#colapinto

It started small.

A shared laugh over a gelato in Melbourne. A good luck charm you’d tied to his roll hoop in Imola that the cameras caught in loving close up. By the time the circus rolled into Monaco, the narrative had solidified. #ColapintoWAG trended for a full twelve hours after you were spotted walking into the paddock together, his arm slung casually over your shoulders.

“They’re obsessed,” Franco would say, scrolling through his phone with a bemused shake of his head. His green eyes would find yours, crinkled at the corners with that smile that had been your undoing since you were seventeen. “They have no idea what they’re talking about.”

And you'd smile back, the practiced, easy smile of a best friend. The smile you'd perfected over eight years of swallowing your own heart. "Let them talk. It's good for your brand."

"Maybe." He'd toss his phone aside, lean back, and look at you in that way he had, like you were a puzzle he'd been trying to solve for years and kept getting wrong. "Maybe I don't care about my brand."

"You care about everything."

"I care about you."

He said it so casually, so easily, like it didn't split you open every single time. Like the word care could possibly contain the enormity of what you felt for him.

But every time he said it, a tiny, treacherous part of you withered a little more. Because care was not love. Care was what you felt for a teammate, a friend, a person who handed you a towel after a race and knew your coffee order. Care was safe. Care was not the thing that kept you up at night, staring at hotel ceilings, running through every interaction you'd ever had, searching for clues that weren't there.

Because they didn't know what they were talking about. The fans, the journalists, the strangers on the internet who had conjured an entire romance out of thin air, spinning it from nothing but a shared glance and a careless touch. They didn't know that you weren't his girlfriend. That you weren't the one whose name he whispered into the radio after a victory, the one whose hand he clasped beneath the table at every gala, the one he sought out in every crowded room with that crooked, devastating smile and eyes that held a universe you were never quite allowed to enter. They didn't know that you were nothing more than his best friend. His confidante. His safe harbor. The person who caught him when he fell and then watched him walk away, every single time, toward someone who wasn't you.

And it killed you. At first, it was an agonizing pain, a pain that split you in half, a pain that came from knowing that even though Franco always chose you for the important things, for the victories, for the defeats, for the 3 a.m. nights full of unanswered questions, he never chose you for that. To stay. To love you the way you loved him.

You were his anchor. His safe harbor. The person who knew he took his coffee with three sugars and got cranky when he hadn't eaten. The one who read him boring textbook pages until his breathing slowed and his eyes finally closed before a race. You were the one who'd held his helmet after his first points finish, tears streaming down both your faces, the victory feeling as much yours as his.

And that was the problem, wasn't it?

The victory wasn't yours. None of it was. You were standing in the shadow of his spotlight, close enough to feel the heat of his flame, close enough to burn,but never close enough to be seen. Never close enough to be his.

Not really.

You were also the one who had to stand by and watch as the rumors attached themselves to other women.

MIAMI 2025

It was a model in Miami.

You saw the photos before he did. You were sitting in the corner of the team party, the kind of glittering, soulless event Franco had insisted you attend with him para no morirse de aburrimiento, as he would say with that lopsided grin you could never say no to. And then your phone buzzed. A notification. A gossip account you'd never admit to following, the kind you checked in secret, alone, in the dark, like an addict looking for their next hit of pain.

F1's Hottest New Couple? Colapinto Spotted Getting Cozy with Model Sofia R.

Your thumb moved before your brain could stop it.

The photos were grainy, taken from across the room, but there was no mistaking him. The line of his jaw. The way he leaned in to hear her over the music, his head tilted at that angle you'd memorized. The way his hand rested on the small of her back, the same spot he always touched you.

And her. Tall. Blonde. Effortlessly elegant in a way you could never be. She was laughing at something he'd said, her head thrown back, her hand lingering on his arm like she had every right to be there.

You locked your phone and shoved it in your pocket. You took a sip of your warm bottle of water. You stared at a potted plant in the corner of the rooftop and counted the leaves so you wouldn't have to think about the way your chest was caving in.

You're his best friend, you told yourself. This is what you signed up for. You get the 3 a.m. phone calls after a bad race. You get the inside jokes. You don't get the kisses. You don't get the right to be jealous.

The plant had forty-seven leaves. You counted them three times.

When you finally looked up, Franco was making his way toward you, a drink in each hand, his smile firmly in place. He looked happy. Relaxed. Like he hadn't just been photographed with one of the most beautiful women in the world.

"There you are," he said, pressing a cold glass of water into your hand. His fingers brushed yours, and you flinched. He didn't seem to notice. "I was looking for you. Sofia wanted to meet you."

"Sofia?"

"Yes, Sofia,  A girl I've been talking to.” The words landed softly, carelessly, like stones dropped into still water, except the water was your chest, and the stones were razors. "She is a model for Alpine. She's nice. She does a lot of charity work." He shrugged, like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just reached into your ribcage and pulled out something warm and beating. Like he hadn't just handed you a fresh wound and expected you to say thank you. "I told her about you."

"What did you tell her?"

"That you're my best friend. That you've known me longer than anyone." His eyes softened. "That you're the most important person in my life."

Most important. Not the person I love. Not the one I want.

That should have been enough. More than enough. It should have brought warmth to your chest, a quiet glow, a sense of being seen. But instead, it only brought pain, a deep, dull ache that settled into your bones with every syllable of those two small words. Most important. As if being important was the same as being chosen. As if being his anchor meant you weren't still drowning.

Because it wasn't the warmth you felt when he called you that. It was cold knowing that most important was just a consolation prize. A ribbon for second place. A pat on the head before he turned around and walked toward someone else.

"Sounds like you gave her a lot to live up to," you said, and the words came out wrong, even bitter, sharp, nothing like the easy smile you'd been practicing.

Fuck. 

Franco's brow furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." You took a long sip of water, using the glass to hide your face. "She's beautiful. You two looked good together."

"We're not together. We just met."

"You had your hand on her back."

He blinked. "What?"

"Nothing. Forget it." You set the glass down on a passing tray. "I'm tired. I think I'm going to head back to the hotel."

"Pecas"

And the sound of the nickname, the one he had been calling you for so many years, is the same that is causing a strange feeling inside you. A feeling you didn't want to name. A feeling that sat heavy in your stomach, crawled up your throat, and whispered that if you stayed one more second, you would break into pieces right there on the rooftop. And you knew, deep in your bones, that you had to run. You had to get away from that place as fast as possible. Before he saw it. Before he asked. 

"Goodnight, Franco."

You walked away before he could say anything else. You didn't look back. You couldn't. Because if you looked back, you would have seen the confusion on his face, and that confusion would have broken you in a way the photos never could.

He didn't understand. He never understood. He moved through the world like a golden retriever, tail wagging, unaware of the destruction in his wake. He flirted because it was easy. He touched because he was tactile. He called you Pecas because it was a habit, a nickname, nothing more.

And you loved him anyway. You loved him so much it was a sickness, a fever that never broke, a wound that never healed.

BARCELONA 2025

If Miami had been a storm, Barcelona was the hurricane that followed.

This time, there were no photos. No grainy shots taken from across a crowded room, no zoomed-in close-ups of a hand on a back, no speculative captions written by strangers who didn't know either of you.

No, this time you heard it with your own ears.

And that was even worse. 

You were walking through the paddock, minding your own business, trying to shake off the heavy weight of another sleepless night, when a journalist stopped you. Her microphone was shoved in your face before you could even register what was happening. Her eyes were bright, hungry, gleaming with the promise of a story, your story, your pain, served up as entertainment for anyone who cared to click.

"Y/N! Y/N! Can you comment on the photos of Franco with influencer Lucia Varga? They were seen leaving a yacht together last night. Are you two still together? Is there trouble in paradise?"

You stared at her. The words didn't make sense. Yacht. Influencer. Together.

"I'm sorry," you said, your voice robotic. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on, you must have seen them. Every outlet is running the story. Look." She shoved her phone in your face, and there it was. A photo from a yacht. A man's hand resting on a woman's thigh. The hand had a small scar on the knuckle, the same scar you'd kissed better after a karting accident years ago, when he'd crashed and you'd held his hand in the medical center and told him he was still the best driver you'd ever seen.

You knew that hand. You knew every line, every callus, every small imperfection. You had held that hand through victories and defeats, through panic attacks and celebrations, through the darkest nights and the brightest days.

And now it was on another woman's thigh.

"I have to go," you said.

"Y/N"

You walked away. You didn't run, you refused to run, but you walked quickly, your heels clicking against the paddock floor, your vision blurring at the edges. You made it to the bathroom before your knees gave out.

You knelt on the cold tile floor and threw up.

Not dramatically, you made it to the stall in time but your body convulsed, rejecting something you couldn't name. The jealousy. The heartbreak. The eight years of loving someone who would never love you back.

When you came out, your phone was ringing.

Franco ❤️

You let it go to voicemail.

Franco ❤️ Pick up.

Franco ❤️ Please.

You typed back: Busy. Talk later.

A lie. You were never busy. You had built your entire life around being available for him. Every schedule, every plan, every decision, it all revolved around Franco. Where he was going. What he needed. How you could help.

You had given him everything. And he had given you... what? A nickname. A hand on your back. A lifetime of almost.

An hour later, he found you in the garage. You were sitting on a tool chest, staring at nothing, your phone dark in your hand.

"Pecas." He crouched in front of you, his eyes searching your face. "You're not answering my texts."

"I was busy."

"Bussy? Bussy doing what?"

"Counting the number of ways my life would be different if I'd never let you drag me out of math class."

He blinked. "What?"

"Nothing." You stood up, stepping around him. "The photos are nice. She's pretty."

"Y/N, stop." He grabbed your wrist, his grip gentle but firm. "It's not what it looks like. The team organized the yacht thing. It's PR. Lucia is a friend of a sponsor. I barely talked to her."

"Your hand was on her thigh."

"I was…" He stopped. Ran his free hand through his hair. "I don't know why I did that. I wasn't thinking."

"That's the problem, Franco. You never think. You just... do things. And I have to watch."

"Watch what?"

You pulled your wrist free. "You really don't see it, do you?"

"See what?"

The question hung in the air between you. You could feel the answer sitting on your tongue I'm in love with you, I've been in love with you for eight years, and every time you touch someone else I feel like I'm dying but you couldn't say it. You couldn't.

Because if you said it, everything would change. And you were terrified of what would come after.

"Nothing," you said. "Forget it."

You walked away. He didn't follow.

As you walked away from the garage with quick steps and your head down, you replayed everything that was happening in your mind. You relived the last conversations, every word said and unsaid, every glance you had misinterpreted, every silence you had filled with false hope. And you mentally beat yourself up, over and over, for ruining the relationship you loved most in the world, just because you couldn't get over him. Just because you couldn't move on with your life.

But the thing was,  that Franco made it impossible to move on.

Because he flirted with you constantly, but it was the kind of flirting that could be explained away. The kind that lived in plausible deniability. The kind that made you question your own sanity.

It was the way he'd look at you across a crowded room, his head tilted, a lazy smile playing on his lips, like you were the only person worth seeing. The way he'd lean in too close when he talked to you, his breath warm against your ear, his hand finding the small of your back like it belonged there.

"Te ves bien hoy. Demasiado bien."he'd said in Melbourne, his eyes dragging over you in a way that made your stomach flip. " Voy a tener que agarrarme a los golpes con la gente"

"Franco," you'd laugh, pushing his shoulder. "Stop."

"I'm serious," he'd said, catching your hand before you could pull away, his thumb tracing a slow circle on your palm. "Maybe I should get you a team kit. Mark my territory."

Your heart had slammed against your ribs. "I'm not a territory."

"No," he'd agreed, his voice dropping. "You're much more important than that."

Then he'd let go, flashed you that devastating grin, and walked off to his engineering meeting like he hadn't just set your entire nervous system on fire.

In private, he was even worse.

"Pecas," he'd say when you were both sprawled on his hotel room couch, some terrible reality show playing on the TV. "Come here. I need a cuddle."

"You're a grown man. You don't need a cuddle."

"I had a bad race," he'd pout, already tugging at your arm. "I'm fragile. Delicate. You have to take care of me."

"You're the least delicate person I've ever met."

But you'd always go. You'd let him pull you against his chest, his chin hooking over your shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist like a vice. He'd press his face into your hair, inhale deeply, and let out a contented sigh.

"Smells like home," he'd murmur, and you'd have to close your eyes against the ache in your chest.

Once, in Monaco, you'd fallen asleep like that. You'd woken up to find him watching you, his face inches from yours, his expression soft in a way that made your breath catch.

"You're staring," you'd whispered.

"You're pretty when you sleep," he'd said, not even pretending to be embarrassed. "You're pretty all the time, actually. It's a problem."

"How is it a problem?"

"Because I get distracted," he'd said, his voice dropping to that low register that did things to you. "I'll be in the car, going 300 kilometers an hour, and I'll think about your smile and suddenly I'm missing my braking point."

You'd laughed, pushing at his chest. "That's not my fault."

"It's entirely your fault," he'd said, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering. "You're a hazard, Pecas. A beautiful, dangerous hazard."

Then he'd let you go, rolled off the couch, and announced he was going for a run, leaving you breathless and confused and more in love with him than ever.

You told yourself it was a game to him. He was naturally charming, naturally affectionate. He flirted with everyone, literally anybody, the engineers, the media, the catering staff. You weren't special. You were just the one who'd been there the longest.

But every time he looked at you like that, every time his hands lingered, every time his voice dropped to that intimate murmur, a small, desperate part of you whispered: What if he means it?

And then a photo would surface of him with another woman, and that whisper would die, and you'd be left with nothing but the silence and the ache.

SINGAPORE 2025

Singapore was the worst.

The humidity was a physical weight, pressing down on you as you watched him from the periphery of another sterile, glamorous event. The team had rented out a rooftop bar overlooking the city, and the skyline glittered behind them like a thousand false promises.

He was laughing with a tall, statuesque brunette, an heiress of some kind, according to the whispers that followed her like perfume. She was beautiful in that effortless, untouchable way that made you feel small and plain and invisible. Her dress probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. Her smile was a weapon.

He leaned in to hear her over the music, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back.

That casual, possessive touch. The one he gave you when you were navigating a crowded street, or when he was guiding you through a throng of photographers. It was a gesture of protection, of closeness. But seeing it directed at someone else felt like a shard of glass lodged beneath your ribs, twisting with every breath.

And then, as if he could sense you watching, he looked up.

His eyes found yours across the room, and for a moment, neither of you moved. His hand was still on her back, but he wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking at you, his expression unreadable.

Then he smiled. Not the easy, public smile he gave to cameras and fans. A different smile. Smaller. Private. It was the smile he gave you when you were alone, when you were curled up on his hotel room couch and he was telling you something he'd never told anyone else.

He tilted his head slightly: You okay?

You forced a smile, gave him a thumbs up, and turned away before he could see the way your hands were shaking.

You excused yourself to the restroom, the sound of your own heartbeat a dull roar in your ears. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, at the unshed tears making your eyes unnaturally bright.

You're his best friend, you told the woman in the mirror. This is what you signed up for. You don't get to be jealous.

But you were. God, you were. The jealousy was a living thing, a parasite that had burrowed into your chest and was eating you alive from the inside. Every photo, every rumor, every hand on someone else's back, it fed the thing, made it grow, made it stronger.

When you returned, the heiress was gone. Franco was alone, two drinks in his hands. His face lit up when he saw you, and he navigated the crowd towards you with the focused grace he used on track.

"There you are," he said, pressing a cold glass of water into your hand. "I was about to send out a search party."

"Just needed some air," you said, taking a sip. The cool liquid did nothing to quell the fire in your chest.

His brow furrowed. He knew you too well. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." You pasted on a smile. "Just tired. Long weekend."

He didn't look convinced. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, close enough that you had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes.

"You sure?" he asked, his voice low. "Because if something's bothering you, I want to know. I don't like it when you're quiet."

"I'm always quiet."

"No, you're not." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "You talk to me. You tell me everything. That's kind of our thing, Pecas."

Your breath caught. His hand lingered at the side of your face, his thumb grazing your cheekbone.

"Franco," you started, but the words died in your throat.

His eyes dropped to your lips for the briefest moment, so brief you almost missed it. Then he pulled back, his hand falling to his side, his expression carefully neutral.

"Come on," he said, his voice lighter. "Let's get out of here. I want a burger. A real one. None of this fancy canapé nonsense."

You let him lead you out, his hand finding its familiar place on the small of your back. The same spot. The same warmth. And you hated yourself for how desperately you craved it, even as it reminded you of what you'd just seen.

That night, alone in your hotel room, you lay awake until 4 a.m., staring at the ceiling, playing back every moment of the past eight years. Every touch. Every glance. Every almost.

And you made a decision.

You couldn't do this anymore. You couldn't be his best friend. You couldn't watch him fall in love with someone else. You couldn't stand beside him while your heart slowly, quietly, killed you.

When the sun came up, you would start planning your exit. You would go back to your own life, the career you'd put on hold, the apartment you barely saw, the friends you'd neglected. You would learn how to exist without him.

It would hurt. It would hurt more than anything you'd ever done. But staying was worse. Staying was a slow death, and you were tired of dying by inches.

AUSTIN 2025

The breaking point came after a disastrous qualifying in Austin.

The car had been a handful all weekend, unpredictable, twitchy, fighting Franco at every corner. He'd qualified P15, his worst result in months, and the frustration was rolling off him in waves so tangible you could almost taste it. You were waiting by his driver's room, ready with your usual post-qualifying protocol: silence if he wanted it, a sarcastic remark if he needed to laugh, a fierce hug if he looked like he was about to crumble.

He emerged, his race suit tied around his waist, his hair a mess, his jaw tight with suppressed anger. But before he could see you, a reporter cornered him.

You were about to step in, to pull him away, to shield him from the vultures when you heard her question.

"Franco! Big news today! You were seen leaving a restaurant in town with pop star Camila Moreno last night. Any truth to the rumors you two are dating?"

You froze. Your heart plummeted into your stomach, then kept falling, down through the floor, through the earth, into some dark place where light didn't reach.

You hadn't heard about this. You'd been in the hotel room, waiting for him to text you about a late-night food run. He'd said he was going to get dinner with his trainer.

His trainer.

Franco's expression flickered. He ran a hand through his hair, a telltale sign of discomfort, of being caught off guard. "Ah, no, no," he said, his voice carrying that easy, charming cadence that made him so beloved by fans and media alike. "Camila is just a friend. We were having dinner, that's all. Getting to know each other."

Getting to know each other.

The phrase echoed in your skull, each repetition a hammer blow, a nail in the coffin of your heart. It wasn't a denial. It wasn't a correction. It was an opening. A beginning. A door left ajar for something more.

Getting to know each other. That was how things started. That was how relationships began. With dinner. With conversation. With a hand on a back and a laugh at a joke and the slow, inevitable slide from just friends to something more.

You couldn't stay. The idea of walking up to him, of pretending you hadn't heard, of being the supportive best friend while he casually paved the way for a new romance was a physical impossibility. The shard of glass in your ribs had become a blade, and it was twisting, carving, destroying.

You turned and walked away.

Your steps were quick, silent, automatic. You didn't know where you were going away, anywhere, somewhere he wasn't. You slipped through the garage, past the mechanics packing up their tools, past the engineers huddled over laptops, past the security guard who called out your name in confusion.

And then you were outside, in the humid Austin night, and the air was thick and heavy and you couldn't breathe.

You hailed the first taxi you saw, gave the name of the hotel, and climbed into the back seat. The door closed. The world became small and dark and safe.

The tears came then. Not the quiet, dignified tears you'd been holding back for years. These were ugly tears, sobbing, gasping, body-shaking cries that made the taxi driver glance at you in the rearview mirror with concern. You didn't care. You couldn't care. You were past caring.

Your phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then it started ringing.

Franco ❤️

You declined the call.

He called again. You declined again.

Franco ❤️: Where are you?

Franco ❤️: Pick up.

Franco ❤️: Please.

Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely type.

You: Headache. Went back to the hotel. Get some rest. We'll talk tomorrow.

It was a lie, of course. You weren't going to talk tomorrow. You weren't going to talk ever again. You were going to go back to your hotel room, pack your suitcase, book the earliest flight out of Austin, and disappear from his life like you'd never been there at all.

Being his best friend had been a beautiful, excruciating privilege. But you couldn't do it anymore. You couldn't watch him fall in love with someone else. You couldn't stand in the wings while someone else took the role you'd been auditioning for since you were seventeen.

You loved him. God, you loved him. You loved him so much it had reshaped your entire life, your entire identity, your entire sense of self. You had built yourself around him like a vine around a trellis, and now you were being ripped away, and you didn't know if there would be anything left of you when you landed.

But you had to try.

An hour later, you were in your hotel room, a half packed suitcase on the bed, when a frantic knock started on the door.

"Y/N. Por favor. Open the door."

You froze, a handful of clothes in your hand. Your first instinct was to pretend you weren't there, to turn off the lights, to hide in the bathroom, to wait him out. But Franco was nothing if not persistent. The knocking continued, harder now, more urgent.

"Y/N. I know you're in there. I can see the light under the door." A pause. His voice cracked. "Please. Please. I'm begging you."

With a shaking hand, you turned the lock.

He pushed the door open, still in his team kit, his eyes wild with worry. His hair was disheveled, his face flushed, like he'd run all the way from the track. His eyes swept over you, then landed on the suitcase. The color drained from his face so fast you thought he might be sick.

"What are you doing?" he whispered, stepping inside. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing you both in the small, suffocating room.

"Going home," you said. Your voice was steadier than you felt. It was the voice you used for difficult phone calls, for bad news, for moments when you had to pretend you weren't falling apart. "I have work. I've been here too long. I'm getting behind."

"Bullshit," he said. The curse was sharp, sudden, a crack in his careful composure. He took a step closer, then another, until he was close enough to touch. "You've been pulling away for weeks. Months. You're quiet. You won't look at me. And now you're packing in the middle of the night after a bad qualifying because you have a headache?" He shook his head, his jaw tight, his eyes bright with something that looked like panic. "Tell me the truth."

"The truth?" A brittle laugh escaped you a horrible, hollow sound that didn't sound like you at all. "You want the truth, Franco?"

"Sí. I'm begging you."

You dropped the clothes on the bed. Your hands were trembling so badly you had to press them against your thighs to still them.

"I heard you," you said. "Tonight. With the reporter. 'Getting to know her.' Just like the model in Miami. Just like the influencer in Barcelona. Just like the heiress in Singapore. I have to stand there, and smile, and be your friend while I watch you do this. While I watch you charm them and flirt with them and put your hands on them. While I wait for the day you bring one of them to me and say, 'Hey, this is my girlfriend. Isn't she great?'"

His eyes widened. "What? No. That 's not…"

"I can't do it anymore." Your voice cracked, splintered, fell apart. "I can't be that person anymore. I can't be your anchor, your safe harbor, the person who holds your hand after a bad race and reads you to sleep and knows your coffee order and pretends it's enough."

"Y/N…"

"I've been in love with you for eight years, Franco." The words came out like a confession, like a wound finally lanced. "Eight years. Since we were seventeen, sitting on the hood of your dad's car, drinking those terrible Mates. I've loved you through every race, every move, every late night phone call. I've loved you while you dated other people. I've loved you while you put your hands on other women. I've loved you while you called me Pecas and meant nothing to it."

You were crying now. You hadn't noticed when it started, but tears were streaming down your face, hot and relentless.

"And every rumor, every 'just a friend,' every time I see your hand on someone else's back... it kills me. It literally kills me. I feel like I'm dying, Franco. I feel like I'm drowning, and you're standing on the shore, and you don't even see me."

"Pecas…"

"Don't." You held up a hand, stopping him. "Don't call me that. Not now. I can't…I can't hear it right now."

He fell silent. His face was pale, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. He looked like someone who had just been told the world was ending.

"I know you don't see me that way," you continued, your voice dropping to a whisper. "I've always known. You flirt with everyone. You're just like that. I'm not special. I'm just the one who stayed. But I can't stay anymore. It hurts too much. So I'm going home. And you can…you can go be with Camila, or whoever comes next. And I'll figure out how to live without you. I'll have to."

The silence that followed was deafening. You couldn't look at him. You stared at the geometric pattern of the hotel carpet gray and beige, ugly and impersonal and tried to remember how to breathe.

Then, two sneakers appeared in your field of vision. His hands came up, cupping your face, tilting it up with a gentle, inexorable force.

His eyes were shimmering. Tears clung to his lashes, and one had already escaped, tracking down his cheek. His face was open in a way you'd never seen raw, vulnerable, stripped of all the charm and bravado he wore like armor.

"You are so stupid," he breathed. His voice was raw, wrecked, barely audible. "So, so stupid."

You blinked. "What?"

"All of them." His thumbs stroked your cheekbones, wiping away tears even as new ones fell. "The model. The influencer. The heiress. The pop star. They were all... distractions. Attempts. To find... you."

Your mind went blank. The words didn't make sense. They couldn't make sense. "I don't... what?"

He let out a sound that was half a laugh, half a sob. "I've been in love with you since we were seventeen." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like he was telling you the sky was blue or the track was wet. "I've been in love with you for eight years. I just... I didn't think I deserved you."

"Franco…"

"You're my best friend. You're the only person who matters. And I thought if I went out with other girls, if I tried to... I don't know, replicate what I feel with you with someone else, maybe the feeling would go away. Maybe I could be normal and just love you as a friend." His voice cracked, splintering like glass under too much pressure. "But every single time, I was just looking for you in them. Their laugh wasn't as loud as yours. Their eyes weren't as kind. They didn't know about the coffee or the hangry moods or how to calm me down before a race. They didn't know that I need someone to read to me when I can't sleep. They didn't know that I'm terrified of failing, every single day, and that you're the only one who makes me believe I won't."

He stepped closer, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. His forehead rested against yours, and you could feel his breath, uneven and warm, mixing with your own.

"I tried, Pecas," he whispered. "God, I tried so hard to stop loving you. To love you the way I'm supposed to love you as a friend, as my person, as the one who stays. But I can't. I've tried and I can't. Because every time I'm with someone else, I close my eyes and it's your face I see. Your voice I hear. Your hand I want to be holding."

A tear slipped down his cheek, falling onto your skin. Then another. And another.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely a breath. "I'm sorry for every photo. Every rumor. Every time I made you feel like you weren't enough. You were always enough. You were always everything. I was just too scared to say it."

And there, in that small hotel room in Austin, with the city lights streaming through the window and your half-packed suitcase on the bed, something inside you broke. But not from pain. Not this time. What broke was the wall you had built around your heart, the one you had raised brick by brick over eight years to protect yourself from him. And behind that wall, only one thing remained: the truth.

"You're an idiot," you whispered, but your hands were already grabbing his shirt, gripping the fabric between your fingers like you were afraid he would disappear.

"Yes," he nodded, with a trembling smile that didn't reach his tear filled eyes. "A complete idiot. But I'm your idiot. If you still want me."

You didn't say anything else. No more words were needed. Eight years of almost, of I almost love you, of I almost die without you, collapsed in a single second when you closed the distance between you and kissed him.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It wasn't a first-time kiss. It was a kiss of eight years of waiting, of sleepless nights, of tears shed in silence, of hands that reached for each other without daring to meet. It was the taste of salt from his tears and yours mixing together. It was the way his arms wrapped around you like he had finally, after so long, found something he had been searching for without knowing it.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, their foreheads still pressed together, he let out a shaky sigh.

"Franco," you said, with a smile you had been waiting eight years to give. The real one. The one that reached your eyes. The one that hid nothing. "Shut up and kiss me again."

And he did. And as his lips found yours again and again, softer now, more certain, more like home, you felt every wound, every doubt, every sleepless night begin to heal. Not completely. Not magically. But just enough to know that, finally, everything was okay.

Because love isn't about the years that pass. It's about the moment when two people finally decide to stop running and start staying.