CeCe sits cross-legged on her bed with a phone in hand and a pounding heart. The chat box is open.
Philip Garcia.
The Philip Garcia.
And this isn’t some random DM or a reply to his public posts. This is Telegram. His personal number. The line between them? Direct. No assistants. No managers. Just Philip and CeCe.
Her thumbs hover over the keyboard.
“Alright, CeCe. This is it. No pressure. Just be smooth, charming and unforgettable. Okay? Cool. Cool.”
She takes a deep breath and types:
‘Good evening, Philip. I trust your day has been productive?’
She stares at it.
“I sound like an AI assistant.” DELETE.
‘Hey! Hope you’re having a splendid evening. Just wondering, are you a fan of classical literature? I recently revisited Tolstoy and…’
She squints.
“Who the hell is Tolstoy? WHY DID I TYPE THAT??”
DELETE.
‘I was reading about the economic shift in global markets and—’
STOP. STOP. STOP.
“GIRL. YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ECONOMICS.”
DELETE.
‘Hello! Do you believe in fate?’
She pauses.
Then winces.
“No, this sounds like I’m recruiting him into a cult.” DELETE.
She groans into her hands. “Why is this so hard?! Maybe I should search something interesting to talk about…”
Determined, she opens Google.
Her goal: Find an intellectual topic Philip might like.
What actually happens:
She opens TikTok.
She does what any normally functioning person with the attention span of a goldfish would do. One second, she’s about to search for ‘philosophical conversation starters.’ The next, she’s fifteen minutes deep into the dumbest videos ever.
Her thumb flicks up.
A girl trying to take a cute beach selfie but getting bodyslammed by a rogue wave.
CeCe snorts. One more.
A baby dramatically fake-crying because his mom wouldn’t let him eat dirt.
She wheezes.
Another scroll.
A guy confidently trying to backflip into a pool only to land flat on his face.
She loses it.
Her whole body trembles as her breath hitches in wheezy gasps. She slaps her thigh nearly choking on laughter as a dog aggressively side-eyes its owner.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen minutes.
“…Wait. What was I doing again?”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
By the time she remembers she was supposed to be researching deep intellectual conversations, she’s somehow knee-deep in a conspiracy theory about pigeons being government spies.
Her brain? Fried. Her soul? Gone.
Her reflection stares back at her from the phone screen, and for one terrifying moment, she realizes:
She is the problem.
“OH NO, NO, NO! WHAT AM I DOING?!”
She slaps her forehead.
I HAVE A MISSION. FOCUS, CECE!
In a panic she scrambles back to Telegram trying to remember what she was even supposed to be doing.
Philip’s chat is still open.
Her search bar still says: “philosophical conversation starters.”
Her thumb twitches.
Now in full panic mode, she hastily types:
'Hello! Do you believe in fate? Haha, just curious!'
SEND.
Her eyes widen. “WAIT. WHY DID I TYPE THAT AGAIN?!”
Panic surges through her. She lunges for the message, frantically tapping the screen. DELETE. DELETE. DELETE!
Her finger hovers over the “Delete for Everyone” option—
But then.
A second check appears.
She freezes.
She stares at the two gray check marks, her soul leaving her body. Message read.
She screams. Full-volume, banshee-level shrieking!
“SHUT UP! SOME OF US HAVE JOBS IN THE MORNING!” A muffled voice bellows through the wall from the apartment next door.
Hearing this, CeCe covered her mouth with her hand. Eyes wide. Blinking rapidly like a broken computer.
Her brain takes exactly three seconds to reboot.
Then as if she was shot, CeCe flops onto the floor with her arms spread out like a crime scene victim.
“He’s going to think I’m a freak! Definitely a freak. Ruined! I am RUINED!!”
CeCe cracked one eye open while the other squeezed shut as she peek at her screen. Maybe— just maybe— she hadn’t completely humiliated herself.
Her breath hitched.
[Philip is typing…]
CeCe BOLTS upright. Heart pounding. She grips her phone with both hands like it’s the last thing keeping her alive.
She waits. Anticipation builds.
And then.
Philip: Sure.
CeCe: ……
“WHAT THE HELL?!”
She stares at the screen, her eye twitching. Sure?! Sure, your mother!
Does he believe in fate? Does he not? Is he mocking her? He is mocking her, right? No. NO? Maybe he is agreeing with her? Is this his way of saying he thinks they’re fated to meet?
Two seconds pass.
She gasps. Her eyes widen like she’s discovered the cure to all human suffering. Slowly, a giddy laugh bubbles out of her turning into full-blown, lovestruck giggles.
''Philip, oh Philip.... I know, I know you believe in us! hahahaha!″
She jumps onto her bed, hugging her pillow and rolling side to side. Because— listen, he believes in fate ? he believes in US!
If he didn’t, he would’ve said no, right? He could’ve sent something soulless, like ‘I don’t know.’ Or worse, he could’ve just ignored her.
But he said sure.
Sure.
Which means it’s up to her to interpret. It’s the recipient who gives meaning to the message, therefore—
“He meant that we’re fated to be together.”
She nods to herself, satisfied with this flawless logic.
She taps her phone again, and TikTok is still open in the background.
The video currently playing? A cat wearing sunglasses, nodding to a beat.
CeCe stares.
Then, as if possessed—
She scrolls down.
And just like that, she’s gone again.
***
The set of The Final Clue was buzzing with quiet efficiency with crew members moving under the sweltering morning sun like clockwork. CeCe, however, was perfectly still— zoning out, staring at nothing in particular. She looked eerily obedient as she sat in her dressing lounge.
She hadn’t blinked in a while and if someone saw her like this, they might think she was in deep thought.
She was not.
She was just running on four hours of sleep and sheer willpower.
A cold cup was suddenly pressed into her hand.
“Here, before you turn into a statue.”
CeCe blinked for the first time in what felt like years and looked down. Iced coffee. Her lifeline. She sighed, giving the cup a lazy shake before taking a careful sip.
Ms. M watched her with the weariness of a mother dealing with a particularly dramatic child.
“Your under-eyes are so bad today.” Ms. M lamented. “You look one yawn away from being mistaken for an extra dead body.”
CeCe perked up. “Ooh, does that come with a bonus? Method acting isn’t cheap.”
Ms. M stared at her, unimpressed. “Yeah and a toe tag— on the house.”
CeCe waved a hand lazily. “Eh, not worth it. I’d rather take the paycheck.” She took another sip, sighing dramatically. “This industry really doesn’t reward dedication.”
Ms. M pinched her arm.
“Ow! Police brutality!” CeCe yelped, rubbing the spot.
“Too bad— you’re not filming yet, detective.”
CeCe stuck her tongue out playfully before leaning back in her chair with a smug look, habitually biting down on her straw.
“Have you noticed how oppressive this heat is? It’s unnatural. Cruel, even. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a conspiracy behind it. Global warming? Or perhaps... an inside job?”
“It’s just summer.”
CeCe ignored her. “We need something refreshing. Iced tea, maybe? Lots of it. For the crew. The heat is ruthless, like any second now, someone might drop. Do you really want that on your conscience, Ms. M?”
Ms. M crossed her arms. "So bribery through beverages?''
CeCe gasped, clutching her chest. “I’m not! Don’t wrong me. Clearly I’m doing this for me—I mean, I am—for them!” She cleared her throat. “...Wellness.”
''Yes, yes, no one’s doubting.''
''How about you say it like you believe me.''
''Heh...''
“I’ll order the iced tea!”
Ms. M laughed, shaking her head as she pulled out her phone to place the order. ''No need. I'll handle it.''
CeCe once again leaned back in her chair, basking in her small victory. She took a contented sip, letting the coolness soothe her.
But then, muffled voices drifted through the door, carrying over the hum of the set.
''—I just don’t get it. How did she land the lead role?''
CeCe’s brows lifted. Oh?
