I walk down the condo hallway like it's a runway, phone raised in front of me as if I'm on a dramatic FaceTime call.
I'm not.
I'm rehearsing.
"My life isn't yours to ruin—"
I stop.
Too flat.
I straighten my posture, lift my chin, and try again with more emotion.
"My life…" dramatic pause. "...isn't yours to ruin."
Better.
Not award-winning, but definitely streaming-platform worthy. Maybe even "supporting character who dies in episode three" worthy.
Honestly, at this point, I'd accept a single line like:
"He went that way, ma'am!"
As long as the camera catches my good side.
I stop in front of my unit, still recording, still fully committed to the scene.
"MY life," I repeat, emphasizing the word my like I've just been betrayed by my boyfriend and my best friend in the same episode. "...isn't YOURS to ruin."
Then I notice movement beside me.
Unit 1706.
Yesterday, it was empty.
No curtains.
No furniture.
No personality.
Now, someone's moving in.
A guy stands by the doorway dragging a black duffel bag inside.
Tall.
Lean.
Black shirt, gray joggers, messy hair.
The kind of face that looks permanently annoyed even when doing absolutely nothing.
Naturally, I stare.
He glances at me once—cold, unreadable—before disappearing back into the unit.
Door slam.
Okay.
Wow.
Not even a neighbor nod?
Rude.
I step closer to his door, pretending I'm not curious.
No nameplate.
No sticker.
Nothing.
Mysterious.
Also slightly serial-killer-ish.
I consider knocking, maybe offering cookies, before remembering I don't know how to bake.
Or cook.
Or safely boil water, probably.
"Get a grip, Elara," I mutter before entering my condo.
I immediately sit in front of my vanity and hit record again.
"People keep calling me a starlet like it's supposed to hurt my feelings," I say dramatically to the camera. "Sorry, but isn't that literally better than being unemployed?"
I zoom in closer.
"They act like I scrub floors on set. Okay, sometimes I hand over documents in one scene, but still. Screen time is screen time."
I toss the phone onto my bed and collapse beside it.
I'm not angry.
Maybe slightly annoyed.
Because yes, I'm rich.
Yes, I have connections.
And yes, I look expensive.
But I'm still trying to prove I deserve to be there.
I stare at the ceiling and somehow end up thinking about the guy next door again.
He looked like he belonged in one of those racing movies where the male lead barely speaks but somehow everyone falls in love with him anyway.
Definitely the "bad boy with emotional damage" type.
Which means he probably wouldn't survive five minutes around someone like me.
Too loud.
Too dramatic.
Too shiny.
I head to the kitchen or whatever part of the condo legally qualifies as one.
Inside my fridge:
sparkling water
half sad lemon
expired turkey slices
Fantastic.
I settle for instant coffee and sit near the window.
My reflection stares back at me from the glass.
Do I look like a failure?
Absolutely not.
Maybe I'm not famous yet, but I know I have presence. The kind that makes people stop scrolling, even if it's just to leave a mean comment.
I grab my phone again and check my latest post from a drama cameo.
My line was literally:
"Sir, he's waiting outside."
And honestly?
I delivered it with range.
The comments are chaos, as usual.
"Who is this starlet again?"
"More outfit than acting."
"Why is she kinda iconic though?"
I laugh.
Because the truth is, I don't hate the word starlet.
It means I'm still becoming something.
People noticed me.
That already counts.
I stand up dramatically.
"Okay, Elara," I announce to the empty condo. "Time to be productive."
Which mostly means:
reorganizing lipsticks
pretending I know how to cook
or filming myself looking busy
Then—
Knock knock.
I freeze.
Nobody knocks anymore unless it's important or attractive.
I rush to the door, trying to look casual.
Maybe it's him.
Mysterious neighbor.
Brooding racer-boy energy.
Sharp jawline.
Trust issues.
I open the door.
Not him.
It's the building manager holding a clipboard.
"Miss Zulueta, just informing you that your new neighbor in 1706 officially moved in today."
"Oh," I reply casually, as if I haven't already built three fictional backstories about him. "I noticed."
"He requested additional soundproofing for his unit," she continues. "Apparently, he uses racing simulators."
Racing simulators.
That explains the energy.
"Good to know," I say politely.
The moment she leaves, I shut the door and lean against it with a grin.
"Well," I whisper to myself, "a brooding racecar boy next door."
Could be worse.
Could've been an old man with twelve cats.