
I'm his trophy."
And the crowd CHEERED.
Okay fine, maybe it was just me and Ari cheering. But still. Same effect.
Later, at the podium—
Cairo held up his trophy, did the champagne spray thing, and pulled me in beside him.
Let me repeat that:
He. Pulled. Me.
Onto. The. Podium.
Girl, do you know what that means?
I wasn't just the girlfriend watching from the side.
I was the girl who stood next to the winner. In heels. On camera. Mascara running down my cheeks like a main character in a Shonda Rhimes show.
"You're crazy," I told him, when the champagne hit my lashes.
"I'm yours," he whispered back.
FML.
Then of course, the interviewer came. Because of course.
He had a mic. He had a camera crew. And the energy of someone who watched too much Formula 1: Drive to Survive.
"Cairo Lazarré!" he said. "Your first international title — how do you feel?!"
Cairo grinned. "Grateful. Happy. Hungry, actually."
Everyone laughed.
"And your girlfriend's here today," the interviewer continued, motioning to me. "Any words for her?"
I posed like a pageant finalist.
Cairo didn't even hesitate.
"She's the one who makes the race worth it."
I gasped so loud, a bird in the sky probably fainted.
I turned to him. "BABE."
He shrugged, smug. "It's true."
After the ceremony, when the cameras left and everyone was packing up, Cairo leaned against the pit wall and pulled me between his legs.
The lights were softer now. The crowd was mostly gone. It was just us.
"I still can't believe you won," I whispered, fixing a strand of his hair. "I thought my nervous energy would jinx you."
"You are chaotic," he said, teasing. "But you're also my lucky charm."
I melted like a popsicle in the desert.
"And now what?" I asked. "You're a champion. You're hot. You're sweaty. What's next?"
He smiled. "Now i get to take my girl home. And kiss her. A lot."
And that, my dear bestie?
That's when i melted again.