16:55

(when the soul rejects its own fate)

1. in the paddock, beneath orange skies.

You’re laughing at something Lando said, the kind of laugh that makes you lean your whole body into it.

It’s too early in the morning for this kind of chaos, but he’s wearing two different shoes on purpose just to “test the team’s observation skills,” and you’re weak to that kind of stupid.

You barely notice Oscar walk in.

You only glance up mid-laugh and instinctively say, “Hey.”

It’s not warm or cold. Just a casual, passing 'Hey' tossed into the air like a coin. Oscar doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave.

He just nods, a tiny, barely-there tilt of his chin, and keeps walking. Doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t pause to greet Lando. Doesn’t even glance at you again.

You blink, your smile thinning just a little. You’re not sensitive, not really, but you’ve known Oscar long enough‐ long enough to know that he greets the engineers by name. He holds doors for people. He shares gum with Lando and trades barbs with Zak and somehow still has the energy to shake hands with PR interns.

You’ve seen him be warm. So when he passes you by without so much as a flicker of recognition, all you can think is: He doesn’t like me.

You don’t say it out loud. But Lando gives you a look like he heard the thought anyway.

“Don’t take it personally,” he says, patting a hand on your back.

You don’t answer. He adds, “He’s just like that sometimes.”

You hum. “Right. Like a sentient iceberg.”

“Exactly,” Lando says. Then, “Wait—” But your focus has already drifted.

Oscar’s disappeared around the corner of the garage, cool as anything, like your existence doesn’t register.

You don’t know it yet, but Oscar had walked in rehearsing a strategy debrief in his head. He hadn’t noticed the exact joke. Hadn’t caught the context.

Hadn’t registered the “Hey” as something meant for him, he’d assumed it was meant for someone behind him.

Still, he nodded. Just in case. Oscar Piastri always acknowledges what matters. And somehow, in that single, sharp second, you decide you’re not one of those things.

2. airport, at some ungodly hour

You spot him sitting two rows down from the charging station, sipping black coffee and reading something dense enough to qualify as medieval torture. His hair is still wet. There's a bag under his seat with a tag that says Priority, which feels metaphorical in ways you're not emotionally ready to explore.

You weren’t expecting him.

You were expecting, like... muffins. Delayed flights. Maybe a free toothbrush. But there he is, Oscar Piastri, unbothered and devastatingly upright at an ungodly hour, making you regret every life choice that led you to wearing Crocs in public.

You almost walk past. You do.

Almost.

“Didn’t know you read philosophy,” you say, dropping into the seat next to him like the universe put it there on purpose.

He looks up. Not startled. Not annoyed. Just... looking.

“It’s not philosophy. It’s a race engineering manual.”

You blink. “Wow. Even hotter.”

He doesn’t laugh. Not even a twitch. He just tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if that was sarcasm or a genuine compliment. You don't clarify. Mostly because you don't know either.

You shift in your seat. Pull your hoodie tighter. “Early flight?”

He glances at the screen. “Delayed.”

You nod, then immediately feel stupid for nodding at a fact he just gave you. You're one misplaced eyelash away from saying something like “Time is crazy, huh?”

He closes his book, not with frustration, just deliberate, and sets it on his knee.

“You always talk this much before 7 a.m.?”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“Jesus,” you say, light but not quite funny, “if you hate small talk just say that.”

He frowns. It’s subtle, like watching a shadow cross marble.

“I was just asking.”

But it’s too late. The words have already settled. Not hostile, not sharp, just... dry. Clinical. Like you’re an occurrence, not a presence. Like he’s not quite sure what to do with you, so he flattens you out with tone instead.

You smile, thin and automatic. “Well, lucky for you I’m boarding soon. You’ll be back to peace and silence in no time.”

You don’t wait for a reply.

You get up with a dramatic huff you pretend is playful.

Your croc squeaks. The final indignity.

He doesn’t stop you.

He doesn’t say anything.

You feel the bruise form just under your ribs anyway, dumb and soft.

As you leave, his eyebrows furrow in confusion, what was that?

3. a dinner reservation they technically didn’t make room for.

You're only here because Lando begged.

So here you are.

Actually, begged is the wrong word, he texted, “just come puh-lease” followed by seventeen emojis and a voice note of him making dolphin sounds.

Half wedged between a potted plant and a guy from strategy named Mark or Marc, you’re not sure. You’ve given up trying to remember which men in polos you’ve met more than once.

You didn’t expect Oscar to come.

Which is dumb. It’s a team dinner, technically. But he seems like the kind of person who evaporates after hours — like a very polite ghost with social boundaries.

He's at the far end of the table. You only notice him because you laugh too loud at one point and catch him glancing sideways, not in a "you're annoying" way. More in a "you're noise and I haven't decided what to do with that yet" way.

Later, between courses, someone brings up childhood injuries. You tell the story about the time you tried to do a backflip off a moving swing and cracked your wrist.

You’re dramatic with it. You always are — wide eyes, hand gestures, sound effects.

There’s laughter. You soak it in.

Then Oscar says, level, cutting clean through the noise:

“Makes sense now.”

The table falls quiet for a second.

You blink. “What?”

He’s sipping his drink. Doesn’t even look at you when he says,

“The way you are. It tracks.”

Your chest does this slow little drop, like a plane hitting air turbulence.

You laugh, sharp. “Sorry, are you diagnosing me using my origin story?”

Oscar shrugs. “No diagnosis. Just observation.”

You smile. Wide. Bright. Blinding. The kind of smile that makes people think you’re fine.

“Cool. Love being observed like a cautionary documentary.”

Someone else at the table changes the subject. You don’t join in.

Lando's concerned eyes shoot between you and Oscar, as he reaches for his phone and texts a

u good?

You keep your eyes on your plate, ignoring the buzzing phone and tear a piece of bread apart slowly, as if it personally insulted you.

Later, when you get up to leave, Oscar moves his chair slightly to let you pass.

You say nothing.

He doesn’t look up.

4. hotel lobby. too late for thinking straight.

You’re sitting on the armrest of a couch that costs more than your monthly rent, scrolling aimlessly through your phone while waiting for Lando to come down from his room. There’s soft jazz playing through invisible speakers, a fake plant that looks disturbingly lifelike, and one too many people with suitcases shaped like trauma.

Oscar walks into the lobby, carrying a bottle of water and wearing that expression he always has, like he just read something mildly disappointing about human civilization.

You don’t say anything.

Not because you’re mad. You’re not. You’re... calibrating.

After all, last time he called you a walking brain injury in front of twelve people. Not directly, maybe, but spiritually.

So yeah, you stay quiet.

But then he walks over.

To you.

Not the concierge desk. Not the glass doors. Not anywhere neutral.

You.

“You looked tired earlier,” he says, voice low. Almost gentle.

You blink up at him, halfway through typing 'pls bring me snacks or I’m eating hotel shampoo' into Lando’s texts.

“Excuse me?”

Oscar looks... calm. Open, even. “I meant—you okay?”

Your heart does a little misstep.

You look at him. Really look. His face is unreadable but his body language isn’t stiff. His water bottle is slightly crinkled in one hand. His hair’s still damp from a shower. His shirt looked like it was tucked in haphazardly.

For a second, a full, stupid, dangerous second, you think he might actually be being nice.

Then your brain, traitor that it is, rewinds:

You looked tired earlier.

You looked tired.

You looked... bad?

You plaster a smile on. “Wow. Flirting already?”

Oscar tilts his head, brow creasing faintly. “That wasn’t—”

“I mean, I usually get offered drinks before the insults start, but sure. Let’s go full honesty hour.”

He pauses. You think maybe he’ll clarify. Maybe he’ll correct you.

But instead, he just says, quiet:

“Right. Forget it.”

And he walks away.

Cool.

Cool cool cool cool.

You sit back down on the couch, teeth clenched in a smile like it’s holding up your whole face.

Lando texts you:

coming down now btw, don’t be weird

You don’t reply.

5. the wrong hallway, the right moment.

You take the wrong turn trying to find the bathroom and end up in a corridor that smells like floor polish and expensive stress. The lights overhead buzz softly, like even they don’t want to be here.

You’re mid-turnaround when you hear footsteps behind you. Precise. Familiar.

Oscar.

You recognize him before he says anything. You could probably recognize him from the way he breathes at this point, steady, measured, like he’s training for a sport no one else understands.

You half-laugh, half-sigh. “Okay, is this the part where you push me into a supply closet and finally tell me what crime I committed against you?”

He stops next to you. Doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look anything, really, just Oscar, all centered gravity and very faint cologne.

“You missed a turn,” he says instead. “Bathrooms are the other way.”

You blink. “You were following me?”

“Not on purpose,” he says, and that’s probably true, which somehow makes it worse.

There’s a pause.

You’re about to say something stupid like classic, or guess I’m just magnetic, when he lifts a hand, slow, deliberate, and reaches out toward your face.

You flinch. Just slightly. Instinct.

But he only taps your cheek, once, with his thumb.

“There was glitter.”

Your mouth forgets how to move.

He wipes his hand on his jeans. Calm. Normal. Like touching you was just a neutral, Tuesday-level event.

You stare at him. “What?”

Oscar tilts his head. “Your cheek. Sparkly.”

You blink again, like your brain is buffering. “Right. I was at a merch table earlier. Probably rubbed my face like a raccoon. Happens.”

Another silence.

This one longer. He’s still standing close. Not in a way that says intimate, exactly, but in a way that says he hasn’t left yet.

You try again. “You know, you’re very confusing.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

You gesture vaguely. “You... monitor my glitter levels but also make me feel like I’m annoying you with my breathing.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Not guilt. Not amusement. Something else.

He shifts just slightly closer.

“You’re not annoying.”

You blink. It’s too much, the voice, the proximity, the stupid fucking hallway.

You laugh. Light, deflecting. “That’s not what your face usually says.”

“Then maybe you don’t know how to read it.”

And that’s the moment you forget how to stand still.

Because that wasn’t dry. That wasn’t flat. That wasn’t neutral.

That was almost—

The sound of someone entering the hallway behind you breaks it.

Oscar steps back. Like it never happened.

You do too. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But your cheek still buzzes like it’s remembering the ghost of his thumb.

And you’ll go the rest of the night trying to convince yourself it meant nothing.

Even though for a second it meant everything

6. a balcony. too late. too quiet.

The afterparty’s still raging downstairs, all flashing lights and sweaty joy and some DJ yelling something you can’t make out over the bass. But you’re up here, on a balcony with one drink, aching feet, and your phone dead in your pocket like it gave up on your choices.

Oscar steps out not long after.

You glance sideways, expecting him to leave when he sees you. He doesn’t. He closes the door behind him and leans on the railing a few feet away.

The silence is thick, but not hostile. Just... real.

You break it first. Of course you do.

“I don’t get you.”

Oscar looks over, eyes unreadable. “That’s vague.”

You shrug. “You’re vague.”

He exhales, not annoyed, not amused. Just tired. “What do you mean?”

You lean your head back against the wall. “I mean... I never know if you’re being polite or trying to escape.”

“Why would I be trying to escape?”

“I don’t know, Oscar,” you say, too lightly, like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe I talk too much. Maybe I laugh too loud. Maybe you just don’t like people who make everything a joke.”

His silence stretches. He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say anything.

That’s the worst part.

Until he says, softly, like it hurts to admit-

“I notice you too much.”

You freeze.

Your heart short-circuits and restarts sideways.

“What?”

He’s still looking out over the railing. “You make noise in quiet places. That’s hard to ignore.”

That’s hard to ignore.

Your brain fumbles. You laugh, shaky. “Right. Like tinnitus.”

He furrows his eyebrows, and blinks, finally turning to look at you. “That’s not what I meant.”

You push off the wall before you can think better of it. “No, it’s fine. I get it. I’ve been called worse.”

“I didn’t—”

You’re already stepping back. “It’s cool, Oscar. Seriously. I’m very ignorable once you get used to it.”

He doesn’t stop you. And that—that—is what hurts more than anything he’s ever said.

You disappear back inside, into the noise and the bodies and the mess of it all, trying not to let the echo of “I notice you too much” feel like a wound.

7. a service hallway, after everything.

You bump into him on the way out.

Literally.

Oscar.

You’re rounding a corner at speed, trying to chase Lando’s voice through the post-race chaos, and then, thud, shoulder, hip, the soft slap of your phone hitting the floor. You curse. He steps back.

Of course.

He bends, picks up your phone, hands it back without a word.

You take it, trying to pretend your pulse isn’t in your ears. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t walk away. He just looks at you.

You almost say what, but something in his expression pins you in place.

It’s not blank.

Not bored.

Not neutral.

It’s...tight.

Controlled.

A fuse wound just short of its burn.

“You think I hate you.”

He says it like he’s been chewing on it for weeks.

You blink. “I-what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he says, still too quiet. “I say anything to you and you flinch like I’ve thrown something.”

You bristle. “Well, forgive me for not decoding the emotional Morse code of your entire personality.”

He laughs, short and sharp. “Jesus.”

You fold your arms. “What? You’re impossible to read, Oscar. You say one thing and mean another. You look at me like I’m noise, and then you say something half-kind and act like I’m the one getting it wrong.”

“Because you are,” he snaps.

That is what cuts.

Because he means it.

You freeze.

He takes a breath, steps forward. Not threatening. Just present.

“I tried being quiet. I tried being careful. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

You scoff, hurt creeping up your throat. “Overwhelm me? You act like I’m fragile.”

“No,” he cuts in, firm. “You act like I don’t feel anything.”

Silence.

You swallow. You open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it.

“I notice everything,” he says, and it’s low and furious and honest. “The way you stand closer to everyone else. The way you make jokes so no one asks what you're actually thinking. The way you look at me like you’re already halfway out the door.”

You stare. You’re not breathing.

He breaks off. Shakes his head once, like he’s mad at himself.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he says finally. Softer. “I was trying to make it mean something, and you-”

You say nothing. You’re still standing in the middle of the hallway, holding your phone like it’s proof you’re allowed to be here.

Oscar exhales. “Forget it.”

“Oscar.” You call out.

But he’s already walking away.

This time, he doesn’t look back.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

(when the soul understands what it yearns)

1. a hotel cinema room.

Lando dragged you both to movie night with the confidence of a man who thinks he invented bonding.

Fifteen minutes in, he wandered off to find something “better than this knock-off popcorn,” and now it’s just you and Oscar, slouched on a velvet couch meant for three, lit only by the flickering light of explosions and overpaid actors.

You’ve barely looked at him.

But you can feel it.

That… watching.

Like he’s checking to see if you still laugh at the same parts. If you’re still the same person when no one’s looking.

You are.

You hear it when he shifts. The breath he holds. The second too long before he blinks.

Somewhere between the third helicopter crash and a deeply unnecessary close-up, you let out a laugh, real, full, stupid. You already know it’s ugly. You don’t care. It feels good.

You don’t even look at him when you say,

“You’re staring.”

A beat.

“I know,” he says.

You turn your head, just enough to see him watching you without apology. No smirk. No defense.

Just there.

“You going to say something or just burn holes in my face?”

“You’re different when you’re not trying,” he says.

You blink.

Then:

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Oscar’s mouth twitches. “It’s the opposite.”

You don’t say thank you. You don’t blush. You don’t deflect.

You just let the silence stretch, easy now, warm, and go back to the movie.

Still aware of him.

Still letting him look.

And when Lando crashes in with two bags of gummy worms and a juice box, you don’t flinch. You just laugh again.

But now, Oscar doesn’t look away.

2. a hotel hallway. too many drinks. not enough distance.

You’re barefoot in the hallway outside your room, hotel keycard somewhere in the purse you left at dinner. Or maybe the bar. Or maybe hell.

Oscar appears from the elevator like a ghost you might have dreamed into being.

Plain hoodie. Shirt crinkled. Hair falling over his eyes.

The world feels slightly warped. Too late. Too quiet. Too something.

You lean against the wall and offer him a lazy salute, you think it must be the liquid courage. “Well, well, if it isn’t Formula One’s most emotionally constipated heartthrob.”

He blinks. “You okay?”

You grin. “Define okay.”

He doesn’t. Just walks past you, swipes his own keycard, then pauses at his door.

You think he’ll go in. He doesn’t.

Instead, he turns around.

“You’re locked out?”

You nod. “Temporarily. I’m trusting the universe to deliver me back to my belongings.”

Oscar considers this. Then steps back, holds his door open.

“You can wait in here.”

You blink. “I’m not going to rob you.”

“I know.”

“…Or touch your toothbrush.”

“Less certain about that.”

You snort and step inside.

His room smells like laundry and lemon soap. You sit on the edge of his bed like it’s a stage you weren’t supposed to enter. He tosses you a bottle of water from the minibar and sits at the other end.

No TV. No small talk. Just… the hum.

Your head tilts toward him. You’re not drunk anymore, not really. Just warm. Open.

“You ever gonna tell me what you want from me?”

Oscar doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile.

Just says, voice low,

“Would you believe me if I said I haven’t figured it out?”

You breathe in.

“No.”

He looks at you, and for the first time, he’s not a mirror or a wall. He’s just there. Barefaced and bold and so stupidly calm about all of it.

“Good,” he says finally. “Then you’re paying attention.”

You grin. Tired. Fond. “God, you’re so annoying.”

His smile is small but real. “You stayed.”

You nod. “I always do.”

And then it’s quiet again.

But not tense. Not cold.

Just… waiting.

And neither of you dares to break it yet.

Because whatever this is, it feels like home.

3. behind the paddock. a different kind of silence.

The day feels too long. The kind where the sun presses against your neck like it's trying to flatten you. Where the air tastes like sweat and tarmac and adrenaline that didn’t go anywhere.

You lean against the barrier, fingers curled over metal, body still, mind spiraling.

You hear him before you see him.

Not footsteps — just the way the noise dies a little around him.

Oscar.

You don’t turn around, but your grip tightens.

“You do this a lot,” he says, voice even. “Vanishing.”

You roll your eyes, not unkindly. “I’m not vanishing. I’m avoiding being a bitch on camera.”

He exhales a laugh — short, real. “Smart.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The heat between you isn't temperature. It’s all the things that haven’t been said, and all the ones that have been almost said too many times.

“Rough day?” he asks.

You shrug. “Just noisy. Even when it's quiet.”

Another beat of stillness.

“I get that.”

You finally glance at him, over your shoulder. He’s standing a few steps back, arms crossed like he’s holding himself steady. His eyes are on you, but softer than usual — like he’s dropped something invisible and fragile between you and isn’t sure what happens next.

“You make things louder too, you know,” he says.

You blink. “That supposed to be a read?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not a bad thing.”

You tilt your head. “You say that like you mean it.”

“I do.”

And just like that, everything sharp in you softens a little.

He steps closer. Not in a dramatic way. Just... like gravity finally decided to do its job.

You let your hand fall from the barrier.

His hand brushes yours. Not accident. Not strategy. Just... barely. Just enough.

And you don’t pull away.

You don’t need to ask what this is.

For the first time, you both already know.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You smoke out the window like it’s a ritual, watching the smoke curl up and disappear, the bitter drag of it filling the hollow parts you pretend don’t exist. The sky outside is dull, that late-winter grey that makes everything feel like it’s waiting for something to happen. Your inbox is full of unread emails, half-written assignments, and one string of voice notes from Hattie, each more dramatic than the last.

"I haven’t seen you in forever. Come visit me, please, I’ll die if you don’t—"

Then laughter. That sharp, untouchable kind of laughter that sounds like it belongs to people who aren’t tired like you. People like Hattie, whose orbit has always been bright and fast and full of noise.

You didn’t say no. Mostly because you didn’t have the energy to. Mostly because staying here another week, alone in this airless flat, feels like a worse kind of drowning.

You’re three days into ignoring your coursework. Two days into skipping meals on accident. One week into letting the dirty mugs stack up on your desk like some pathetic little monument to inertia. You know exactly what Hattie would say if she saw it. You can almost hear her voice in your head now, “Get up. Do something. Put on lipstick. We’re going out.”

You stub the cigarette out against the chipped brick of the window frame and watch the ash scatter like it’s trying to leave you too.

The thing is.....you miss her.

Hattie.

Her messy bedroom floor and her bad playlist choices and her habit of making everything feel urgent and impossible and alive. It’s been months since you’ve seen her. Since she hugged you too tight and told you she hated how small your wrists felt.

So when she begged you to visit, you said yes without thinking. Without asking who else might be there. Without giving yourself time to spiral about the possibility of running into—

No. You don’t go there.

You press the thought down like you’ve learned to press down every other stupid, sentimental, self-destructive thought.

This is about Hattie. About seeing her. About pretending you’re still capable of being someone who shows up for people.

The airport is exactly how you remember it: cold, too bright, and full of people pretending they’re going somewhere important. You move through it like a ghost, sneakers sticking on cheap tile, your backpack too heavy on one shoulder.

At security, you stand barefoot on the cold floor, arms out like a crime scene silhouette, while a stranger waves a plastic wand over your body like they’re trying to find something worth keeping.

The flight itself is short. Forgettable.

You sit by the window and let your headphones play the same three songs on repeat. Eyes on the clouds, fingers restless in your lap, heart doing that stupid, aching thing where it feels both too fast and too slow at once.

By the time you land, your phone’s at 9%, and Hattie’s already sent three texts:

"Where r u??"

"Do you want me to pick you up or are you getting a cab??"

"Also slight thing forgot to tell you something but lol nvm see you soon xoxo"

Your mouth twitched slightly, suppressing a slight smile. You don't reply.

You just grab your bag, sling it over one shoulder, and step out into the thick, summer heat of a city you haven’t been back to in over a year.

Not knowing that somewhere, across town, he’s already home too.

Hattie’s already waiting at arrivals when you step out, standing on top of a metal bench like she’s trying to summon an audience. She’s waving both arms like she’s directing air traffic, wearing sunglasses too big for her face and grinning like she’s just won something.

You pause for half a second at the sight of her—because no matter how tired you are, no matter how much your body feels like a half-charged phone, she still makes you smile like muscle memory.

"Oh my god, you’re alive!" she yells, way too loud for an airport.

A few strangers turn. You duck your head and walk faster.

She meets you halfway, launching herself at you with zero warning and enough force to make your carry-on bag swing off your shoulder.

"You smell like airplane and room freshener." she says into your hair, still hugging you like she doesn’t care that you’re awkward and stiff and slow to hug back.

"You smell like bad descisions and Red Bull." you mutter.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, fake-offended.

"Rude." she paused, gripping your forearms to pull you back in for another, "but not wrong."

The car she drives now is the same one she had back in high school.

A dented, sun-faded with a temperamental stereo and a cracked dashboard she once tried to cover with pokemon stickers. The passenger seat still leans too far back from that one night she let you crash there when you didn’t want to go home.

The seatbelt lock sticks. The air conditioning rattles like it’s got lungs full of dust.

But she drives it like it’s a chariot. Like every scrape on the paint is a badge of honor.

"Still haven’t gotten that fixed?" you ask, yanking at the stubborn seatbelt until it clicks.

"Charm, babe," she says, patting the dash like it’s a living thing. "This car’s got character."

She tosses your bag into the back with zero ceremony and climbs behind the wheel like she’s racing a countdown clock. The engine groans, then catches like it always does, like it’s trying one last time not to die on her.

"I got us snacks for the drive," she announces, grabbing a half-crushed bag of chips from the floor between her feet.

"Are they edible?"

"Debatable," she grins. "But it’s the thought that counts."

You settle in, letting the seat swallow you whole. The road stretches out in front of you, dust and sun and familiar turns you haven’t taken in far too long.

Hattie talks the whole way. About her classes. Her neighbors. The dog her mom’s thinking about adopting.

You let her comforting voice fill the car like music.

While you watch the sky shift from airport grey to something just slightly gold at the edges.

░░░░░░░ ✸

The drive is longer than you remember.

Or maybe it just feels that way because every street, every stretch of cracked pavement, carries something you’ve spent years trying to forget.

The closer you get to their house, the tighter your chest pulls.

The ghost of seventeen sitting shotgun with you, chewing on memories like gum you can’t spit out.

By the time Hattie pulls into the driveway, the sky’s bruised with late afternoon sun, and the house stands there looking exactly the same. Same chipped paint near the garage. Same uneven patch of grass near the mailbox. Same front steps where you sat one night with shaking hands and lungs too full of panic to breathe properly.

You blink hard, like that’ll stop the memories from clawing their way up your throat.

It doesn’t work.

Hattie’s already out of the car, grabbing your bag like it’s nothing, yelling over her shoulder about snacks and sun and how her mom made dessert just because you’re coming.

"Mum’s out, but she said to help yourself to snacks. Oh and if you break something, just blame me," Hattie’s said, already heading over to the house and kicking off her shoes.

You climb out slower, shoulders tight, heart heavy with nostalgia and another unknown emotion.

The air smells like summer and cut grass and something painfully familiar.

You barely get three steps toward the house when it happens.

A sharp blast of cold—sharp enough to steal your breath.

Water. Full-force. Right in the face.

You stumble back with a yelp, arms flailing, mouth open in shocked protest. Your shirt clings instantly to your skin, your shoes squelch against the driveway, and your hair drips into your eyes like the universe just slammed a bucket over your head.

It takes you two full seconds to realize what’s happening.

Another two seconds to process why.

And then—

You hear him.

"Shit-shit I'm so sorry."

You swipe water out of your eyes just in time to see him:

Oscar.

Standing a few meters away near the side of the house, holding a green garden hose like he’s just been caught committing a crime.

There’s a half-coiled mess of hose at his feet.

A patch of wet concrete where he was probably cleaning something… watering something… doing some dumb, harmless chore until you became collateral damage.

His face goes bright red.

Like full, sunburn-instantly kind of red.

He looks absolutely horrified—but also like he’s fighting the urge to laugh because the situation is objectively ridiculous.

"I—Jesus—I didn’t see you—"

He’s already fumbling to turn off the nozzle, stepping on the hose by accident, making the water spray even more before he finally gets it under control.

"I was—cleaning the patio! I didn’t—You—Wow, you’re… yeah. Properly soaked."

He scratches the back of his neck, awkward and sheepish and every bit the boy you remember, just… older now.

And The worst part, the truly stupid, gut-twisting part? Is that he dosent recognize you.

Your left hand instinctively twitches, just slightly.

Not even a flicker of recognition behind his smile.

Just that classic Oscar Piastri look of "haha oops my bad" mixed with "please someone end this social interaction immediately."

Hattie, from the porch, absolutely loses it laughing.

You stand there, dripping, heart in your throat, staring at the boy who saved your life once…

... Who also happens to be the one who just accidentally drowned you with a garden hose giving you a 'warm' welcome.

You blink at him.

Water dripping from your chin.

Your clothes sticking in all the worst places.

And for one stupid, self-destructive second, you consider saying his name.

Just to see if it lands.

Just to see if anything flickers in that clueless face of his.

But you don’t.

You’ve played this game before.

So instead, you force a breath through your lungs, swipe wet hair out of your eyes, and smile—tight and sarcastic and just a little feral at the edges.

"Cool. Love this. Really missed this climate change simulation experience," you say, gesturing down at yourself like a tragic weather report.

Oscar lets out this small, nervous laugh—too high, too boyish, like he doesn’t know where to put his hands or his eyes.

"Honestly… fair. That was—yeah. That’s on me," he says, already backing up a step like distance will make this less embarrassing for him. "Do you—uh—want a towel? Or…like… new clothes? I think Hattie’s got stuff? Or—"

"You think? Wow, very reassuring," you deadpan, but there’s no real heat in it.

Hattie’s still doubled over laughing from the porch.

"Bro I’m never letting you live this down," she wheezes at Oscar. Then, to you: "C’mon, come inside, I’ll get you something dry. You’re gonna catch a cold and it’ll be his fault, which honestly? Hilarious for me."

You follow her in.

Dripping the whole way.

Oscar stands there for a second longer, scratching the back of his neck, cheeks still pink, before finally turning back to whatever disaster project he was in the middle of.

Inside, the house is warm in that too-many-people, too-many-memories kind of way.

The air smells like whatever Hattie’s momz Nicole, was baking earlier.

There’s music playing faintly from someone’s phone speaker in another room.

Laughter from down the hall.

Normal.

Like that whole embarrassing, heart-stopping, water-soaked moment never even happened.

Hattie throws you a dry oversized hoodie and a pair of leggings, and you changed in the bathroom with your heart still racing in your throat.

You stare at yourself in the mirror for a second too long.

Hair damp and messy.

Neck flushed pink from sun and nerves.

You looked like a girl trying way too hard to look unbothered.

You roll your eyes at your reflection.

Stuff it all down.

Smile like none of this means anything at all.

When you step back out into the hallway, back into the noise, the laughter, the small talk.

You do it like you’re not drowning all over again

░░░░░░░ ✸

There’s clean laundry mixed with dirty laundry like they’re negotiating a peace treaty on the floor. Her desk’s buried under a pile of textbooks and skincare empties. Three different water bottles sit abandoned like ghosts of hydration attempts past.

You throw yourself dramatically onto her bed anyway, half-damp and still slightly cold from earlier. The oversized hoodie she gave you swallows your hands, sleeves hanging like emotional armor.

Hattie flops down next to you with all the grace of a dropped bowling ball.

"Sooo," she starts, already smiling way too wide. "How’s it feel to be back? Aside from the whole… accidental drowning thing."

You groan into her pillow. "Yeah, loving the full theme park experience. Got the welcome spray package and everything."

She laughs—loud, bright, no filter like always.

"Honestly? Worth the wait just to see your face when it hit you. Like, peak betrayal. If I’d had my phone out? I would have sent it to the group chat, they would have loved it."

You glare at her. "I hate you."

"You love me."

"Unfortunately."

You steal a gummy worm from the open bag near her nightstand like you’ve earned it.

You catch up in the lazy, sprawling way you always do.

You giving vague updates about uni that make your life sound way less lonely than it actually is.

Her complaining about the boys in her classes who look like 'sewer rats'.

She tell you about her most recent situationship—a disaster with a dude in her media studies group who thought 'boundaries' was a suggestion, not a rule.

It’s easy to fall back into this.

Like muscle memory.

Like you’re both still seventeen and none of the hard stuff ever happened.

And then, because Hattie can’t help herself, she drops it:

"Also, in case you somehow missed it... Oscar’s home for some time."

You snort.

Because obviously you knew.

"Yeah," you say casually, popping another gummy worm into your mouth. "Kinda figured when he turned the garden hose into a tactical weapon."

"God, I’m still laughing," she grins. "He’s helping Dad with the yard and stuff. I think it’s some weird post-season coping thing. Like… manual labor therapy? Or avoidance of sitting still for more than five minutes? Classic Oscar stuff."

You hum like you’re only half listening.

Even though your stomach does this stupid twist at the mention of him.

Hattie keeps going, all fond and oblivious.

"You’ll probably see him around. Just… ignore him if he’s weird. You know how he is. Social skills set to ‘buffering.’"

"Yeah," you say again, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it’s suddenly fascinating. "Not like I’m new to that."

Hattie doesn’t catch the double meaning.

Why would she?

To her, Oscar’s just her brother.

To you…

Well.

That’s a whole different story.

The house is dark.

That kind of late-night stillness that feels like it’s holding its breath.

Your phone screen says 4:07 AM, glowing pale and too bright in the dark.

Jetlag sits thick and restless in your body, too tired to sleep, too wired to stay still.

You’ve already flipped the pillow over twice. The blanket feels both too much and not enough.

By 4:12, you give up.

You shuffle through the hallway, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, socks making soft sounds against the floorboards.

The air smells like dust and eucalyptus and leftover summer heat trapped in old wood.

You’re halfway to the kitchen, bleary-eyed and more ghost than person, when you catch the faintest sound of running water ahead.

The fridge door’s open. Light spills across the floor and there he is.

Back turned at first. Shoulders hunched. Hoodie hanging loose off him like he got dressed in the dark.

His hair’s a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up wildly on the other, like sleep never sat still on him for long.

You stop in the doorway.

He moves like muscle memory—grabbing a glass, filling it at the sink with slow, lazy movements.

Till he finally turns.

Eyes lift.

Land on you.

For one too-long second, he just… blinks.

Like you startled him awake. Like it takes him a full heartbeat to register you standing there in Hattie’s ridiculous borrowed hoodie, with a 'not today' and a dog in a sunglass printed in front, hair slightly damp, looking as tired as you feel.

The fridge door clicks shut behind him.

Neither of you says anything.

Just…

Something heavy and strange and unnameable sits between you.

But you don't dare look away.

That look.

The air shifts.

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@cherierot 2025 all rights reserved

He noticed you before you noticed him.

Not because you were doing anything loud or obvious. If anything, it was the opposite.

You stood too still at the edge of the crosswalk. Like you’d forgotten how to exist.

Plastic bag in your hands. Shoulders drawn in like a folded angel's wings.

Not crying.

Not shaking.

Just…absent.

He wasn’t supposed to be paying attention. He had places to be. But there was something off in the air around you. The kind of off that made his stomach pull tight.

Then you stepped forward, too slow for the traffic, too fast for yourself.

He reacted.

A rushed step, and a hand on your sleeve.

"Wait—" The word came out breathless, half-formed, like his throat hadn’t caught up to his brain.

You stopped moving. Blinking slow. Like waking up underwater.

When your tired eyes finally lifted, you saw him properly for the first time.

Brown hair, messy and flattened unevenly at the sides like he’d been wearing a cap all day. A hoodie two sizes too big, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms like he’d gotten too warm walking. Cheeks flushed, either from running or from the sun or maybe just from being the kind of person who embarrasses easily.

He looked young and awkward. Also very much like someone who hadn’t thought any of this through.

His eyes were brown, but not the soft kind. They held too much in them. Like coffee left out too long. Like something restless that hadn’t figured out how to sit still. There was a sharpness there— surprise, guilt, panic, all layered on top of each other in a way that made you look away before you meant to. Like staring too long would make you visible again.

They flicked down to the plastic bag in your hands.

Charcoal.

Cheap vodka.

A lighter.

Something in his face shifted, fast and sharp, like a pulled muscle.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t speak again. Didn't need to. Just reached out and took the bag straight from you. Like it was burning your skin and he needed to put it out.

You didn’t fight him. Didn’t say a word. There he stood halfway between you and the curb—clutching your terrible, obvious, heartbreaking bag like he had no idea what to do next.

You both stood there. Frozen in that weird pocket of time where no one else seemed to exist.

He quickly dug through his hoodie pocket. Pulled out a crumpled fan photo of himself and a black pen and signed it fast, hand shaky, added something like “Hang in there” underneath that looked more like 'Hang nthr' and a small, uneven smiley face.

He shoved it, and a few messy bills, into your hands like it was a fix-it kit for strangers.

Then he turned. Walked away. Fast. Like if he stayed even one more second, he’d implode on the spot.

When he walked two steps more it hit him all at once.

The bag still hanging from his hands like evidence. The weight of what was inside finally catching up to him, and the way he’d just… taken it.

Like a weirdo. Like some awkward, nosy stranger who didn’t know how to mind his own business.

His stomach twisted with that particular flavor of secondhand shame that only comes when you act too fast and too loud for a situation that never asked for you.

He glanced back over his shoulder, heart in his throat, ready to catch your eye, ready to stammer out some kind of apology—But you weren’t there.

Gone.

Like the whole thing hadn’t happened at all.

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'L’univers a une façon étrange de lier les âmes qui doivent se trouver.'

The universe has a strange way of tying souls that are meant to find each other

Or atleast that’s what he tells himself now.

When he wakes up gasping at 3AM, still tasting her life on his tongue, the nights when sleep didn’t come, when his hands shook for reasons he couldn’t name, when he stood in the middle of a city street and felt like something, somewhere, was missing.

It hadn’t started as something beautiful or romantic.

It had started messy and with confusion.

Waking up two years behind his life, in a room that wasn’t his, in a body that wasn’t his own.

Different air, different light, different heart beating under his skin.

At first, he thought he was dreaming.

Then the notes started showing up. Scribbled on paper. On mirrors. On skin, when they ran out of time.

Sticky tape confessions and tired, late-night apologies.

He learned the sound of her laugh before he knew her full name.

Learned the shape of her face before he knew her favorite colour, and somewhere between the forgotten mornings and fading memories, he started to care.

It became routine. This messy, borrowed closeness.

One day he was Charles Leclerc, driver, public figure, perfectly on schedule.

The next, he was someone else entirely, someone softer, messier, quieter, someone living in 2021 like the world wasn’t already falling apart.

But time had rules.

The universe had its countdown.

The gaps between them grew wider.

The memories blurred faster.

Her name—God, her name—slipped through his fingers like water.

By the time he realized what was happening, by the time he pieced together the date circled in red on every invisible timeline…

It was already too late.

Yet, even now, standing in her hometown with her favorite pastry in his hands and grief sitting heavy in his throat…

He still believed it, deep down, stupid and stubborn as always:

That if two people were meant to find each other…

They would.

No matter how many years it took.

@cherierot 2025 all rights reserved

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✹chapter zero! : ex nihilo

✹chapter one! : sub rosa

✹chapter two!

✹chapter three!

✹chapter four!

✹chapter five!

✹chapter six!

✹chapter seven

✹chapter eight!

✹chapter nine!

✹chapter ten!