nocturith.

I hate you.

I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, at least that's what I tell myself. I want to hate you for what you did and said. I'm hurt, so badly hurt, because I used to believe everything you said, but now I question if it was ever even true. You said you loved me, but was that a lie? I can't help but wonder why. A year of love went down the drain, I wonder if you ever thought of me. Will we ever be the same? Or are we a broken symphony. I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, or at least that's what I tell myself.

Currently, I'm spiralling. Great start, I know—the best kind. But how was I supposed to know that a Twitter post about Oscar Piastri and me would go viral after only 3 hours?! HOW WAS I MEANT TO KNOW?? Whatever, it's too late to dwell on that now, when hashtags like #simposc and #giveoscachance are trending all over social media.

I've been drowning in spam so much that I turned my DMs off, fans and friends alike wondering what the fuck is going on—and I honestly have no clue myself. Is it not normal to chat with a friend? Well, I wouldn't call Oscar my friend. Not when I've been crushing on him since he started in F3. But he doesn't know that—no one knows that.

oscarpiastri has sent you a message

Huh, what timing. I breathe in deeply—trying to shake off my nerves before opening the message, hands still slightly shaky.

I couldn't hide my smile when I finally set my phone down. I felt like a teenage girl—all giddy and smiley and whatnot, like I was just one text away from kicking my feet or twirling my hair. Oscar Piastri. He is totally out of my league, but oh my. He was kind, funny, and so, so charming, in his own little ways. But I was me. You know, stuck in front of a screen, chronically online. A total mess. I wasn't like those models other drivers were seen with, I didn't have that perfectly slim body—I was just me. And usually I didn't have a problem with that, I don't hate my body or anything.

But Oscar? He deserves that. He deserves that model, someone who can look good beside him, someone who won't make people judge him for the girl he likes. I'm not that girl.

My friend has set me up on a blind date. Fantastic.

Now our whole group is running around my room, trying to find the right outfit—not too sexy, not too cute. Just sultry enough but not desperate. This is why I'd rather be streaming. No need to think about all of that. Especially for just a blind date. Too much work, too much overthinking. Yet here we are.

They end up putting together a sleek, form-fitting outfit that gives off a stylish, slightly edgy vibe. The top is an off-the-shoulder grey long sleeve that hugs my waist, layered over a light grey or white collared shirt that peeks out at the neckline and hem, adding a polished touch. The pants are high-waisted black jeans that fit snugly through the thighs and flare out at the bottom, creating a balanced, flattering silhouette.

I look at myself in the mirror as I apply my makeup, opting for some eyeliner, light mascara and my favourite cherry gloss. It's me, but not a me I'm used to seeing in the mirror or on my facecam as I stream. This me is a me who tries more—a me that puts effort into looking good in front of others.

I sigh one last time before grabbing my purse and heading out, my friends whooping and whistling behind me.

ynusername just posted a story!

bff.ophelia replied to your story HOW'S IT GOING???

⤷ ynusername: honestly? meh, he doesn't speak to me. too standard and he keeps yapping about finance. 💀💀

user14 replied to your story YOU'RE ON A DATE? WHO IS IT?

user15 replied to your story The fans (me included) are going to go insane because of this.

The date is going well. He looks my type—talks sweet and even offered to pay for the dinner himself, you know, standard gentleman first date stuff. But he doesn't stand out to me. Just seems like another guy trying to bag the girl—he's a little hollow. No particular hobbies or interests, a finance guy, doesn't really visit his family that much anymore—too busy with work. And I get that, maybe not to a T, since I have a lot of freedom as a streamer. But I get it. It's just not my style.

He's not my style. And as I think of that, I zone out while he's mid-rant about another finance situation ted talk—and I think of Oscar. He's busy. Very busy. But he still visits his family when he can. Even when he lives in Monaco, and his parents live in Australia. He puts in the effort to visit. Consistently. Now that is attractive.

After the date, he takes me home. Not to my address, but to the park nearby. I don't think I'll be texting him. He says goodbye, tells me he had a lovely evening, and I smile tightly before telling him goodnight, and watch as he drives off in his BMW. Definitely won't be texting him back.

Unbeknownst to me, paparazzi are on the scene.

yngossip has posted!

liked by: f1gossip, skysports and 7.9k others

yngossip: (y/n) seen with another guy, seemingly on a date after countless rumours of her and Piastri possibly liking each other. Was it nothing more than a rumour? Or is (y/n) simply moving to the next guy?

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user16: WHAT??

user17: I knew it, she's just another gold-digging bitch.

f1gossip: interesting... 👀👀

user2: LIES! I BELIEVE IN YNOSCAR!!!

⤷ user18: give up mate... ⤷ user2: NEVER.

His phone buzzes again. Another meme, another notification. Another like—this time from an edit account called editsbyyn. He shouldn't be refreshing her profile. He really shouldn't—his PR manager has already been up his ass about it. But the damage is done. And maybe—just maybe, a part of him wanted this to keep going.

The meme she accidentally DMed him last night still sits in his inbox—the whole world knew of it, and it was burned in his memory. He's never laughed that hard at 2 a.m. in his life.

He told himself replying just once was fine. Just a joke. A polite laugh. Then, he found himself scrolling through her feed at breakfast.

oscarpiastri liked "when your teammate says 'let's race clean' and you immediately see the light fade from his eyes 💀."

He can practically hear Lando snickering if he ever finds out. But honestly? It's funny. She's funny. And he's curious. Yeah—let's call it that. Curious. Not enamoured, interested, falling hard.

He hears his PR manager knocking on the door. "Oscar, media starts in fifteen. You good?" He immediately shuts his phone off, ears turning red as he hides the screen on his thigh and clears his throat before responding, trying to sound like he hadn't just stalked his internet crush's profile on TikTok. "Yeah, all good." Totally lying. He was just grinning at his phone like he was back in high school.

When he's sure his manager has left, he immediately pulls his phone back up and opens Instagram instead, scrolling past race photos until he sees one of her posts—a short clip of her stream last night, playing the F1 2025 sim. He double-taps before he can stop himself. Oh lord... He's gonna seem like a desperate, sad guy at this point. Well—not to say he's not, but still.

Seconds later, his screen lights up again.

He drops his phone face-down like it burned him. And smiles.

He's supposed to be preparing for interviews, not laughing at a stranger's messages and stream highlights. But there's something about her chaos that feels... refreshing. Everyone else in his circle talks about lap times, podiums, points. She makes jokes about "McLaren Papaya being a personality trait." And the way she freaked out last night? He can almost hear and see her stammering through those crying emojis.

It was cute. He's not supposed to think that. Instead, he drowns himself in racing, media—anything to be rid of this fluttering feeling in his stomach. He needed to distract himself.

oscarpiastri has posted!

Liked by: lando, mclaren, f1gossip, ynusername and 596.8k others

oscarpiastri: Good training sesh. 👍

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user7: average Oscar post.

⤷ user8: dry af you mean!

lando: good workout! ♥︎ by author

user9: working hard or hardly working?

⤷ user8: he do be seeming quite distracted by a certain someone... @/ynusername ⤷ bff.ophelia: I sensed tea, so I arrived.

ynusername: easy championship! calling it! ♥︎ by author

⤷ user10: OSCAR LIKED HER COMMENT ⤷ user8: HOLY FKN AIRBALL, MY LITERAL PARENTS. ⤷ oscarpiastri: Thank you. :) ♥︎ by ynusername ⤷ user2: I'M CALLING IT!! THIS IS MEANT TO BEEE!!!

mclaren: working hard for that championship, champ! ♥︎ by author

Later, while Lando's out and about chatting with the team, Oscar sits in the lounge, scrolling through his mentions—and freezes.

Someone's already made a side-by-side post.

He sighs, rubbing his face. "Great. Twitter detectives have arrived.." And just as Oscar shuts off his phone, Lando's voice echoes from across the room: "What's that face for, mate?" Oscar moves to stand up, already wanting to get out of here. "Nothing." Lando grins knowingly. Damnit, seems he's already seen it. "You liking strangers' accounts again?" His grin only widens when he sees Oscar's ears turning bright red. He tries his best to avoid Lando's gaze. "Go away."

He glances at his phone, moving his thumb to the shut button, but not before one last notification flashes:

ynusername posted: "When your meme target starts liking your posts😳 #ironicfriends"

He huffs a laugh. Yeah, ironic friends. Sure.

He tells himself it'll blow over in a week. He tells himself it's not a big deal. But whenever his phone buzzes, another DM, another notification from her—he opens it immediately.

I'm frozen still, no clue what to do. The chat's going insane. Someone donated $15 with the message :

"OPEN. THE. DM"

I inhale like I'm about to disarm a bomb before snapping out of my stupor, muttering a messy "I—uhm—thanks for the 15 dollars user1—" before scrambling to pick up the phone I threw on my bed.

I sigh audibly before opening the message:

oscarpiastri: you're not wrong though.

There's a beat of silence—then you absolutely lose it.

"NO WAY. HE DID NOT JUST SAY THAT." I laugh hysterically. "CHAT, HE REPLIED. HE'S SELF-AWARE. I CAN'T—" clutching my stomach, I can feel the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I couldn't stop laughing, and it wasn't even that funny!

The donations are absolutely rolling in now:

"He's flirting 😭" "this is how WAG arcs begin, babe. you're one of them now" "Y/N AND OSCAR SPEEDRUNNING A SITUATIONSHIP???" "Idky, but this is my OTP now. Parents" "RESPOND GIRL OMG YOU'RE LEAVING HIM ON READ!!"

I quickly type out a message, breath caught in my throat as I flush red from embarrassment.

Chat collectively combusts.

"WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN" "PR-APPROVED BANTER?? OSCAR." "HE'S FLIRTING, HE'S FLIRTINGGGG" "that should've been me 😔💔"

I hide my face in my hands, silently screaming as my eyes peek out from between my fingers—reading the comments flowing through. The donations are going crazy, reaching double the subgoal, as I scramble out messy 'thank yous' and 'shout-outs'.

"Okay, I'm ending the stream before I actually die on stream. This is too much. I just accidentally sent a meme and flirted with an F1 driver live. I'm out! Goodnight chat, see you next stream!" The screen fades to the stream outtro "See You Next Time! <3" filling out the screen as the chat explodes in screaming emojis, love, and complaints.

It's the morning after the accidental DM and everything that followed. The sun was burning through my closed eyelids as I groan frustratingly. I had fallen asleep after pacing endlessly through my room, and even had a whole breakdown after I ended the stream earlier than planned.

I could feel the dread and adrenaline surging through me, making it impossible for me to go back to bed as I sat up—I sent the meme to Oscar Piastri, and he replied. He flirted. Chat still hasn't recovered.

Standing up and throwing on some comfy shorts and a sweatshirt, I open up my phone—deciding to dump all the drama to my friends in our chat.

I sighed, feeling the nerves building back up as I tried my best to stay calm. Ughhh—I hate this!

And whilst I continued on with my day, I slowly forgot about it. Like it was all just one very embarrassing dream. So, I went out to treat myself—A little shopping, if you will.

I walked around for a few hours, entering whichever shop caught my interest, and after a while, I came out with quite a few bags—to say the least. Oopsies!

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Liked by: bff.ophelia, f1gossip, oscarpiastri and 3.8K others

ynusername: treating myself after heavily embarrassing myself on stream yesterday <3

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bff.ophelia: bbg why didnt you invite me?! 💔💔 ♥︎ by author

⤷ ynusername: next time! promise! 🙏❤️ ⤷ bff.ophelia: I'm holding you to that promise, babes.

friend1: We NEED to have a group hangout! Just us. ♥︎ by author

user3: You're literally SO fine oml, I need youuuu!

user4: OMG OSCAR IN THE LIKES???

⤷ bff.ophelia: 👀👀 ⤷ user4: IS THIS A SIGN??

user5: Ayo chill maybe it was just out of pity after she embarrassed herself on stream...

⤷ user4: Nah, I'm calling it. This is meant to be. TRUST. ⤷ user5: you'll just embarrass yourself.. dude, she has NO chance.

user6: He's been liking her older posts too! He's literally stalking her acc atp!!

⤷ user4: Oh, he down BAD bad.

ynusername has posted!

Liked by: bff.ophelia, f1gossip and 3.8K others

ynusername: Ready to stream a chill doomscroll with you guys! ❤️‍🔥

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bff.ophelia: I am SO ready for this!! 😍 ♥︎ by author

⤷ ynusername: not as ready as I am 💋💋

friend1: waiting in the loading screen <3 ♥︎ by author

user1: The chaos that's about to happen in these doomscroll streams

user2: nahhh who does she think she is...

⤷ bff.ophelia: Someone wayyy cooler than you, thats for sure. 💋 ♥︎ by author ⤷ user2: damn okay, chill.

I sit in the comforts of my bedroom, lights dimmed low, and the glaring brightness of my computer screen seems almost blinding as I scroll endlessly through twitter—my loving source of drama. The chat is with me, commenting on anything amusing or outrageous as I click in on the hashtag #Formula1 and begin the doomscroll.

"Alright Chat, we all know #Formula1 is unhinged as always, let's see what—" I pause, eyes catching on a specific photo. "OH MY GOD—Wait, wait—Chat! Look at this." Grinning like a cheshire cat, I move the cursor to emphasise a photo of Oscar Piastri, a meme. Nothing too negative, but hilariously dumb.

On screen, there's a photo of Oscar Piastri in his bright orange race gear, holding a long, shiny trophy and smirking down at it like it's the love of his life. The caption?

'me looking at my massive schlong (I'm a girl)'

I instantly lose it. "STOP. WHY IS THIS SO FUNNY? WHO MADE THIS? THIS IS PEAK INTERNET HUMOR CHAT!"

The chat is spamming "💀💀💀" and "Y/N BREATHE-" I take a screenshot, planning to send it to my best friend. "Hold on—hold on, Chat, I gotta send this to Ophelia!"

And I really did mean to send it to her—really. Except... my thumb just slipped.

I blink. Look closer. Blink again. The screen says:

Message sent to: @/oscarpiastri

There's a long pause as I stare at the screen that is my phone.

"No. No no no no no no NO. That did NOT just—"

And the comments are rolling in from the Chat.

"WHAT DID YOU DO???" "NOT OSCAR 😭😭😭" "SEND A FOLLOW-UP OMG"

I rise from my chair in a panic, pacing around my bedroom. Oh shit.

"Chat, do I delete it?? Do I pretend it was a... a meme submission?? A dare?? A glitch?? CHAT HELP."

Suddenly, a notification pops up, and I freeze. Completely still, like a statue.

oscarpiastri has replied to your message.

I stare at the Chat, eyes unfocused as the comments come in, rolling through faster then I can follow.

"I'm actually gonna pass away live on stream. OH MY GOD—"

Episodes 1-10 — coming soon

Ep 1 — “Wrong DM”

Ep 2 — “Ironic Friends”

Ep 3 — “Shouldn't or Won't?”

Ep 4 — “Twitter Detectives”

Ep 5 — “Disant Feelings”

Ep 6 — “A date?”

Ep 7 — “Denial.exe”

Ep 8 — “Credit your BF”

Ep 9 — “Important Invitation”

Ep 10 — “Hard Launch (kinda)”

Chapter Two: Flicker

The Tower feels different at night.

Daylight makes it sharp — all steel and glass, a place built to withstand blows and battles. But at night, with the city lights bleeding in through the high windows and the sound of rain still dripping off the roof, it softens. The walls don’t feel so clinical. The hum of the lights doesn’t sound so mechanical. It almost feels like a place meant to be lived in.

Almost.

You linger outside the common room, unsure whether to step in. Laughter spills into the hall in uneven bursts — Gar’s voice pitched high with excitement, Rachel’s cool sarcasm cutting through it, Tim groaning like he’s in pain. Someone’s arguing over the remote.

You shouldn’t be here. That thought digs in immediately. You don’t belong in their circle, in their easy rhythm. They’re a team, a family. You’re just the stray they dragged in from the rain.

But then a voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey — are you coming in, or planning to watch from the doorway all night?”

It’s Kory. She’s sprawled in an armchair, legs folded beneath her, hair lit gold by the TV glow. She doesn’t say it unkindly, more like she’s teasing. Inviting. Her hand sweeps toward the couch.

You freeze anyway, instincts screaming to retreat, but then you catch him.

Dick.

He’s on the far end of the couch, posture deceptively loose, though you can tell he’s ready to move at any second. His eyes flick to yours and hold steady. No push, no pressure. Just that quiet steadiness you’re starting to recognize as his way of saying you’re safe.

So you step inside.

The couch is already crowded — Gar is upside down, head hanging off the edge, and Rachel has claimed a pillow fortress, arms wrapped tight around one. Tim sits cross-legged with the remote like it’s a weapon, jabbing at the buttons while the screen scrolls endlessly through options.

You slide into the last bit of open space at the far side, careful not to touch anyone, keeping your shoulders tucked in.

No one makes a big deal of it. The chatter resumes almost immediately, like you’ve been part of this mess the whole time.

The movie starts — something old, probably picked because it’s light enough to make Gar happy and weird enough to keep Rachel entertained. You don’t pay attention to the plot at first. You’re too busy watching them.

Gar keeps a running commentary until Tim throws a popcorn kernel at him. Rachel mutters threats about muting them both with her powers, but she doesn’t look serious. Kory laughs at the wrong times, but her laugh is full-bodied and warm, and somehow it makes the room brighter.

It’s chaotic. Loud. Uncoordinated.

But it isn’t dangerous.

Halfway through, Rachel shoves something into your hands. A blanket. She doesn’t even glance at you, already wrapped up in her own cocoon, but there’s a quiet solidarity in the gesture. No expectations. No strings. Just here, take this.

You hold it for a beat too long, unsure if it’s a trap, but eventually you unfold it and wrap it around your shoulders. The weight anchors you. It’s heavier than you expect — soft in a way your body doesn’t know what to do with.

When you risk a glance, Dick’s watching. Only for a second, before he looks back at the screen. But you catch it. That almost-smile tugging at his mouth. That silent acknowledgment of good. You stayed.

And strangely, it doesn’t make you want to run.

The movie drags on. Someone throws more popcorn — half lands in Gar’s hair, the other half misses entirely. Tim insists it’s too cheesy, Rachel argues it’s “ironically good,” and Kory sides with Gar purely to watch Tim roll his eyes.

By the time the credits roll, Gar is passed out sideways across the cushions, mouth open. Rachel’s curled into her pillow like she’s planning to fuse with it. Tim is still ranting about plot holes. Kory scrolls her phone, amused, as if she’s babysitting the lot of them.

And you’re still sitting there.

You should leave. That old survival instinct itches at your ribs: don’t get too comfortable. Don’t linger too long. But you don’t move.

You just sit, the blanket still around you, watching the way the TV light flickers across their faces. You’ve been in a dozen rooms that looked like this — people together, talking, eating, laughing — but none of those rooms ever felt like this.

Safe.

Not perfect. Not forever. But safe.

When the group starts to disperse — Rachel heading down the hall without a word, Gar snoring as Kory nudges him awake — you finally stand. The blanket slides down your shoulders, and you fold it quickly, too aware of your hands, setting it on the couch like you never touched it.

That’s when Dick moves. He rises smoothly, stretching once before stepping closer. He doesn’t crowd you, doesn’t say much at all. Just tilts his head toward the hallway.

“Come on,” he says quietly.

It’s not an order. It’s not pity either. It’s something gentler.

You follow without really meaning to.

When you reach your room, he lingers just outside the doorway. Hands in his pockets, voice low.

“You did good tonight.”

You blink at him. “I… didn’t do anything.”

His mouth curves — not a smile exactly, but close. “You stayed. That’s more than enough.”

And then, just like that, he turns and walks away, giving you space.

That night, you don’t sit pressed against the wall. You don’t count the shadows creeping across the ceiling.

You lie down. On the bed. Blanket tucked to your chin.

The laughter from down the hall fades slowly, muffled by distance. But it lingers in your chest, echoing softer than the storm you’ve carried for so long.

For once, it doesn’t feel foreign.

It feels like the start of something.

Something you’re not sure you trust yet — but maybe, just maybe, you want to.

Sorry it took so long to update, I've just been extremely busy with school and external plans! But here it is! The long-awaited chapter 3!