Mon

Driver Playlist 🏁

Formula 1 : The Fast Life

Max Verstappen : Emilian

Charles Leclerc : Marc Herve

George Russell : William

Oscar Piastri : Jack

Lando Norris : Lando Norris; a villain arc

F1 Grid

⏳Soul Switch Series

Carlos Sainz Jr. | CS55

To be written

Charles Leclerc | CL16

🕰️ Burnt pan shenanigans

🕰️ Hunting Affections (with MV1)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Epilogue

🕰️ Initial Start

🕰️ So Unaware

🕰️ I’m your what?

🕰️ Was it all a dream

🕰️ Favored by God

🕰️ In Between the Lyrics

🕰️ Part 2

Daniel Ricciardo | DR3

To be written

George Russell | GR63

🕰️ I hate you, right?

🕰️ Caffeine of Choice

Logan Sergeant | LS2

To be written

Lando Norris | LN4

🕰️ A Rivalry Misunderstood

🕰️ Lunch Preferences

🕰️ Part 2: After Lunch Snacks

🕰️ Are you my Sugar Mommy?

🕰️ Caffein of Choice

🕰️Off Track Pace (with MV1)

🕰️ Part 2: Gear Shift Failure

🕰️ Off Time

🕰️ On the Defence

🕰️ Playing Offense

🕰️ The Tip Off (with MV1)

⏳Business Politics

Lewis Hamilton | LH44

⏳Clash of Champions (with MV1) - on hold

Prelude

Act 1

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Act 2

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Max Verstappen | MV1

🕰️ Hunting Affections (with CL16)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Epilogue

⏳ Clash of Champions (with LH44) - on hold

Prelude

Act 1

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Act 2

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

🕰️ Off Track Pace (with LN4)

🕰️ Part 2 : Gear Shift Failure

🕰️ The Tip Off (Off Time Spin Off; With LN4)

🕰️ Take my Advice

Oscar Piastri | OP81

🕰️ Choking on Eclairs

⏳ Not Over the Papaya : Series Masterlist

***

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***

It was a quiet evening in Paris. The kind that usually calmed you—the streets glowing gold, the windows soft with candlelight, music humming from some distant café.

But tonight? You couldn’t breathe.

It had started as a flicker. Another lyric you couldn’t finish. A headline you didn’t mean to read. A message from a fan that called you “the queen of heartbreak” like it was a crown instead of a wound.

You stared at the words on the screen of your phone, and something inside you clenched. Was that all you were now?

A girl who wrote grief like gospel? Who sang sorrow and rage so well you’d forgotten how to feel anything else?

You didn’t call Charles. But he came anyway.

He had a layover in Paris and texted you out of habit, and you didn't reply. So he just showed up—with dinner and a quiet knock.

You opened the door, red-eyed, silent. He didn’t ask. He simply stepped inside, placed the food down, and sat beside you on the couch like he belonged there.

Which, somehow… he did.

After a long stretch of silence, you finally whispered it. The words that your thoughts kept feeding you since the beginning

“I don’t know if I can love again.”

He didn’t move.

“Not just you,” you rushed to say, cheeks flushed.

“I mean—anyone. Ever. I think I broke that part of me. Or maybe it never worked right to begin with. Maybe I’m just better at writing about love than feeling it.”

Your voice cracked, quiet and sharp.

“I don't want to be afraid of it, Charles. I just am.”

He looked at you—really looked at you. Not like a person who needed fixing. But like a painting that still made sense, even with smudges and chipped corners.

“you’re already loving.” he said gently

You blinked. “What?”

“You just do it differently now. Slower. More carefully. But it’s there.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“You show up for people. You remember the songs I send you. You write lullabies in the middle of the night because I called you once and couldn’t speak.”

“That’s not love,” you whispered, voice breaking in the middle

“Isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer. So he continued, voice softer than you’d ever heard it

“You’re not numb. You’re trying. That’s love. You just haven’t realized yet that it doesn’t have to look like the kind you used to know.”

You cried then. Not the explosive kind—just soft, steady tears that slipped down your cheeks without drama or apology.

Charles reached out, took your hand, and held it in his lap. No promises, no expectations, just presence.

And it was enough.

Later, you sat together shoulder to shoulder on your living room floor, picking at cold pasta and watching the candles flicker.

You turned to him and said, almost too quiet to hear

“Thank you. For reminding me I’m not broken.”

“You never were,” he replied, without missing a beat. “You just loved someone who didn’t deserve the way you loved.”

That night, you sent him a voice note. Not a song. Just your voice.

“I think I want to write something about learning to feel again. Not being ready… but being willing.”

And he replied

“That’s already a love song. Even if it doesn’t sound like one yet.”

Sparks Fly

It started as a hum.

Not sad. Not angry. Just… restless. Something in your chest like thunder behind the ribs. Not loud enough to break it open—just enough to keep you awake.

You sat at your desk, legs curled beneath you, scribbling on the back of a receipt because your notebook was full and you didn’t want to stop.

You’d written eight lines already.

No chorus yet, no heartbreak, just feeling. And that was new.

"The way you move is like a full on rainstorm And I'm a house of cards You're the kind of reckless that should send me running But I kinda know that I won't get far

And you stood there in front of me just Close enough to touch Close enough to hope you couldn't see What I was thinking of"

That night, you pulled out your guitar and began to piece it together—line by line, letting your voice carry something you hadn’t allowed in months

Anticipation.

Curiosity.

Desire.

Not for the past. Not for Jude. But for what might be next.

"Drop everything now Meet me in the pouring rain Kiss me on the sidewalk Take away the pain 'Cause I see sparks fly, whenever you smile

Get me with those green eyes, baby As the lights go down Gimme something that'll haunt me when you're not around 'Cause I see sparks fly, whenever you smile"

You didn’t know where the lyrics came from. But they fit. They burned you in the most thrilling way. And you didn’t picture anyone when you sang them.

Not until—

Not until you remembered the way Charles looked at you when you sang lullabies.The way he listened with his whole self. The way he didn’t rush, or expect, or ask for more than you was ready to give.

The way his fingertips brushed yours like they knew the song before you played it.

You blinked and your heart skipped. And suddenly, you wrote more.

"I run my fingers through your hair And watch the lights go wild Just keep on keeping your eyes on me It's just wrong enough to make it feel right And lead me up the staircase Won't you whisper soft and slow I'm captivated by you, baby Like a fireworks show"

You gasped out a laugh—breathless. Not because you were in love. But because you could be. One day. And that? That was enough.

You didn’t send the song to Charles.

Instead, you posted a single line to your Instagram story, black text on a white screen

“Cause I see sparks fly whenever you smile"

It trended in under an hour.

Fans speculated. Writers scrambled. Was it about Jude? Was it a new romance?

But you didn’t answer. You weren't ready to explain it. Because it wasn’t about them.

It was about Charles, it was about you—

Feeling something new. And for the first time in a very, very long time. That was enough to write about.

Sparks Fly: Live

Charles wasn’t supposed to hear it. Not yet, not like this.

But there it was—playing faintly through someone’s phone on the edge of the paddock. A low-quality recording, taken during a late-night open mic in Montmartre. The crowd was soft, quiet. Reverent.

Then came your voice, clear, velvet, and bare.

And Charles froze.

He knew that voice better than his own breath. He stood under the team awning, helmet still in hand, while the world bustled around him. Mechanics shouting. Tyres being swapped. Radios crackling.

But none of it mattered. Not when you were singing—on a stranger’s Instagram feed, tagged only with

“Unreleased and she sang it live! She called it ‘Sparks Fly.’ I think I’m in love with this version of her.”

He turned up the volume.

"And you stood there in front of me just Close enough to touch Close enough to hope you couldn't see What I was thinking of"

His grip tightened.

Because it didn’t sound like the heartbreak songs. Didn’t bleed like the others.

This one was achingly soft. Full of unspoken want. Hesitation dressed in wonder.

"Get me with those green eyes, baby As the lights go down Gimme something that'll haunt me when you're not around 'Cause I see sparks fly, whenever you smile"

Charles didn’t realize his chest had gone still until the breath escaped him.

Was that… about him?

He didn’t want to assume. Didn’t want to hope—because hoping hurt when it wasn’t returned.

But he remembered—

The night you sang him to sleep. The time you took his hand and didn’t let go. The way your head fit against his shoulder like it had always belonged there.

He remembered how you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t watching.

And suddenly—

The lyrics didn’t feel like fiction. They felt like your fingers tracing the edge of his name without saying it.

Later that night, he found himself standing in front of your apartment again. He hadn’t told you he was coming.

He just needed to see you. Not to demand answers. Not to make it more than it was. Just to be there.

You opened the door in a hoodie and socks, hair messy, eyes wide with surprise.

“You okay?” You asked, stepping back instinctively to let him in.

He nodded. Swallowed. Hesitated.

“I heard the song.”

You blinked as your face paled slightly. “Oh.”

“Not on purpose,” he added quickly. “It was someone’s story. At the track.”

You looked away, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I wasn’t going to send it yet. It’s not finished.”

He stepped closer, voice soft. “I think it is.”

You met his gaze then—unsure. Cautious. Exposed.

“I'm not ready yet, I'm still scared” you said.

“I know,” he agreed. “But it’s something.”

And that was the first time you looked at each other like you might one day become more.

Not now. Not yet, still. But maybe.

Just… maybe.

You sat on the couch, knees brushing, the city humming beyond the window. You let your head rest on his shoulder and let his thumb trace the back of your hand.

And in that moment, with no promises, no pressure— you simply existed together.

Two people on the edge of something new.

Right There

It started as a half-joke, another round of texts

Charles:

“Come to Silverstone. Bring the song you won’t show me.”

You:

“What, so I can sit in the paddock and sulk in your hoodie like a groupie?”

Charles:

“You already do that. Now just do it in the UK.”

You didn’t say yes. Not directly.

But a few days later, you sent him a photo of your suitcase on the airport floor, captioned

“Packed light. Brought the lyrics.”

And his heart stuttered harder than it had on any starting grid.

He wasn’t nervous. Not at first. Charles Leclerc had driven in rain, through chaos, through fire and fame. He’d stood on podiums with a cracked rib and a smile.

But when he saw you step into the paddock— not as a friend... but something more.

Hair up and lanyard swinging. That same Ferrari red hoodie half-zipped over your sundress like you didn’t realize it still smelled like his cologne—

He felt his hands go cold inside his gloves.

“Don’t crash just because I look good in your jacket,” you said, sidling up beside him before FP1.

He grinned, but it was tight. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You’re the one watching me when you’re the one in a fireproof onesie, darling.”

And that was it. That soft punch of familiarity that undid him every time.

You made him forget the cameras. The pressure. The expectation to always be composed.

But that’s exactly why he felt like he was walking a tightrope.

He wasn’t scared you’d distract him. He was scared you’d see too much.

See how much he wanted you to be proud. How much he wanted you to stay. How much it mattered, the way your eyes found him before the lights went out.

You weren't a fan. You weren't an accessory. You were you.

And you were here. For him.

And that was suddenly more terrifying than pole position.

The race came and went in a blur of speed and thunder. Charles drove well—but it wasn’t his best. Not because he lacked focus.

Because he was feeling everything too loudly. Every mistake stung sharper, knowing you were watching. Every overtake felt like it carried something personal.

When he crossed the line in P3, the relief was near dizzying. Not because of the points, but because you were waiting for him in the garage, arms crossed, grinning like he’d just won the whole damn championship.

“You didn’t crash,” you grinned

He pulled off his helmet, face flushed. “I almost did. Twice.”

Your brows lifted. “Really?”

“I kept thinking about what song you were writing.”

You tilted her head, chuckling. “You’re insane, nerd”

“I know.”

You paused, then reached out—just for a second—and brushed a thumb under his jaw, where a streak of sweat had dripped.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t supposed to be… Not really. But his pulse forgot how to behave.

Later, in the motorhome, when the team was celebrating and he finally had a second to breathe, he found you curled up on the couch with your notebook again.

You looked up when he walked in. “I wrote something.”

He sank beside you, suddenly more nervous than he’d been on the final lap.

You tore out a page and handed it over.

"You should know I'm never gonna change I'm always gonna stay You call for me, I'm right there (right there) Right there (right there)"

Charles read it twice. Then looked at you.

“I think I’m already slowing down,” he whispered.

You blinked. “Is that a bad thing?” He shook his head.

“Not if you’re at the finish line.”

You didn’t kiss. But he took your hand that night—and he never let go once.

And when you laced your fingers through his and squeezed? It didn’t feel like a promise. It felt like a possibility.

Be My Baby

It didn’t hit you all at once.

It crept in, quietly.

Between lazy mornings with Charles on FaceTime— with you half across the world, between half-finished coffee and half-baked lyrics, between the warmth of his voice in your ears and the way your fingers itched for the guitar every time he smiled at you.

You were humming more. Smiling without thinking. Folding your laundry while swaying to music that sounded suspiciously like flirting.

But you didn’t realize it until—

You flipped to the last page of your lyric notebook and saw what you'd written sometime the night before:

"If you know how to treat me, you know how to touch me Baby, then you'll get the chance, the chance to love me It's obvious, I want to be into you But it all depends on all the things you do"

You stared at it. Then blinked twice and then froze. Not because it scared you— But because it didn’t.

Instead, your cheeks went warm, your stomach flipped. And something near your ribs sparked like a lighter on the verge of flame.

Oh.

Oh, hell.

You tried to play it cool. Really, you did.

But that afternoon you caught yourself humming Tate Mcrae's “I Know Love” while stirring your tea, doing tiny shoulder bops, and smiling like you’d been cast in a cheesy romance montage.

You once again took your notebook filled to the brim with lyrics and wrote down

"I'll give you all of my trust if you don't mess this up You ain't tryna get no other girls when you in the club All you got is eyes for me I'm the only girl you see"

You laughed out loud, alone, in your kitchen, twirling around wearing Charles' shirt.

“Holy Shit” you muttered to yourself, grinning like a fool. “I’m so done for.”

It wasn’t just a crush. It wasn’t some rebound fantasy. It was genuine. Organic. The kind of affection that grew out of midnight silence and early morning text messages that said “you okay?” and meant “I care deeply, even when you don’t say a word.”

It was real. And it made you giddy and you liked it.

You called your manager that evening and postponed your next recording session.

“I need a few days.” you said, a smile escaping your lips

“Writer’s block?”

“Not exactly,” you said, biting her lip. “More like… love song overload.”

“What?”

“Don’t ask. I’m still processing it.”

That night, you pulled out your guitar and started turning those scribbled lines into melody.

This time It wasn’t heartbreak, it wasn’t rage.

It was flirtatious. Breezy. Warm.

A soft pop kiss of a song that made you want to wear lip gloss and slow-dance barefoot in a kitchen. It didn’t feel like your usual sound.

It felt like spring meets summer and Charles cooling it off like winter.

You didn’t send the demo to Charles. But you did send him a photo. Your flushed face and guitar in her lap. And a caption

“You’ve ruined me. I’m writing songs that sound like blushes.”

He replied with a voice note.

“You don’t know how hard it is not to ask you to sing it. Right now. Right here.”

And you laughed—bright and breathless.

“Maybe. Someday.”

You didn't say no. Not this time. Because you weren't afraid anymore. You were blushing. You were falling—and you weren't trying to stop it.

The Way

You dropped it without warning, again.

Still no teaser, no promo campaign, and no press interview. Just one post—black background, white text.

“Out now. No more hiding.”

The link led to two tracks.

“The Way” and "Be my Baby"

The cover art was soft—blurry lights and a silhouette of someone standing just out of frame, arms crossed, head tilted, like they were listening.

Within thirty minutes, it hit #1 on iTunes in twelve countries.

Within an hour, fans were sobbing on TikTok, screaming on Twitter, texting each other in all caps:

“IS THIS ABOUT HIM???” “SHE’S IN LOVE. FULL CAPS LOVE.” “NO BUT LIKE—THE LYRICS???” “SHE JUST ANNOUNCED HER HEART TO THE WORLD”

Charles was in the simulator when he found out.

The first message came from Pierre.

Pierre:“Check Spotify, Romeo.”

Then Lando.

Lando:“Bro. BRO.”

And then his brother.

Arthur:“Tell me you’ve heard it. Tell me it’s you.”

He pulled off the headset, heart suddenly pounding faster than it had all day. He didn’t open Spotify. He went straight to your page.

And there it was. Two new songs. Two million streams. Thousands of comments saying your voice sounds like love.

He hit play. And the world stopped.

"So don't you worry, baby, you got me I got a bad boy, I must admit it (Hey) You got my heart, don't know how you did it (Hey) And I don't care who sees it, babe I don't wanna hide the way I feel when you're next to me (Hey)

I love the way (I love the way you make me feel) I love the way (I love it, I love it) Baby, I love the way (I love the way you make me feel) Ooh, I love the way (I love it, I love it) The way you love me"

You didn’t hide it behind metaphors this time. It wasn’t veiled in heartbreak or healing. This was pure light. This was happiness—unfiltered, unapologetic and it sounded like your smile.

"Be your lover, your friend, you'll find it all in me Stay by your side, I'll never leave you Said I ain't going nowhere 'cause you're a keeper"

Charles sat down hard on the edge of the bench in the simulator room, headphones in, head in his hands. Because you didn’t say his name... you didn’t have to.

It was in the details— The lyric about the soft hoodie you never gave back. The way you referenced Silverstone in the second verse and the line that said.

"You got my heart, don't know how you did it (Hey) And I don't care who sees it, babe"

He knew. And the fact that he was hearing it with everyone else?

It wrecked him. Not because he was hurt. But because he realized just how brave you were and just how much he wanted to be yours too.

He tried calling. You didn’t pick up. He tried again. Nothing. And maybe that was fair. Because this time—this moment it was about you choosing to be loud about your heart after years of silence.

Meanwhile, you?

You were on your rooftop in Paris, legs swinging over the edge, phone turned off.

Smiling.

Because for once, you didn’t care about the response. Didn’t need the world to validate it. Didn’t even need him to say anything.

You had spoken your truth and your heart. And that was more than enough.

But still— When you finally turned your phone back on three hours later, the first message that lit up your screen read

Charles:

“You didn’t say my name. But I’ve never felt more seen.”

Charles:

“that was the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Charles:

“I don’t know if I’m ready to say it yet. But I feel it. I feel all of it.”

You cried, softly. Quietly. Not because you were heartbroken. But because you were finally whole.

Fearless

Charles didn’t remember the flight. Didn’t remember packing. Didn’t remember telling the team he was leaving.

All he remembered was the song. Your voice. The way you sang “I love it, I love it…”Like you meant it in a thousand different ways.

And that he hadn’t kissed you yet. That was the part that undid him.

It was raining again in Paris. Of course it was.

He stood outside your apartment, drenched, hoodie clinging to his skin, chest tight with everything he hadn’t said.

No plan. Just one truth burning through him

He loved you.

Maybe not in a neatly packaged, perfectly timed way. But in the real way. The kind that starts slow, builds soft, and then suddenly swallows you whole.

He didn’t knock like he had the right answers. He knocked because he needed you.

You opened the door in leggings and an oversized tee, mouth opening in surprise—

But you never got the words out.

Because Charles stepped forward. His hands found your jaw.

And kissed you.

Not like a movie. Not like a goodbye. He kissed you like someone who had waited long enough, like someone who waited far too long. His hands cradled your nape, rain still dripping down his brow, lips pressing into yours like he’d been holding that breath since the moment you sang his name without saying it.

You gasped, then melted. Logic gone.

Just yes. Yes to this. Yes to him.

When he finally pulled back, eyes locked with you, he whispered—

“Hi.”

Your voice was unsteady, but a smile was growing on your lips “Hi.”

“I listened to the song,” he said, forehead resting against yours. “And I thought, If she’s brave enough to feel this out loud…”

“I didn’t do it to force you to say anything,” you murmured, still breathless.

“I know.” He smiled.

“That’s why I had to.”

You sat on the floor after that. Wet clothes, forgotten shoes, tangled limbs.

He played a few chords on your guitar, awkward and unsure. You laughed. Tuned it. Handed it back.

“Write with me,” You said.

He looked at you, eyes soft, thinking… You weren’t scared anymore. Not of love. Not of him.

And so—he nodded.

“I don’t know the words yet,” he admitted.

“You don’t need them,” you said softly. “Just be here.”

And that night, for the first time, you wrote a song together.

No heartbreak. No holding back. Just honesty.

It didn’t rhyme at first. It didn’t flow. But you two were smiling and just there.

And the music? The music understood.

“So baby drive slow 'Til we run out of road in this one horse town I wanna stay right here in this passenger seat You put your eyes on me In this moment now capture it, remember it

'Cause I don't know how it gets better than this You take my hand and drag me head first Fearless And I don't know why But with you I'd dance in a storm  In my best dress Fearless Oh, oh

Well you stood there with me in the doorway My hands shake I'm not usually this way but You pull me in and I'm a little more brave It's the first kiss, it's flawless, really something, it's fearless"

The Encore

The arena was sold out months in advance. No surprise there.

But the buzz in the air? That was new.

This wasn't a heartbreak tour. This wasn’t the old you who sang “good 4 you” like a curse or whispered “Consequences” through tears.

No, tonight was different. Your fans knew it. They wore soft pastels instead of black. Flowers in their hair instead of eyeliner like war paint. They brought signs that read:

“I survived because you sang.” “You found love and we found hope.” “Your journey >>>>”

And somewhere in the VVIP sections, unnoticed by most—hidden under a baseball cap and flanked by two security guards—Charles Leclerc sat with his phone in one hand and your guitar pick in the other, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.

This was your night. And he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Backstage, you stood barefoot. Not nervous, but ready.

You looked in the mirror at a version of yourself you hadn’t seen in years: cheeks flushed, eyes bright—not from crying, but from feeling alive.

You whispered to yourself,

“Let’s sing it all. The heartbreak. The fall. The getting back up. And the boy who stayed.”

The lights dimmed. The crowd screamed.

Then—

A single spotlight.

And then You.

You opened the show with the song that started it all— “feel like shit.”

But this time, you smiled at the crowd after the last line.

“Bet you didn’t think I’d make it past that one, huh?”

The audience erupted.

Then came “decode”, your voice was strong, piercing—painful still, but owned now.

Followed by “Consequences”, and “Lose You To Love Me”—each note like another mile down the road you’d walked to get here.

The arena wept, again. But it wasn’t mourning anymore. It was gratitude. Midway through the show, you sat on a stool.

Unscripted. Unfiltered.

“I used to think heartbreak was my whole story. But turns out, it was just the first verse.”

The crowd cheered.

“I wrote songs to survive. I wrote songs to breathe. But then someone came along and reminded me that I could write for joy, too.”

You looked toward the arena. You couldn’t see him through the blinding lights. But you felt him.

Then you began strumming the guitar. The entire arena felt the shift in you. They saw the glow.

The lights turned warm, golden.

And you sang “Sparks Fly”, this time with Charles in the crowd

"Drop everything now Meet me in the pouring rain Kiss me on the sidewalk Take away the pain 'Cause I see sparks fly, whenever you smile"

The crowd sang along—word-perfect, loud, electric.

Charles had never smiled so hard in public. His eyes were glassy. Because this was for him. You were for him.

And he knew it.

Then, the lights cut out.

One more song. Unreleased. Unannounced.

A hush fell.

You stepped forward, voice steady.

“This one’s about the person who DM’d me when the world forgot I was human.”

Everyone knew.

“You saw me when I couldn’t stand Held me up with just your hand Loved me without a single demand…”

“You watched me rise, watched me burn Stayed when there was no return I sang to live— But you? You made me sing to love again.”

The song ended. The arena exploded.

And in that moment, every person was sure

You’d been in love before, but not like this. Love had touched you once—but this wasn’t that. This was new. This was deeper.

You were In love once more,

Not with fame. Not with her past.

But with a boy from Monaco who listened when no one else did.

***

Somewhere in Spain, Jude scrolled through clips of the concert on his phone. Muted. Alone.

His teammates’ wives whispered about how they couldn’t get tickets. How the show was legendary. How your boyfriend looked at you like you hung the moon.

Jude tossed the phone onto the bed, face unreadable.

Because deep down, he knew:

You were never going to write another song about him.

And that stung more than all the ones you had.

Fin

Feel Like Shit

You never wanted to be the girlfriend.

Not the girl tagged in photos just for standing next to him, not the one asked “what does Jude think?” at every red carpet, not the one accused of chasing clout just for daring to exist in his orbit.

But it was hard, wasn’t it? Loving someone who shined like the sun and never noticing that you were melting beside him.

You broke up in April. Quietly. No posts. No statements. No scandals.

He sent a simple text. “I can’t do this anymore. Let’s end it”

And you replied, “Okay.”

Because you had said everything else before. This was the last thing you could give him. Silence.

And then you went home. Locked yourself in the small, mismatched flat your brother used as an art studio and cried until your voice broke. But you started writing.

You had a thousand songs tucked in voice memos and old notebooks. Little melodies scribbled between press tours and training camps. Lyrics he never heard. Not because you were ashamed of them—no, but because you weren’t allowed to share, not in your name anyway. Instead you sold them to artists who could.

“Don’t want people to think you’re riding my name,” Jude had said once, offhandedly. “You’re so talented, but… it might look bad if you drop your own music now.”

So you never did. Not after he signed for Madrid. Not when the label you wrote for offered you a small EP deal. Not when you could have used it to finally step out of his shadow.

But now?

Now there was nothing left to hold you back. You recorded the song in one take. Just a piano. Just you. And a raw, raspy voice that still sounded like heartbreak.

“Really thought I'd be done with the hardest part

When I pulled myself out of your arms

Wish I knew that was only the start”

You titled it “Feel Like Shit” — a brutal, unflinching choice.

You uploaded it quietly. No promo. No hype. Just a caption: “For anyone who gave everything and still lost.”

And with that, you turned off of your phone.By the next morning, it had five million streams. By the afternoon, it was #2 on Spotify Global.

By the end of the week, everyone knew your name—not as Jude’s ex, but as the girl with the aching voice and a pen like a scalpel.

Jude didn’t reach out.

But his teammates noticed. Vini hummed the chorus under his breath during warm-ups. The physio said his niece couldn’t stop crying to it. Even his coach muttered, “she’s got guts” with a shake of his head.

And the worst part? The song was true.

Every line. Every pause. Every breath that made you sound like you were reliving the moment he left you behind without a glance.

He listened to it in his car. Once. Then again. Then again. Each time, it cracked something open.

“ Now, if I get a little too drunk

I'll start thinking, "What if you were the one?"

I know that the damage is done “

You stood on stage three weeks later. Glimmering under pale lights, no fancy outfit, no backup dancers—just you and a mic.

The audience sang along, loud and raw. They didn’t care about who you had dated or why it ended. They just felt your pain and made it their own.

Backstage, your phone buzzed.

Jude: Congratulations. You sound amazing. I always knew you would.

you stared at the message for a moment.

Then deleted it.

When you walked back out for the encore, the crowd chanted your name. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like shit.

You felt seen.

You felt heard.

And more than anything—for the while, you felt like yourself.

Decode

The first song made people stop. The second made them break.

This time, it wasn’t about the moment Jude left. It was about everything else in between.

The missed signs. The way he stopped answering late-night calls. How he looked at you like you were too much—too loud, too inconvenient, too real. The way you folded yourself smaller and smaller just to stay in the frame of his spotlight.

The studio version was stripped and icy. Your voice danced around hollow keys and wounded strings, every word calculated and calm—like reading a eulogy for something long dead.

“You're good at the falling, not the staying there

You're good at the giving too much then getting scared

You're good at impersonating someone who cares

And you had me for a minute there”

People didn’t just listen to your song. They felt it. In traffic, on cold kitchen floors, in grocery stores and lonely bedrooms— People felt it everywhere.

TikToks exploded with girls whispering the lyrics in mirrors. Celebrities reposted it. Some in solidarity. Some in guilt.

Jude didn’t say a word.

But he watched you climb—song by song. From heartbreak to artistry. From silence to stardom.

When you performed “Decode” live for the first time, there were no flashing lights. Just a pale beam, a glass of water, and you, dressed in black, sitting on a lone stool.

The arena held its breath.

“Overanalyzed it, front, back, and beside it

Where else can we go?

There's nothing left here to decode

Done lookin' for signs in the gaps and the silence

It's just getting old”

Your voice didn’t crack. But the crowd did.

A grown man wiped his eyes in the third row. Two teenage girls held each other sobbing. Somewhere in Madrid, Jude sat alone with his phone turned over, unable to bear it.

Because now everyone knew. Not just what happened—but how deep it went. How much you gave. How little he noticed. And how he said nothing while you bled through poetry.

Journalists had started calling you “ The Architect of Heartache.”

“Every song she drops feels like she’s cutting open a vein,” one reviewer said.

“She doesn’t perform, she confesses,” said another.

Your Instagram tagged with collages of trembling hearts and quiet rage. People didn’t just support you—they grieved with you. Because somehow, you had written their pain too.

Jude’s teammates stopped playing your songs in the locker room. Too awkward. Too obvious. But they still listened, quietly. Alone. With headphones on and volume on max.

And Jude?

He tried to write back. Once. Twice. A dozen unsent messages in his Notes app.

“I didn’t know.” “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

But you had already decoded him.

And now, the world was singing it back.

You stood backstage before your next performance. Your stylist clipped on a small silver ear cuff, your manager nodded about timings, and someone handed you a cup of hot tea— one that didn’t compare to the ones Jude used to stock for you in his flat.

But that didn’t matter, because all you could think about was how light you felt. Not healed. But free.

A quiet buzz sounded on your phone. A screenshot sent by your brother. A fan had tattooed a lyric down their spine:

"You could’ve said anything else..."

You stared at it for a moment. A small smile cracking between your lips. Then you pocketed your phone, pulled your shoulders back, and walked into the lights.

Because now, they all knew. And you didn’t need an apology anymore.

You had a voice.You had your truth.You had the world finally listening.

Consequences

It was your biggest venue yet.

Sold out in twelve minutes. Fans queued in the rain. Street vendors sold handmade shirts that read “She Wrote My Soul”. Somewhere in the stands, girls clutched tissues like holy scripture. Somewhere closer, a few tried to prepare their hearts—and failed.

You saved the song for last. The one no one had heard. Not even a leak. Not even a tease. Just a title printed on the setlist in delicate gold foil: “Consequences”

The music started soft.

A single piano note repeating like a heartbeat. The stage bathed in amber light, as if time had folded in on itself. And there you were—just You. Not the chart-topper, not the icon, not the writer-turned singer.

Just a girl with her heart in her throat.

“Dirty tissues, trust issues.

Glasses on the sink, they didn't fix you…”

The audience quieted like the world had stopped spinning.

You sang slower than usual. Fragile. Each word suspended in air like it might break if it landed too hard.

“Lost a little weight because I wasn't eating

All the songs that I can't listen to,

to tell the truth…”

Somewhere mid-verse, your voice trembled. You paused—just for a breath. But in that breath, everyone knew.

You weren’t performing. You were remembering.

The hotel breakfasts. The silent car rides. The way he laughed at your exessive humming. The way he didn’t fight for you when you asked him to stay.

The audience began crying before the chorus even hit.

“Loving you was young, and wild, and free

Loving you was cool, and hot, and sweet…”

Your lip quivered. You shook your head once, eyes fluttering shut like you were was trying to not cry.

But you did. One tear. Then two. You didn’t wipe them away. You sang through them. And when you reached the final chorus, you voice cracked completely.

“Loving you had consequences…”

You let the mic fall for a moment. Just silence.And the sound of thousands—thousands—of people crying with her.

A wave of grief. Shared. Raw. Collective.

In one of the VIP seats, dressed in quiet black, sat Charles Leclerc. Hands clenched, jaw tight.

He didn’t know you—not really. A few backstage glimpses. One mutual friend. A half-smile in Monaco.

Every word sliced through him like glass. Because he had loved like that too.

He had watched someone, everyone, walk away while pretending not to care. He had turned pain into silence. And now, he was watching someone brave enough to turn it into music.

When you sang the last line, your voice was nothing but a whisper:

“Loving you was dumb… and dark… and cheap…”

The crowd held their breath like it was sacred. And when you stepped back, tears streaming, they erupted.

Not in cheers. But in cries. In sobs. In hands reaching up to catch a piece of her pain.

And Charles? He stood. No camera panned to him. No flashbulbs. Just a man, completely still, completely wrecked. Because somehow, you had told his story, too.

Backstage, You collapsed onto a couch. Shivering. Breathless. Exhausted. But empty in the best way.

Like maybe, just maybe— You had finally sung everything she needed to say.

The One That Got Away

It was 2:11 a.m. when you posted it.

No caption. No tags. Just a video, grainy and low-lit, filmed in what looked like your bedroom. An acoustic guitar on your lap. Messy hair. Bare face. Nothing staged.

The camera wasn’t even angled right—just slightly askew like you’ve propped your phone against a mug.It felt less like content, more like a confession.

You looked straight ahead for a moment before playing. And then—

“Summer after high school, when we first met…”

Your voice was soft. Hushed. Less polished than ever. And that made it hit harder.

“Used to steal your parents' liquor and climb to the roof

Talk about our future like we had a clue…”

Every word was coated in nostalgia. Not the pretty kind. The kind that aches.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t explain. You just sang.

Verse after verse—each lyric sounding like it had been pulled from a memory you hadn’t meant to keep.

“In another life, I would be your girl

We’d keep all our promises, be us against the world…”

Somewhere in Madrid, Jude watched the video on loop. Mute at first. Then again with sound. Then again with his face buried in his hands.

He remembered the Polaroids. The whispered plans.Your hand in his at 3 a.m., saying “This has to be enough, right?”

And now it was too late.

In Monaco, Charles stared at his phone long after the video ended. It felt like watching a ghost mourn herself.

This wasn’t performance. It was a farewell. Not to the person—but to hope.

He typed a message. Deleted it.

The world? Unhinged.

The video racked up 20 million views in six hours.

#TheOneThatGotAway trended globally. People dissected every second like gospel:The tremble in your pinky. The crack in your voice on “in another life…” The barely-there smile at the very end.

And then—nothing.

No follow-up. No livestream. No explanation. No press release.

You went went radio silent.

No posts. No stories. Your team didn’t respond. Your label said, “She’s taking time to herself.”

And the silence? It was deafening.

People wrote open letters.Influencers covered the song with trembling hands. Fans begged for an explanation

But you stayed quiet. Because some things can’t be explained. Because maybe that song wasn’t for them. Maybe it wasn’t even for Jude.

Maybe it was for the girl who waited, who broke, who lost herself in the name of someone else— And was finally letting her go.

Lose You To Love Me

Charles didn’t expect a reply.

He wasn’t reaching out for one.

He typed the message in the middle of the night. One hand gripping his phone, the other curled in the sleeve of his hoodie.

Your video still echoing in his ears, that raw acoustic of “The One That Got Away” playing in the background of his thoughts like a ghost that wouldn’t leave.

Charles:

I know this might be strange, but I just wanted to thank you. For being brave enough to write the way you do.

Your music doesn’t just feel—it heals.And I hope, even in the silence, you know that you’re not alone.

You don’t need to reply. Just… thank you.

He sent it.

Then turned off his phone. Then turned it back on. Then reread it ten times, wondering if he’d said too much or not enough.

You didn’t respond.

Not the next morning. Not the next week. Not even after you were spotted in Paris, hoodie up, head low, disappearing into studio doors again.

But then—Three weeks later.

A new post. Just a single black-and-white photo: You at a piano. Barefoot. No makeup. Back to the camera.

Caption: “This is the song I wrote to say thank you. For listening. For staying. For giving me the silence I needed. I’m still hurting. But I’m learning how to love what’s left.”

The song dropped an hour later.

No promo. No teaser.Just—

“Lose You to Love Me”

The internet froze.

It wasn’t just a song. It was a rebirth.

Your voice—soulfull, cracked, deliberate. Every lyric like an exhale you’d been holding in since the breakup. A closing chapter that didn’t ask for pity—just space.

“I saw the signs and I ignored it

Rose-colored glasses all distorted…”

The first verse was quiet, intimate—like reading a diary entry left on the bathroom floor.

But the chorus?

“I needed to lose you to love me…”

It soared. Not in volume, but in honesty.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t looking for revenge… You were just done.

The world stopped. Again.

Fans said it felt like being seen from the inside out. People sent the song to their exes, their mothers, themselves.

Charles listened to it in his car. Then again while walking the streets of Monaco at midnight.

He smiled, soft and bittersweet. Because you hadn’t replied to him. But somehow…you had.

This was for everyone, but he could feel it: you had read his message. You had understood. You just answered the only way yoh knew how—With a melody full of cracks, forgiveness, and the first step toward freedom.

You weren’t healed. You still avoided certain songs. Still flinched at the sight of old photos. Still kept your phone on do not disturb when it got too loud.

But you were healing. And the world was healing with you. One verse at a time.

Lose You to Love Me : Instrumental

It was a Tuesday.

Not the dramatic kind of Tuesday. Not stormy or golden-lit. Just… ordinary.

Charles had his hood up, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jumper, and your song playing low in his ears—“Lose You to Love Me,” specifically the live acoustic version you uploaded only days ago.

The one where your voice caught on “You promised the world and I fell for it.” He played it on loop. Not because he liked reliving pain. But because it reminded him he wasn’t the only one still putting himself back together.

You were at a small café in Montmartre, one with chipped tiles and lavender tea, the kind that didn’t care who you were as long as you ordered quietly.

You weren’t hiding, exactly. Just… staying small.

A black notebook sat open in front of you. Half the page was scribbled lyrics, the other half ink smudges and crossed-out verses. You’ve been stuck on one line for twenty minutes.

“If I had known the silence would echo this loud…”

You bit your lip and sighed. Scribbled again. Nothing clicked.

Then—A shadow passed your table.

You glanced up. And blinked.

Charles wasn’t looking where he was going.

Mostly because your voice was in his ears. He only noticed the table after bumping into it slightly, sending your empty mug rattling.

“Shit—désolé—sorry,” he said, immediately tugging out an earbud.

You blinked again. “…You’re Charles Leclerc.”

His hand paused on the back of the chair. “And you’re— wow. Hi.”

You stared at each other. Not in that immediate-click kind of way. More like Oh. You’re real.

Not the version in headlines. Not the girl on stage.

Just you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, ink on your knuckles. And Charles, earbuds tangled around his collar, a pink flush crawling up his neck.

“I was, uh…” He gestured to his phone. “Listening to your song.”

Your brow quirked slightly. “Out of all the cafés in Paris?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Fate, maybe?”

“Or stalker behavior,” you said lightly, but your lips curled just a bit.

You both chuckled, and then… the silence settled. Not awkward—just gentle.

He didn’t pry on what’s written on your notes and you didn’t ask what he was doing there.

Instead, he asked, “Can I sit?” and you nodded. You and Charles didn’t talk much. You went back to scribbling and he scrolled through his phone, occasionally pausing to look out the window.

It was easy. No pressure to entertain. No expectation to fill the space. Just two people breathing in the same quiet moment.

Eventually, you said, almost too softly, “Thank you. For the message.”

He looked at looked at you and said. “You saw it?”

You nodded but didn’t look up. “Didn’t have the words to reply. Still don’t, really.” Your shoulders raising into shrugged.

“You replied the best way you could,” he said. “I felt it.”

Another silence. But this one felt warm.

When you left, you tucked the page you’d been working on into your pocket—lyrics unfinished but no longer stuck.

Charles stayed behind, earbuds back in. The chorus washed over him again, her voice now layered with something else:

The sound of healing.

Maybe not completely.But a beginning.Neither of them looked back when they walked away. But the universe did. And it whispered, not yet. But soon.

Lowkey

It wasn’t announced.

Again, no promo, no countdown, no venue tagged.

Just a tweet from her manager: “If you know, you know. 9PM. Montmartre.”

People gathered fast. Word spread like a heartbeat—You’re. Live. Again. By 8:55, the rooftop was packed.

Paris in the summer air. Rooftop lights flickering above. Your silhouette behind gauzy curtains, your guitar already resting on your lap.

Then you stepped forward. No opening monologue. No mood-setting speech. Just a small breath. And—

“Wonder what I’ll do when the cops come through

And the whiskey’s run out…”

Your voice was soft. Playful. Light in a way it hadn’t been in months.

The crowd blinked. This wasn’t heartbreak. This wasn’t mourning. This was love.

Not the messy, tragic kind. The beginning kind. The first-look, first-touch, lowkey-want-to-scream-it kind.

“I’ll be on the way

You got something I’ve been wanting to…”

You smiled mid-verse. Not because of the crowd—but because you remembered. Not the breakup. Not the betrayal.

But the before.

The way Jude used to make you laugh without trying. The late-night FaceTimes under the covers. That one holiday where you danced barefoot in the living room at 2 a.m.

You had loved him once. And tonight—just for a moment—you let yourself celebrate that.

“So can I get your number?

I wanna know you…”

The crowd swayed. Some gasped. Some cried. But the mood wasn’t sad. It was warm. Like the last golden hour before the sun dipped.

The comments flooded in seconds after clips hit TikTok.

“I didn’t expect a love song—now I’m sobbing.” “She sounds so in love… past-tense, and still.” “She’s healing. You can feel it.”

Jude saw the video the next morning. He didn’t mean to. He never meant to—but your songs are everywhere.

You were everywhere.

At first, he thought someone had dug up an old demo. But no.

This was new. Unreleased. Raw. About him. And not the part he ruined. The part he missed most.

“So pick your poison love, let's go somewhere a little more exclusive Take a shot, take a chance, take my hand boy Tension so intense like an asteroid Be discreet, gotta dodge all the tabloids"

He remembered that night you called him at 1:36 a.m., whispering, "I think I might really like you."

He remembered answering, "You think? I’ve already written our wedding vows."

He remembered laughing. Really laughing. Like nothing could ever touch them.

And now? Now you was on a rooftop under Paris stars, singing about the version of him he no longer recognized.

But you hadn’t sung it for him. You hadn’t posted it. You didn’t release it to streaming. It was a one-night-only kind of memory. For you.

A reminder that you’re not bitter. That you’re not broken. That love—when it was good—was worth writing down. And even if it ended, It was real.

Later that night, Charles sent a message:

Charles: That song… it felt like sunlight.You don’t need to stay in the dark to be honest.You can let joy exist, too.

You smiled faintly. Then opened your notebook and wrote one line—

“I loved you once. And I’m not ashamed.”

Heartbeat: Instrumental

The rooftop concert faded into memory like a soft blush—savored but not clung to. And you? You disappeared again.

But this time, it wasn’t out of pain. It was intention. You was making room for quiet.

Charles didn’t expect anything when he messaged you again.

Charles:

That song… it felt like sunlight. You don’t need to stay in the dark to be honest. You can let joy exist, too.

It was simple. Just a few words.

You didn’t respond immediately. Not that day. Not the next. But five days later, just past midnight, his phone buzzed.

You:

Thank you. For hearing it the way it was meant. Everyone always listens for heartbreak. You heard the hope.

He stared at the message longer than he should have.Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Charles:

It was brave.I’d love to hear more—only if you’d want to share.

You:

…Okay. One song trade. Your turn too.

And so it began.

Not a romance. Not yet.

Just a quiet exchange.

One audio file at a time. Late-night clips of rough demos, voice notes of scribbled lyrics, half-sung melodies with birds chirping in the background.

You:

(voice memo)“Okay, don’t judge this—it’s a mess. I wrote it at 2 a.m. while eating crisps.”

Charles:

(text)“I’ve never related more to a creative process.”

You sent a short ballad about dreams that don’t come true—but how maybe that’s okay. He sent a soft instrumental he’d composed on piano. Gentle, unsure, beautiful.

You:

Wait—you play??

Charles:

A bit. When I don’t know how to talk.

You:

I think I’m the same. I write when I can’t breathe.

You didn’t talk about feelings. Not directly. But you two were there, floating between notes, resting in unfinished choruses.

Sometimes, you two sat in silence on the phone. Not speaking. Just existing. One night you asked,

“Do you think people can be okay again?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, “I think maybe we don’t go back to before. But we learn how to make after feel soft.”

You hummed in response. He didn’t know what it meant. But you saved the audio anyway

Charles began to recognize your handwriting—snaps of lyrics you scribbled on receipts, napkins, coffee cups.

You learned the look he got when he was thinking of something he wasn’t ready to say.

Neither of you pushed. Neither of you filled the silence just to fill it. You just let the ache sit with them, sometimes. And that, strangely, was what made it feel safe.

Weeks passed. No headlines. No spotlights. Just two people quietly building something that didn’t ask for labels.

One morning, he sent you a video. A melody he’d composed, but didn’t know what to do with. You listened to it three times, then replied:

You:

It sounds like waiting. Like sitting next to someone who hasn’t realized yet that you’ll never rush them.

Charles read that over and over again. He didn’t reply. He just wrote another piece.

good 4 u

It happened on a Tuesday again.

Of course it did.

you had woken up slowly that morning, windows open, music soft. you was—shockingly—okay. Not good. Not perfect. But steady.

Then your phone buzzed. Three times.

@/entertainment now Jude Bellingham debuts new “mystery blonde” in Ibiza

@/popraver “He looks so in love!”

@/gossipgirlUK Looks like someone finally moved on

And just like that—something inside you snapped.

It wasn’t the jealousy. It was the audacity. After everything.

After the silence. After the years. After the music that laid her soul bare. After the world crying with her—

He was in Ibiza. Sun-kissed, half-drunk, grinning with his hand on someone else's waist. As if you’d been nothing more than a phase he shrugged off in June.

And you?

You didn’t cry.

You wrote.

You didn’t tell anyone. Not even Charles. You locked yourself in the studio. Hair a mess. Hoodie three days old. And recorded a diss track that bled like venom and burned like wildfire.

It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t “hurt.”

It was rage.

It was “good 4 u” with the acid of “ABCDFU.”

“And good for you, it's like you never even met me

Remember when you swore to God I was the only

Person who ever got you? Well, screw that and screw you

You will never have to hurt the way you know that I do”

The beat? Loud. Biting. Unapologetic.

The delivery? Scorching.

And when you reached the chorus—

“Well, good for you, you look happy and healthy

Not me, if you ever cared to ask

Good for you, you're doing great out there without me, baby

God, I wish that I could do that”

You laughed. Bitter. Ferocious. And then you released it.

No warning. Just a tweet:

“This one’s for the ones who really moved on. I’m done.”

The internet exploded.

“Is she okay?” “Did he cheat??” “THIS IS ICONIC 🔥🔥🔥” “Best diss track of the decade??” “Wait, I'm crying and throwing up.” “I’m scared but also—YES, QUEEN.”

And Charles?

Charles watched the video twice in silence. Then closed his laptop. Then booked a flight to Paris. Because he didn’t see empowerment.He saw something else—

The shaking hands under the rage. The old pain dressed in new fire.

When he arrived, You didn’t answer the door at first. But you opened it eventually, hood up, eyeliner smudged, voice hoarse.

“…Don’t say it.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Both of you stood in silence. Then you exhaled. “I think I blacked out in a musical rage.”

Charles nodded. “I figured.”

“I didn’t even realize how angry I still was,” you said quietly. “I thought I was done feeling things for him. But seeing him with her, just… like I never existed—”

your voice cracked.

“I wanted to remind him I did. That I mattered. Even if I had to scream it.”

Charles didn’t interrupt. He didn’t offer platitudes or gently scold you for the track.

He just looked at you and said, softly,

“You do matter. Even when you're quiet. Even when he doesn't look back.”

You blinked, surprised by the tears that suddenly welled.

“…I don’t want to be angry forever.”

“Then don’t be,” Charles said. “But don’t be ashamed of the moment you were.”

You smiled—tired, raw, human. Then turned back inside.

“Come in,” you said. “I’ve got leftover pastries and probably another diss track in my drafts.”

Charles smiled.

“Sounds dangerous. I’m in.”

He didn’t leave. Even after the pastries were gone and you had spiraled into a second cup of coffee yoh didn’t need, even after you joked—too dryly—that you might start a punk phase and throw chairs on stage.

Charles just… stayed.

Not because you asked. But because you didn’t have to.

He sat on the floor, back against the couch, while you lay half-curled above him, notebook abandoned on your stomach. The diss track was still ringing across the internet. Fan edits. Think pieces. Reaction videos. Headlines.

But here? Silence. Well—almost.

“I think I scared my label,” You muttered. “They sent me an iced coffee bouquet and an on call therapist.”

Charles snorted. “The modern version of calling your mother.”

“They think I’ve lost the plot.”

He tilted his head. “And have you?”

You stared at the ceiling. “Maybe. But I think I needed to.”

He didn’t argue. He just gently tapped his foot against yours . A quiet way of saying I'm still here.

The next morning, you found a playlist waiting in her messages. No words. Just a title:

“for when it burns a little less.”

You clicked.

Bon Iver. Mitski. Frank Ocean. One of your own unreleased songs—an old acoustic demo you didn’t remember letting him hear. And tucked between them, a new instrumental you hadn’t heard.

Soft piano. Gentle strings. A slow build, like exhaling underwater. You listened to it in full before replying.

You:

You wrote this?

Charles:

Yes.I didn’t know what to say after the song you released.So I made something that didn’t talk. Just sat with it.

You stared at the message for a long time.And something inside you—something knotted—unraveled just a bit.

You:

Thank you.I don’t think anyone’s ever just… sat with me before.

You two began meeting more.

Not always planned.

Sometimes you’d show up outside his house with a coffee and a scribbled lyric you couldn’t get right. Sometimes he’d bring you vinyls you’d mentioned weeks ago offhandedly—pressings you hadn’t been able to find yourself.

The two of you didn’t talk about feelings.

You talked about chords. And meaning. And how scary it was to let people love what you made while still figuring out if you loved yourself.

One afternoon, in a park that smelled like spring and old books, you asked:

“Do you think we’re allowed to be happy again?”

Charles didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly “I think we’re allowed to try. Even if it takes time.”

You didn’t cry. But you did write that down when he wasn’t looking.

When the press started speculating, you ignored it. So did he. You weren’t together. Not like that.

But the world didn’t need to understand what you had.It wasn’t built for spectacle. It was built in playlists, in glances across pianos, in shared moments of silence that didn’t need to be filled.

And you?

You still had bad days. Days where you woke up angry. Days you replayed Jude’s laugh and hated how familiar it still felt. Days where you didn’t feel strong or iconic or anything but tired.

But now—you had someone who didn’t ask you to be okay. Someone who knew what it meant to sit beside the pain without trying to fix it.

And that?

That was something worth holding onto.

Just keep watching

You remembered the song “Just keep watching” by Tate Mcrae blasting all over the paddock when the first photo went viral within minutes.

You were in oversized sunglasses that hid half your face and a Charles Leclerc Ferrari jacket that definitely wasn’t yours, standing quietly in the Monaco paddock. Not posing. Not clinging. Just… there.

Hands in your pockets. Hair wind-tousled. Smile small but real. You weren’t trying to be seen but the world saw anyway.

The assumptions followed immediately.

“Is she and Charles Leclerc DATING?!” “Singer seen supporting rumored flame trackside!” “New power couple in the making??”

It was ridiculous. But expected.

Charles had warned you it might happen if you came. And you looked him dead in the eyes and said

“Let them talk. I’m not hiding anymore.”

You didn’t go to Monaco for damage control and you didn’t go for show. You went because you wanted to… for Charles. Because he had been there for you in quiet ways that never asked for attention—

And because when the engine started and the track roared alive beneath her boots, something inside you snapped awake.

The adrenaline. The chaos. The smell of gasoline and heat. It drowned everything else out. All the whispers.All the doubt. All the “Maybe you’re not okay yet.”

There were louder things in this world. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself hear them.

You didn’t sit in the exclusive lounges or hide behind PR. You walked the grid, talked to engineers and fans who asked nicely for a photo. You cheered from the pit wall like you meant it.

When Charles crossed the finish line in P2, you clapped so hard your palms stung. Not for the cameras. Not for the shippers. But for him.

Because he deserved to be seen, too.

Later, a reporter caught you in the paddock.

“Any comment on what’s going on between you and Charles?”

You looked up, cool and composed—but no longer guarded.

“We’re friends,” you said simply. “We support each other.”

The reporter pushed. “So it’s just a friendship?”

You smiled faintly. “Just?” you echoed. “If you think that’s a small thing, you’ve never had someone show up for you when the world forgot how to be kind.”

Then you turned and walked away. And the quote? It trended immediately.

Charles found you on the balcony of his suite later that night. How’d you gain access? you didn’t really remember.

You were barefoot, watching the city glow.

“You know you broke the internet again,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

“I’m starting to think that’s just my natural state.”

He smiled. “You didn’t have to defend me.”

You looked at him, eyes clear.

“I didn’t do it for you,” she said. “I did it because I meant it.”

Neither of you didn’t say much after that. You didn’t need to. He sat beside you as you leaned into his shoulder, just enough.

And together, you listened— To the city, to the wind, to the echo of engines still ringing in the air.

And beneath it all, you heard something else.

Still not romance. Not yet. But belonging.

Safe and Sound

The call came at 2:46 a.m.

Your phone lit up on the nightstand, vibrating quietly beneath a book of half-finished lyrics and a mug of forgotten tea.

You answered without thinking.

“Charles?”

Silence on the other end. Just the sound of him breathing. Staggered. Tight.

“Where are you?” you asked, already grabbing your keys.

“House. In my bedroom”

“I’ll be there in fifteen.”

You didn’t even stop to change. Just a hoodie, joggers, and your bare face. Hair pulled back, heart pounding—not in fear, but in urgency.

You didn’t know what version of him you’d find.But you’d find him.

He opened the door on the third knock.

Eyes red-rimmed. Voice raw. Shoulders slumped like the world had finally caved in.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know who else to—”

You stepped forward and pulled him into a hug before he could finish.

“You don’t need to explain,” you said softly, as your hand found its way to his head. “I’ve got you.”

You stood in the doorway like that for a long moment. His hand gripped the back of your sweatshirt like he was trying to anchor himself. Then you guided him inside.

He didn’t fall apart all at once. It came in pieces. Little truths, dropped between long silences and flickering lamplight.

“They always said they loved me,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “But only when I was winning. When I was Charles Leclerc, not… just me.”

You sat beside him on the bed, hands resting in your lap- fiddling with a loose seam.

“They wanted the headlines. The lifestyle. Not the quiet parts. Not the days I didn’t feel worth anything.”

You didn’t interrupt. Didn’t say they didn’t deserve you, or you’re better off. You just let him speak.

Because you knew what it meant to be used up and left.

“I started thinking maybe love was just another word for convenience,” he said. “And when I met you… I kept waiting for the catch. For the song. For the punchline.”

Your gaze softened.

“There’s no punchline here,” you whispered.

He turned to you then—exhausted, unguarded, honest.

“I don’t know how to be loved if I’m not earning it.”

And that? That broke you. Because you lived that line too. Different stage, same ache.

You didn’t try to fix him. You just said, “Lie down.”

And when he did—clutching the pillow like a lifeline—you reached for the guitar in the corner and sat beside him. The same one you’ve left from your last visit.

No spotlight. No audience. Just a soft lullaby.

Something unreleased, private. Something just for you.

“Just close your eyes

The sun is going down

You'll be alright

No one can hurt you now

Come morning light

You and I'll be safe and sound”

Your voice wrapped around him like cotton. Like rain against a window. And slowly, his breathing steadied.

You climbed in beside him. Not over the covers—into them. No space between. No tension. Just two people curled into each other’s shapes.

Your forehead resting against his chest. His hand gently woven into the hem of your sleeve.

You didn’t speak again that night. Because for the first time in weeks, Charles found sleep. And you found peace.

Not in promises. Not in plans. But in presence. In staying when it would’ve been easier to leave.

When the sun rose, they were still wrapped in silence.

Not because they were afraid of what came next—

But because, in each other’s arms,it was the first time neither of them needed words to feel safe.

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you felt was stillness.

Not the kind that came from silence, but the kind that came from safety.

You didn’t know when your hand had ended up on Charles’ chest.Didn’t know when his thumb had started tracing lazy circles against your back. But neither of you had moved.

You stayed like that, eyes closed, hearts steady, letting the weight of the night settle between them like soft dust.

No panic. No regret.

Just quiet understanding.

When Charles finally blinked open, you was already watching him. There was no embarrassment.No rush to pull away.

He simply whispered, “Hi.”

And you whispered back, “Hey.”

You didn’t talk about the things that had been said.Not right away. Instead, Charles made tea. You stole one of his hoodies. You and Charles sat on the balcony wrapped in a shared blanket, watching Monaco stir awake.

At one point, your fingers brushed and neither of you flinched. Instead you entwined your fingers together as he traced his thumb over your hand.

The rest of the day passed in a kind of dreamlike haze. Charles had meetings with Ferrari, he was speaking Italian from the other room—trying not be loud. While you had emails you didn’t open and lyrics left unfinished.

He left not long after, an emergency that couldn’t wait. But you texted, quietly, more than usual. Charles was with his engineers, while you where still in his house, in his hoodie, drinking his coffee.

Charles:I forgot how peaceful sleep could feel.

You:I’m always available for lullabies and emotional rescues. Just say the word.

Charles:

Don’t joke. I might actually start depending on you.

You:

I already do.

You regretted sending that the moment it delivered.

But he didn’t reply with panic.

He replied with a photo—Your guitar still in his bedroom, propped next to the window.

Charles:

I’m keeping this hostage until I see you again.

But the world had begun to notice.

Fan edits now paired your appearances in the paddock and Charles in your concerts. Clips from your gigs, his races—stitched together with swelling music and soft captions:

“he was quiet until she sang” “she was shattered until he stayed”“this feels like healing”

You weren’t dating, you hadn’t even touched lips. But somehow, the intimacy between you was louder than love songs.

When a journalist asked Charles directly—“What’s going on between you and Y/N?”—he didn’t blink.

“She’s someone I trust,” he said simply. “And sometimes, that’s rarer than anything else.”

You saw the clip and smiled. Because it was true. There was something between you and Charles. Something that hummed under their silences. That lived in soft eye contact and shared playlists.That slept beside heartbreak and still made room for hope.

Neither of you didn’t define it. Not yet. But you were letting it grow.

The next time you two met—three days later in your Paris apartment—Charles didn’t knock. You opened the door before he could. Neither said a word. He stepped inside and you handed him a half-finished lyric sheet.

You sat together on the floor, knees brushing, their words weaving together on the page. And somewhere between the margins, something new took root. Not a romance. Not yet.

But the beginning of love written in the language of healing.

***

A/N: Ik ik ik, you guys are waiting for the NOTP update. But pls let me have this! I'm having a CL16 phase here. And yes, Jude Bellingham~ I’m obsessed w/ football rn.

F1wags

Y/N L/N's car is spotted parked beside Lando Norris' car outside the McLaren Motorhome!

user1 Is it really her car? Doesn't Osc drive her around

user2 Yeah, its her's alright. I mean who else could afford that model.

user3 She's not with Oscar? Is Y/N perhaps collaborating with McLaren if Osc is not with her

user4 Maybe! cause it would be weird if she's there when Osc is not.

user5 this is giving major vibes of something.... I just can't seem to pinpoint what.

user6 If Osc is not there... perhaps she's there for LANDO???

user7 No no nooooo! no more Lando x Y/N rumors pls. Y/N deserves better than to go back to her ex (even if I would personally do so)

user8 NOT THE COMEBACK RUMORS

user9 UNLESS??

user10 Y/N STAYS WITH OSCAR WTF

Notification: Message from Danny

Notification: Message from xxxx xxx xxx

(Oscar's pov)

*Incoming call from Osc 🧡

Pick up or Decline

Pick up

-I can’t fucking believe you went behind my back- -I’m sorry, Osc— - -Sorry? You’re sorry? You went to McLaren, behind my back, and you’re sorry?- -I had to do it— - -Had to? HAD TO? Don’t give me that. Don’t you dare act like there was no other way!- -Don’t be difficult, Oscar! I didn’t want to, but it had to be done!- - Oh, right. So now I’m the problem—because I’m difficult? Because I’m fucking blindsided by Twitter posts, rumors and even your fucking ex before I hear a word from you? That’s what I get?- -You wouldn’t have let me go-

-You’re goddamn right I wouldn’t have! Because I thought we were on the same fucking side. Because I trusted you. But clearly, that was a mistake-

-Oh, fuck off. You don’t get to act like the victim when you kept things from me- -What the hell are you talking about now?- -When were you going to tell me about the relationship clause?- - I didn’t think it applied.- -Are you serious right now?- -Yeah, I am- - Are you serious right now? Are you really— - - It wasn’t an issue with Lily.- -  Lily was before McLaren. You weren’t bound to shit when you were with her. But me? I’m the risk. I'm the one they can cut you loose for. And you said nothing. -

-I didn’t think I’d have to- - Of course you didn’t. Because everything’s always about your timing, your world, your - - That’s not fair— - - No, what’s not fair is being in a relationship where I’m nothing more than a goddamn PR complication-

-Don’t do that. Don’t turn this around- -Why the hell not? You lied by omission. You kept me in the dark while a multi-million dollar corporation circled me like a vulture, and you—what? Hoped to take care of it, while I sit and look pretty?

-Oh, wow - -Wow? That’s it?- -I didn’t think it would matter- - Why didn’t you negotiate it? Why didn’t your lawyer say something? You’ve been in this industry for years, Oscar. Don’t act clueless- -Because at the time, I thought I was going to marry Lily. I didn’t think I’d need to worry about that clause. I didn’t think she’d— - - Well she did. She cheated. And you’re with me now. So fucking congratu-fucking-lations to both of us. -

-I’ll pay the fees. I’ll fight it. Let them sue - -Oscar—they don’t want money. They don’t even care about that. They want me gone. McLaren said if I don’t step away, they’ll blacklist you. Fire you - - …What did you say to them? - -That’s what you’re asking me? After everything?

-What do you want from me, Y/N?! Do you want me to scream at you? Blame you for ruining my entire fucking career? The one thing I’ve worked for since I was a kid?! - - I didn’t ask to be the reason, Oscar! I didn’t want any of this! I wanted you. I’ve always just wanted you. But clearly, that’s not enough.-

-That’s not fair— - - No, what’s not fair is being made to feel like your fucking liability.-

-You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. - -No. I think I finally fucking get it.- - Do you? Because this—this whole thing—has never been about McLaren or legal clauses. It’s always been about you. About you trying to rewrite your story so you don’t look like the fool again -

-Excuse me? - -You couldn’t handle what happened with him, so you used me as damage control. That’s what this was. The safe bet. The good guy to fix the mess-

-Fuck you- -Tell me I’m wrong. You were never with me because you loved me—you were with me because you wanted to prove you could pick better this time. That you wouldn’t be the girl who got cheated on again-

-Don’t you dare use that against me- -Why not? You used it. You built your entire second album around that heartbreak and made sure every damn lyric painted you as the broken one who rose again. But with me? You wanted the happy ending. You needed me to be clean. Convenient. Silent.-

-That’s not true- -Isn’t it? You never really trusted me—not once. You just hoped I wouldn’t turn into him-

-Because you were teammates! You were friends! And you watched what he did to me! You looked me in the eye while I shattered and still decided to touch what he broke- -Yeah. Maybe I should’ve left it shattered. Would’ve saved us both this mess-

-...You regret me? - - …- -Say it.- -I regret believing I could ever be more than a rebound with a cleaner reputation-

-You’re a fucking coward-

-And you’re a fucking performer. Always have been -

- You know what really fucking hurts? I didn't go to McLaren because I stopped trusting you. I went because you stopped letting me in - -That’s not true- -Isn’t it? You shut down the moment things got ugly. You pushed me out of every conversation, every decision, like I was just some glitter-covered distraction. I wasn’t trying to go behind your back, Oscar—I was trying to fight with you. And you wouldn’t let me -

-You think I didn’t fight? You think I haven’t been bleeding for this relationship behind closed doors while trying to hold on to my career? -

- I know you fought. But you fought alone. And when I tried to stand beside you, you shoved me into the shadows. So don’t get fucking righteous with me now-

- You walked into that boardroom without me. You let them look at you like a problem that needed solving. Do you know what that did to me?- - I became the problem the moment I fell for you. So I figured I might as well solve myself before they did it for me-

- That’s not love. That’s control. You didn’t trust me to handle it- -No, Oscar. I didn’t trust you to survive it without destroying yourself. Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You fall apart in silence and call it strength-

- And you barge into fires and call it love. You want the truth? Fine. You were a risk from the start. The moment I touched you, I knew it could all burn down. But I was too stupid, too in love, to walk away- -Don’t you dare use love as an excuse. If you ever loved me—truly—you would’ve let me help you. You would’ve fought with me, not in spite of me. But instead, you made me the enemy the second I tried to carry some of the weight-

-And if you loved me, you wouldn’t have run straight to the very people trying to tear me down. But maybe that’s just who you are. A headline before anything else. You know what? Maybe I wanted to lose. Maybe I just needed to know who’d still be standing next to me when I did. But you—you ran to the enemy and called it saving me- -Say that again- -You’re not my partner. You’re a fucking popstar. And everything—everything—with you comes with a press release-

-Then I guess you’ll get your wish. No more headlines. No more complications. Just you, your car, and your silence-

-Good- - Go to hell, Piastri- -Already there-

Call ended

Y/N. 10 mins ago

story replies

y/b/f. Babe?? Y/N, what happened????? where are you?!

charles_leclerc Y/N?

danielricciardo3 Dude, what happened???

alexandra_saintmleux Y/N, are you ok? what happened cherie??

logan_sargeant Hey?? you good???

Y/N.

Tate McRae • Think Later

liked by 1.6M and others

Y/N. Live now think later, I do it so well.

comments are restricted

Osc 🧡 is calling

Pick up or Decline

Decline

Osc 🧡 is calling

Pick up or Decline

Decline

Slide to Power Off

Power Off

***

A/N: hihi how’d I do 👹

P.S I made the heartbreak club playlist! give it a listen hihi

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