#papaya

the supermarket feels louder than it should.

not in sound—just in pressure. you stand there with your basket hanging off your arm, staring at a shelf like it personally offended you.

“how is olive oil… that much?” you mutter under your breath. you pick it up anyway. then put it back. then pick it up again like it might suddenly become reasonable if you negotiate with it hard enough.

it doesn’t. your phone buzzes. once. then again.

a distraction you don’t even realise you need until it interrupts your internal spiral about rent, groceries, and the emotional damage of European pricing systems.

you glance down.

his name.

osc. not oscar. you couldn't bring yourself to change the contact name even though he did.

for a second, you just stare at it. like your brain hasn’t decided how to interpret that combination of letters yet.

then you open it.

hey

my next race is coming up soon

you read it once.

twice.

your grip on the basket loosens slightly without you noticing.

you keep reading.

we’ve got passes if you want to come

a pause.

your heart does something stupidly familiar at the words want to come. like it remembers before you do. then the next message loads. and it’s worse.

in the best and worst way at the same time.

actually

please come

you stand very still in the middle of aisle seven.

surrounded by pasta and prices and fluorescent lighting that suddenly feels too bright for your face.

someone brushes past you with a trolley and you barely move.

your brain is trying to hold two completely incompatible realities at once:

olive oil costs a small fortune now

oscar piastri just asked you to come to his race like it still makes sense for you to be there

you let out a breath that turns into a laugh halfway through it. not because it’s funny. because it’s overwhelming in a very specific way you forgot still existed.

“you’ve got to be joking,” you whisper to your phone.

like he can hear you. like he ever stopped, somehow. your thumb hovers over the screen. you should think.

you should not respond immediately.

you should not let this pull you out of whatever careful distance you’ve built.

your fingers go cold.

you’re aware of the supermarket again in fragments—someone behind you, the hum of fridges, the faint squeak of a trolley wheel—but none of it feels anchored anymore.

because your brain is still stuck on the fact that he is here. in your phone. after months of silence that you had almost fully learned how to live inside.

you blink once.

then again.

your grip on the basket loosens slightly and you don’t notice until it tilts against your leg.

because your brain is somewhere else entirely.

trying to reconcile:

he sounds like he needs you. like he craves your presence the way you've been craving for his, like a sunflower stretching out to the sunlight.

months of silence

with this

with him

with please come

needs you

needs you

needs you

“what the hell,” you whisper under your breath. not angry. not amused.

just completely thrown.

your thumb hovers over the reply.

but you don’t type anything yet.

because for the first time in a long time, he hasn’t just drifted into your life quietly.

he’s giving you the option to be pulled back into it.

you don’t reply straight away, not because you’re ignoring him, but because you can’t quite figure out how to put your brain back into a normal shape after that.

so instead, you just stand there in the supermarket a moment too long, phone still in your hand, basket hanging off your arm like you forgot it belongs to you.

people move around you.

life continues.

no one else looks like they’ve just had their entire internal system disrupted by three short messages.

eventually, you force yourself to breathe properly again.

in.

out.

a little shaky, but functional. then you walk to the end of the aisle like nothing happened, like your entire emotional world didn’t just tilt slightly off-axis between olive oil and pasta.

you don’t even remember what you were originally buying anymore.

when you get home, you drop your bag by the door and sit down on your bed still fully dressed. phone still in your hand. like if you put it down, it might stop being real.

it’s ridiculous, you tell yourself.

it’s just a text.

just three texts.

from a person who used to be part of your everyday life. from a person who felt like a piece of your soul left behind.

but that’s the problem. he isn’t anymore.

you stare at the screen again.

read it again. like repetition will make it less sharp.

it doesn’t. if anything, it does the opposite.

because now it’s not shock. it’s awareness.

it’s the fact that he thought of you enough to say it. like he's extending an invitation to have you back in his life. his way of asking you if you'd please come back.

come back.

come back.

come back.

after everything that’s been quiet. after everything that’s been distant.

you stare at your phone for a long time first, like it might rearrange itself if you wait long enough.

it doesn’t.

it just sits there, glowing softly in your hand, oscar’s messages still open like they’ve taken up permanent residence in your life again.

and you feel… off.

not happy. not upset. just unsteady.

like something long-buried just shifted slightly and now you can’t pretend it isn’t there anymore.

you just sit there with your phone in your lap.

oscar’s message still open in another tab.

your life still split into before and after his text like nothing else in the world happened today.

and for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like distance is the thing between you anymore.

it feels like time is about to collapse a little bit again.

and you’re not sure yet whether you’re ready for what falls out when it does.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

oscar is bored out of his mind.

not the dramatic kind of bored. the corporate kind.

the kind that comes from standing in a fitted mclaren polo for three consecutive hours while smiling politely at people who keep asking variations of the same question.

a sponsor event somewhere in the UK.

bright lights, perfectly arranged displays.

expensive watches.

expensive cars.

expensive people talking about "brand synergy."

oscar is approximately three minutes away from climbing into the nearest race car and driving through a wall.

across the room, lando is somehow thriving.

chatting, laughing, taking photos.

making everyone feel like they're his best friend.

oscar watches him for a moment and decides they're fundamentally different species.

"having fun?" lando asks as he walks past.

oscar deadpans.

"immensely."

lando snorts. "you look thrilled."

zak is speaking to someone important.

a camera flashes somewhere.

Someone asks oscar to stand beside a car and smile again.

he does.

because that's the job now. eventually there's a break.

a brief pocket of freedom.

oscar steps away from the crowd and immediately checks his phone out of habit.

not expectation.

habit.

and then he sees it.

i'll have to think about it.

for a second, he genuinely forgets where he is. the room fades slightly around the edges. the noise becomes background static. the event disappears.

his heart does something embarrassingly immediate.

before he knows, he's typing. please come, i really miss you.

he sighs shakily, watching the ticks turn blue again.

didn't feel like it all this time oscar.

the reply guts him. like a thousand cuts slashing his skin open and making red drops bleed on his skin.

which unfortunately is the exact moment Lando walks back into view.

"...why are you looking at your phone like that?"

oscar immediately wipes the expression off his face.

"i'm not."

"you literally are."

"am not."

lando narrows his eyes.

oscar immediately locks his phone. he can't face the hurt he caused you right now.

"who texted you?"

"no one."

"that's definitely someone."

oscar ignores him, which only confirms everything.

lando gasps dramatically.

"oh my God."

oscar closes his eyes.

"no."

"THERE'S A GIRL."

several nearby people turn around. oscar considers murder briefly.

"there isn't." "there absolutely is."

lando points accusingly.

"you've looked miserable at these events for like six months and suddenly you're looking like someone took your favourite toy, dangled it in front of you and snatched it away before you could grab it"

oscar hates how accurate that is.

"it's not like that."

lando stares. oscar stares back.

neither move.

"...it's exactly like that."

before oscar can formulate a response, another notification appears.

your name.

again.

don't think i'll be able to make it this time. good luck for the race.

his heart physically shatters.

the words hit harder than he expects. not because they're cruel.

they're not.

if anything, they're careful.

too careful.

he stares at the screen.

reads it again.

like maybe there's another sentence coming. some explanation. some reassurance. something that shows him that you're still the girl who tackled him to the ground giggling for defeating her at car racing, still the girl who made him taste test cookie dough until he got a stomach ache from all the raw eggs.

but all he sees is a young woman trying to protect herself from the hurt he caused by putting distance between you and him. a fortress he helped build.

Nothing.

around him, the event continues. people talking.

glasses clinking. lando's looking at him as if he realises something is breaking deep in his chest.

oscar barely hears any of it.

his thumb hovers over the keyboard.

then starts moving.

that's okay

he deletes it.

no worries

deletes that too.

neither of those are true.

eventually he types:

oh

then:

that's a shame

he stares at it.

hates it immediately.

deletes it.

because none of those words come close to what he's actually thinking.

so finally, for once in his life, he stops trying to sound unaffected.

i really miss you trouble. more than i can tell you.

the message sits there.

simple.

honest.

then he does something more terrifying.

i'm sorry y/n. i don't want to lose you. please come and give me a chance to explain myself darling.

his chest tightens the second he sends it.

because now it's out there. now you know.

or at least some version of it.

several minutes pass.

the longest minutes of his life. lando decides the best thing to do is go distract the sponsors and zak so oscar can continue whatever emotional exorcism he's having in private. he gives him a little nod and pat on the back.

then your reply appears.

it didn't really feel like it.

oscar goes completely still.

the rest follows immediately.

not these last few months.

or the last few years, if we're being honest.

and there it is.

the thing neither of you have actually said out loud before.

not the distance itself.

the hurt.

because distance can happen accidentally.

but hurt implies someone noticed.

his stomach drops. he reads it again. then again. then a fourth time.

not because he disagrees.

because he doesn't.

that's the worst part.

across the room someone calls his name.

he doesn't respond.

because all he can think about is you sitting somewhere in europe, finally saying the thing he's spent years pretending wasn't happening.

the missed calls.

the shorter conversations.

the birthdays reduced to messages.

the way he slowly stopped reaching out because every conversation made him miss you more.

the way he'd convinced himself that keeping some distance would somehow hurt less.

as if that had ever worked. another message appears.

anyway.

I don't think i can make it.

have fun though.

that's it.

no anger.

no accusation.

no dramatic ending.

just a door quietly closing.

and somehow that's worse. because he knows you.

if you were angry, he'd know what to do. if you were yelling, he'd know what to say.

but this?

this careful politeness?

this quiet resignation?

it terrifies him.

for the first time all evening, the room feels genuinely too small. he stands abruptly.

"loo?" someone asks.

oscar barely hears them. "be right back."

he walks out before anyone can stop him.

the hallway outside is empty.

quiet.

cold.

only then does he look at your messages again.

his chest hurts. actually hurts.

because you're right.

you are completely, devastatingly right.

he missed you every single day.

and somehow still managed to make you feel abandoned.

the realization settles heavily in his stomach. for years he'd been treating the missing as proof enough. proof that what you meant to him hadn't changed. but you couldn't see what was in his head.

you only saw what he did.

or didn't do.

and suddenly every unanswered text, every delayed call, every birthday message that should have been a conversation.

every year.

every month.

every missed opportunity.

they're all sitting in front of him at once.

lando finds him ten minutes later sitting alone on a bench outside the venue. phone still in his hand.

expression completely wrecked. "...mate?"

oscar doesn't answer immediately.

eventually he says quietly:

"i think i really fucked up." lando's face softens immediately.

because whatever he expected—

it wasn't that.

oscar stares down at your chat.

at the final message.

have fun though.

and for the first time in a very long time, the possibility occurs to him that maybe this isn't something he'll always get another chance to fix.

maybe the invisible string he's trusted his entire life—

the one that always seemed to pull the two of you back together—

is finally starting to fray.

and that thought scares him more than Formula 1 ever has.

"who is she?" lando asks quietly.

oscar is quiet for a moment.

trying to explain you feels impossible.

how do you explain someone who's been there for almost every version of your life?

finally he says:

"...my best friend."

lando nods slowly. ah. the best friend.

"the one from Australia?"

oscar looks up. "you remember that?"

"dude." lando looks offended.

"you've known her since you were like five."

fair.

the team knows about you.

not in detail.

not the important parts.

but enough.

enough to know there's always been someone.

enough to know that whenever melbourne comes up, oscar's entire personality shifts slightly.

lando watches him for a second.

then asks quietly:

"what happened?"

oscar hands him the phone.

lando reads. and immediately stops joking.

the silence stretches.

"...oh."

oscar looks away.

"yeah."

lando reads the messages again. slower this time. then hands the phone back.

"well."

oscar waits. "she's got a point."

oscar groans. drops his head into his hands.

"i know."

god.

he knows. that's the problem.

"i know."

the words come out rougher the second time.

lando watches him carefully.

"so why'd you stop talking to her?"

the question lands harder than expected.

because the answer sounds stupid when spoken aloud.

oscar stares at the pavement.

"...because I missed her."

lando blinks. "what?"

"i missed her." oscar laughs once. no humour in it.

"every time we'd talk I'd just miss her more."

the words sound ridiculous.

but they're true.

"when I moved." pause.

"then when she moved."

another pause.

"and then life just..."

he gestures vaguely.

"got busy."

lando waits.

oscar exhales sharply.

"i kept thinking i'd call tomorrow."

the confession comes easier now.

"or next week."

another laugh.

bitter this time.

"or after the next race. or after the next date with my ex."

lando nods slowly.

because he's been around long enough to understand that particular trap. the belief that relationships can sit untouched forever while life happens.

"and then?" lando asks quietly.

oscar swallows.

"and then suddenly it's years."

the words hurt because they're true.

the two of them sit there for a while.

eventually lando says:

"you know what the weird thing is?"

"what?"

"you're talking about her like she's your ex."

oscar snorts.

"she's not."

" i know."

lando looks at him. really looks at him "that's what's concerning."

oscar frowns.

lando continues "mate, I've had breakups." a pause.

"i know what people sound like when they're heartbroken."

another pause.

"and that's what you sound like."

oscar opens his mouth.

closes it.

because he doesn't actually have a counterargument.

lando sees it immediately.

"oh my god."

oscar groans "no."

"OH MY GOD." "lando."

"you've been in love with her this whole time."

oscar closes his eyes.

the worst part? the absolute worst part?

he can't even deny it convincingly.

because sitting here now, phone in hand, chest aching at the thought of you not coming—

it suddenly feels embarrassingly obvious.

the treehouse.

the letters.

the phone calls.

the years.

the fact that every important moment in his life somehow ends with him wishing you were there.

the fact that getting an F1 seat still felt incomplete until he got your congratulations message.

the fact that he misses you so much it physically hurts sometimes. the fact that the sound of your laugh still haunts him like a melody he wants played on his fucking deathbed.

lando is staring at him now.

absolutely delighted and horrified simultaneously.

"dude."

oscar groans louder.

"dude."

"please stop saying dude."

"dude."

oscar considers throwing the water bottle at him.

lando laughs.

then his expression softens. "call her."

oscar looks down at the messages.

the last thing you'd sent.

have fun though.

a goodbye disguised as politeness.

his chest tightens again.

"i don't think she wants to hear from me right now."

lando is quiet for a moment.

then:

"maybe."

a pause.

"but if she means half as much as you clearly think she does..."

another pause.

"...don't let pride be the reason you lose her."

and suddenly the bench feels very quiet.

because for the first time all evening—

oscar isn't thinking about the next race.

or the next sponsor event.

or Formula 1.

he's thinking about a girl in europe.

a treehouse in melbourne.

a backwards remote-controlled car.

an almost kiss on a wooden bench that wrecked him.

and the terrifying possibility that after spending half his life loving you—

he might actually have to tell you. or risk losing you.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the thing about baking is that it doesn't ask questions.

it doesn't care about complicated feelings or childhood best friends or texts that leave your chest aching three hours after you've read them.

it just gives you instructions.

measure this. whisk that. fold gently. bake. simple.predictable.

safe.

which is exactly why you're making your chocolate cake.

not just any chocolate cake.

your chocolate cake.

the one your mother claims is better than most bakery cakes.

the one your university friends request for birthdays.

the one that takes nearly an entire afternoon because apparently you enjoy making life difficult for yourself.

the one that collapsed on the christmas you tried to make it when you were 13 and oscar insisted it was the most gourmet looking dessert he'd ever seen. and then promptly eaten half of so you wouldn't be upset about how the cake had sunken in like a sad crater.

the kitchen smells heavenly, rich cocoa and warm vanilla filling the apartment as music hums softly from a speaker on the windowsill.

your hair is tied up.

your sweatshirt sleeves rolled to your elbows.

for the first time all day, your brain is almost quiet. almost.

because every now and then your eyes drift toward your phone.

lying face-down on the counter. your last text lying unanswered by him because what would he even reply to that?

you're halfway through pouring ganache over the top layer when your phone starts ringing.

mum.

you smile automatically.

"hi mum."

"put me on speaker."

you blink. "...what?" "put me on speaker." immediately suspicious. slowly, you set the spatula down. "mum." "speaker." you sigh. press the button. "there." instantly another voice explodes through the kitchen.

"HELLO DARLING."

you nearly drop the bowl. "nicole?"

your mother's laugh echoes through the phone.

"oh good, she's confused already."

you narrow your eyes.

"why are you two calling together?"

dangerous question.

because whenever your mother and nicole are together, things happen.

usually against your will.

the pair of them sound far too pleased with themselves.

"well," nicole says brightly.

"we have something to discuss."

"no."

"excuse me?"

"no."

your mother starts laughing.

"i haven't even said anything yet."

"i know that tone."

nicole gasps dramatically.

"she's onto us."

"you're both terrifying."

"correct," your mother agrees.

a pause.

then nicole says:

"You're coming to the race. oscar told me he invited you."

you freeze. actually freeze.

the ganache drips slowly down the side of the cake.

unnoticed.

"...what?"

"you're coming."

"no."

"yes."

"nicole."

"Y/N."

you pinch the bridge of your nose.

"no."

"too late."

"too late for what?"

your mother sounds entirely too cheerful.

"the flights are booked."

silence. complete silence.

you stare at the wall.

"...the WHAT?"

"the flights." "THE WHAT?"

nicole starts laughing. actually laughing.

"the flights." you close your eyes.

"mum."

"yes darling?"

"please tell me you didn't."

your mother absolutely did. you can hear it in her voice.

"oh sweetheart."

that means yes.

that tone always means yes.

you put a hand over your face.

"oh my God."

nicole is practically vibrating through the phone.

"you're coming with us."

"i literally said no."

"and we ignored you."

"that's not how consent works."

"too late."

you groan so loudly that both women start laughing.

because apparently your suffering is entertaining. "you two are impossible."

"thank you."

"that wasn't a compliment."

"it sounded like one."

you sink into a kitchen chair.

head dropping back.

the reality slowly starts catching up.

the race.

oscar.

seeing him.

actually seeing him.

not through a screen.

not through photographs.

not through memories.

adter all these years.

your stomach flips.

hard.

immediately nicole notices the silence.

her voice softens.

"oh sweetheart."

and suddenly she sounds less like a co-conspirator and more like the woman who helped raise you.

"we know you're nervous."

you stare at the ceiling.

"i'm not nervous."

a lie. a terrible lie.

everyone knows it's a lie.

including you.

your mother sighs fondly.

"you've known him since you were five."

"that's part of the problem."

the words slip out before you can stop them.

the line goes quiet.

not awkward.

just understanding.

because they know.

not everything.

but enough. enough to understand why your voice sounds smaller suddenly. enough to understand why your heart is racing. enough to understand why the thought of seeing him again feels wonderful and horrifying all at once.

nicole speaks first.

"you don't have to figure out your whole life this weekend."

a pause.

"you just have to come."

your eyes sting unexpectedly.

because that's the thing. you can handle seeing him. maybe. what you can't handle is everything it means. the years. the distance.the history. the boy in the treehouse. the young man in Formula 1. the person who somehow remains both. you look down at the cake. at the glossy ganache slowly settling across the surface. then you let out a shaky laugh.

"you two are unbelievable."

"that's not a no."

nicole sounds immediately triumphant.

you groan.

your mother laughs.

and somewhere on the other end of europe, completely unaware that two mothers have just staged a hostile takeover of your travel plans—

oscar piastri is about to have the surprise of his life.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the airport is an objectively terrible place to have an existential crisis.

unfortunately, you discover this approximately twenty minutes after arriving.

you are sweating. not gracefully.

not elegantly. not in a way that could be blamed on weather.

you are sweating because your nervous system has apparently mistaken "seeing oscar piastri again" for "being hunted for sport."

your suitcase rolls behind you as you make your way through the terminal. people bustle past.

announcements echo overhead.

coffee machines hiss.

children cry.

normal airport things.

meanwhile your brain is running approximately six hundred thoughts a minute.

what if he's different?

what if you're different?

what if it's awkward?

what if it isn't awkward?

what if that's somehow worse?

you immediately hate yourself for that last thought.

you haven't seen him properly in years.

years.

not photographs.

not interviews.

not little snippets your mother occasionally forwards you with messages like:

"look at our oscar!"

actually seen him.

actually stood in the same room.

actually heard his laugh without a phone speaker distorting it.

your stomach flips.

again.

"get a grip," you mutter to yourself.

a businessman passing by gives you a concerned look. you pretend you weren't talking to yourself. you check your phone.

no new messages. not that you're looking. obviously.

you are definitely not looking every thirty-seven seconds.

the gate comes into view.

and suddenly it feels real.

painfully real.

because somewhere on the other side of this flight is oscar.

not the version from your memories.

not the version from social media.

not the version you've spent years quietly missing.

the real one. your chest tightens.

and before you can stop it, a memory surfaces.

one you've spent years carrying around.

you're thirteen, maybe fourteen.

it's summer. hot enough that melbourne feels golden around the edges.

the treehouse your dads built sits high above the backyard, slightly crooked because neither of them had actually known what they were doing.

you and oscar are sprawled across the floorboards.

a portable CD player between you, a notebook open in your lap.

you're reading him a poem.

a terrible poem.

absolutely awful.

something dramatic about stars and oceans and destiny.

the kind of poetry only a thirteen-year-old could produce with complete sincerity.

when you finish, you look up expectantly.

oscar is quiet for a second.

then:

"...i think none of those words rhymed."

you throw a cushion at him. immediately.

"no appreciation for art."

"i appreciated it."

"you literally just insulted it." you say sticking your tongue out at him.

"i said it didn't rhyme."

"same thing."

he laughs.

that laugh.

the one that always sounded like sunlight somehow, then he reaches over and taps the notebook.

"read me another one."

you blink.

"i thought it was bad."

"it is."

you gasp dramatically. oscar grins.

"but it's your bad poetry"

then softer.

"so read me another one."

and you remember exactly how that felt.

the certainty.

not that he'd love everything you made.

he didn't. half the time he teased you relentlessly.

but the certainty that he'd always stay long enough to listen.

the memory fades as quickly as it arrived.

leaving behind a familiar ache.

you stop near the gate and sink into an empty seat.

around you, people continue moving through their lives.

unaware that your entire emotional stability currently hinges on a childhood best friend with terrible timing.

you pull out your phone.

open your messages.

his chat is still there.

your throat tightens unexpectedly.

because underneath all the years and distance and hurt and silence—

you know exactly what he meant.

and somehow that's the scariest part.

a boarding announcement echoes through the terminal.

you stand.

adjust your bag.

take a deep breath.

then another.

Somewhere on the other side of this flight are nicole, hattie, edie, mae.

the family that practically helped raise you.

the family you haven't seen in far too long.

and somewhere beyond them—

oscar.

the boy who used to sit in a crooked treehouse listening to your terrible poetry.

the boy who left.

the boy who came back.

the boy who never quite stopped feeling like home.

your boarding group is called.

and with your heart somewhere near your knees, you step forward.

closer.

closer.

closer.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the plane lands too smoothly, which somehow makes it worse.

because turbulence would’ve at least matched how your insides feel right now.

instead, everything is calm. controlled. normal. and you are absolutely not normal.

you sit there for a second after landing, hands still gripping your phone like it might anchor you to reality.

around you, people are already standing, pulling bags down, talking about connections, hotels, plans.

you just… exist.

faintly dissociating in 4D.

“this is fine,” you whisper to yourself.

it is not fine.

it is, in fact, the opposite of fine.

the airport smells like recycled air and coffee and inevitability.

every step through arrivals feels louder than it should.

each one like it’s echoing directly through your chest.

nicole spots you first. of course she does.

you barely have time to process it before she’s there—arms out, already emotional, already halfway to tears.

“oh my darling!”

and that’s it. your brain glitches slightly. because warmth. because familiarity. because her.

you get pulled into a hug that is entirely too grounding for how ungrounded you are.

your mum follows immediately after.

then hattie. then edie. then mae—smaller arms, tighter squeeze, chaotic energy.

it should calm you.

it doesn’t. it just adds another emotional layer on top of the existing chaos.

nicole pulls back slightly, looking at your face properly.

“oh sweetheart,” she says gently, already noticing.

“you’re shaking.”

“i’m not—”

you are.

your mum links her arm with yours immediately.

“we’re going to the hotel first.”

you nod too quickly.

“good. yes. hotel. safe. hotel is good.”

nicole gives you a look. you ignore it.

because the truth is:

your brain is already skipping ahead.

paddock.

oscar.

seeing him.

and every time your mind goes there, something in your chest tightens so sharply it almost feels like pain.

not bad pain.

not good pain.

just… too much.

the hotel lobby doesn’t help.

nothing about it helps. everything is polished and quiet and expensive and somehow completely unrelated to your current internal state, which is hovering somewhere between panic and emotional collapse.

you stand in your room later staring at your reflection in the mirror.

hair slightly messy. eyes too aware.

hands still slightly unsteady.

“this is insane,” you say out loud.

“no one should be allowed to feel this much before breakfast.”

nicole knocks gently on the door.

“ready?”

you laugh once.

it comes out slightly broken.

“no.”

she opens the door anyway. of course she does.

“you don’t have to do anything dramatic,” she says softly.

you stare at her.

“i feel like my entire life has been building up to this exact moment.”

that earns a small smile from her. “yes,” she agrees.

“it has.”

and somehow that makes it worse.

because now it’s not just nerves.

it’s history.

it’s years.

it’s everything stacked on top of each other like it was always heading here.

the car ride to the paddock is too quiet.

too loud.

both at the same time.

you don’t speak much.

your leg bounces nonstop.

your hands keep fiddling with nothing.

your heart feels like it’s trying to outrun the vehicle.

and then—

the paddock appears.

and your brain genuinely short-circuits.

because it’s real.

the garages. the people. the energy. the uniforms. the noise. the cameras.

the world he lives in now.

and suddenly you are very aware of how long it has been since you belonged in the same frame as him.

“oh my god,” you whisper.

nicole gently squeezes your hand.

“breathe.”

“i am breathing.”

“you’re aggressively breathing.”

“I’M FINE.”

you are not fine.

you barely remember walking in.

just flashes. lights. faces.

movement.

someone saying hello.

someone smiling at you like they know who you are.

maybe they do. maybe they don’t.

it doesn’t matter.

nothing matters except the fact that he is somewhere in here.

and then—

someone says his name.

not loudly.

just naturally.

like it belongs in the space.

your entire body reacts before your brain does.

you turn.

and there he is.

oscar.

it hits you physically.

like a shift in gravity.

like the air changes density.

like your body suddenly remembers something it had been trying not to remember for years.

he’s standing there in McLaren gear.

cap slightly backwards.

focused on something someone is saying beside him.

laughing faintly at something lando says.

normal.

unaware.

for half a second, you just stare.

because your brain refuses to process it correctly.

it keeps trying to file him under memory instead of real.

then—

he looks up.

and sees you.

it isn’t cinematic in the way movies try to make it.

it’s worse.

because it’s real.

unfiltered. unedited. immediate.

like the world forgets how to soften anything for a second.

his gaze lands on you.

and everything in him just… stops.

not gradually. not politely.

instantly.

like someone has pulled the emergency cord inside his chest.

you see it happen.

the exact moment recognition hits.

not confusion.

not curiosity.

recognition.

deep and bodily and irreversible.

his expression fractures slightly—just for a second.

like his brain has to restart itself to process what his eyes are telling it.

and then—

shock.

pure, unguarded shock.

visceral in a way that feels almost too intimate to witness.

for a heartbeat, he doesn’t move at all.

no steps. no words. no noise.

just stillness.

like the world has pressed pause on him mid-breath.

and in that stillness, everything you’ve carried for years rushes in at once.

treehouses and backwards toy cars.

melbourne sunlight and racing helmets too big for small heads.

poems read badly but listened to like they mattered.

goodbyes that never fully stopped echoing.

silences that grew teeth over time.

all of it collapses into this one moment.

this one look.

his hand lowers slightly without him noticing.

like even his body forgot what it was supposed to do.

his mouth parts—barely.

not quite your name yet.

but the shape of it.

the possibility of it.

and you realise something terrifyingly simple:

he is just as undone as you are. not polished. not composed.

not the version the world sees on TV or in headlines.

just him.

standing there in the middle of everything he’s built.

looking at you like you are the one thing he didn’t know he was still orbiting.

the noise of the paddock doesn’t disappear.

it just… recedes.

like the world has politely stepped back without being asked.

and for the first time in years, there is no distance in the way he’s looking at you.

no timeline.

no silence.

no careful space between messages.

just impact.

pure and unfiltered.

like something long inevitable has finally arrived and neither of you know what to do with the fact that it did.

here.

here.

here.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

it doesn’t stay private for long.

nothing ever does in a paddock like this.

because the moment oscar fully stops moving, everything around him starts to shift.

not dramatically.

not loudly.

just subtly—like a system recalibrating.

lando notices first.

of course he does.

he’s mid-sentence about something completely irrelevant when he turns and catches oscar’s face.

and immediately stops talking.

“…oh.”

just that.

quiet. curious. slowly sharpening into understanding.

zak is next.

he follows lando’s line of sight, sees oscar frozen in place, then follows it further.

to you.

to where you’re standing completely still beside nicole, like someone has forgotten to animate you properly.

and zak’s expression changes almost imperceptibly.

not surprise.

recognition of something he isn’t supposed to fully name yet.

“right,” zak says slowly.

like he’s solving a puzzle he didn’t know was on the table.

lando tilts his head.

“…is that—”

he doesn’t finish the sentence. he doesn’t need to.

because oscar still hasn’t moved.

still hasn’t blinked properly.

still looks like the world has narrowed down to one point and refused to expand again. and that alone tells them everything.

meanwhile, somewhere closer to you, nicole has gone very still beside you.

her hand is still lightly on your arm.

but she’s watching oscar now too. softly. carefully.

like she already knows what this moment is doing to both of you.

oscar is still standing there like the ground hasn’t fully agreed to support him.

and all he can see is you.

it’s not immediate in a poetic, cinematic way. it’s worse than that.

it’s recognition that turns into understanding that turns into something almost painful.

because it isn’t just you are here.

it’s you are still you.

the same eyes he used to look for across playgrounds and backyards and karting tracks.

except now they’re framed by years he wasn’t part of.

the same presence that used to make everything else feel secondary.

except now it’s standing in a place he only ever imagined you visiting in passing.

not belonging.

not here.

and yet—

you are.

his chest tightens in a way that feels almost physical.

because you look… beautiful.

not in a sudden way.

not like he’s just noticing you.

like he’s remembering something he has always known and somehow forgot to say out loud.

the way you stand slightly uncertain, like your body is still deciding whether it’s allowed to take up space in his world again.

the way your expression flickers between composure and something more fragile underneath it.

the way you’re trying so hard to be present while clearly still catching up to the fact that this is real.

and it hits him, then.

harder than anything else today.

that you were never just a childhood memory that faded properly.

you were never something that got filed away neatly with time.

you were… home.

in a way he never learned how to replace.

even now. especially now.

standing in the middle of everything he’s built.

under lights and cameras and team colours and noise that should mean more than this—

you are still the thing his attention returns to without permission.

lando says something again, quieter this time, but oscar still doesn’t turn.

zak is definitely watching now.

but oscar can’t bring himself to care.

not even a little. because your eyes flick up again.

just briefly. and it lands like impact. like muscle memory.

like every version of him from every age all reacting at once.

he feels thirteen again.

fifteen again.

eight again.

all of them collapsing into this moment where you are standing in front of him and somehow still feel like the most familiar thing in the world.

his throat tightens.not dramatically.

just enough that he swallows without thinking.

and for a second—just one—

he forgets the paddock.

forgets mclaren.

forgets everything except the fact that you are real, and here, and looking back at him like you’re not entirely sure what to do with it either.

home doesn’t feel like a place right now.

it feels like you standing ten metres away, breathing the same air, existing in the same frame again after years of absence.

and oscar, who has learned to handle pressure at 300 km/h, suddenly feels completely unprepared for this.

because nothing in racing ever taught him how to stand still in front of you.

home.

home.

home.

a chance.

a chance.

a chance.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

a/n : aaaand pt iii is here!! as always looking forward to the feedbacks comments reblogs etc!! much love always muah <3 so happy to see the love you guys are showing this series!!