#unheld

I’ve known Oscar since long before either of us had titles attached to our names. We met back in boarding school—he’d just moved from Australia, all limbs and awkward silences, and if I’m being honest, I didn’t think much of him at first. He was… odd. Quiet. Kind of twitchy. And when someone mentioned he’d come here to pursue a racing career, I thought it was the nerdiest thing I’d ever heard. Who uproots their life for go-karts? Still, there was something about the way he carried that dream—quietly, almost stubbornly—that made me curious. 

We ended up lab partners—random assignment, fate, who knows. That’s when things shifted. Not all at once, but slowly. Oscar wasn’t the brightest in class, but he was steady. He showed up to every study group, completed every task with a quiet kind of thoughtfulness—except on weekends or the days he was off at the track, unreachable but somehow still present.

The feelings came softly, like turning a page and realizing you’ve already read it a hundred times. It was in the way I began noticing things; how he took his coffee, how his laugh cracked when he was overtired, or how his brown eyes catch the sunlight and turn to honey.  And then the traveling got busier, from one continent to another for Formula 2. That’s when it hit me—just how much space he took up in my world. How quiet the library became without him beside me, how no one stole my boxed milk at lunch anymore. How no one else knew which hallway I’d always linger in between classes.

Even when he was away, we never really stopped talking. And slowly, I learned the distance didn’t dilute the feeling—it only made it clearer. One midnight, when the world was still and he was thousands of miles away, he told me he felt it too. That everything between us wasn’t just in my head. And from that night on, we’ve been together.

It hasn’t always been easy. There have been arguments—most of them fueled by the ache of not being in the same place, of time zones and missed calls. But we made it work. We met each other in the middle. We built something on texts, on late-night FaceTimes every other day, on showing up in the small ways that mattered.

And we held on. Up until now.

He’d flown back to Melbourne for the Australian Grand Prix—home race, the first race of this season, he’d said in his last proper text, the one where he promised to call once things settled. “Been back for a few days now. Kinda surreal. I’ll call you after media day, yeah?” That was three days ago. Since then, just the occasional heart-react, a one-word reply to something she sent late at night. Not cold. Not exactly distant. Just… thin. Like trying to hold onto someone through a fog. And now, sitting alone in the far corner of the library, surrounded by the low hum of students packing up, the absence of his name on her screen felt louder than anything else. 

My phone had been quiet all day. Again.

It sat face down on the edge of my desk, beside a forgotten cup of tea that had long gone cold—milk skin forming at the surface, like a film of something left too long unattended. Like me.

No missed calls. No new voice notes. Not even one of his blurry selfies from the paddock, all helmet hair and half-smiles captioned "just survived FP2." The last thing I had from him was a text from yesterday at 2:08 a.m where I’d sent him a cover video of me singing with a guitar. It was mandatory before a race weekend, he used to said.

Oscar: Sounds good. Sleep well

No follow-up. No warmth. Just a sentence that felt more like an automatic response than something meant for me. I reread it anyway. Like maybe if I squinted hard enough, I’d find more meaning tucked between the words.

I should’ve been working. There was a stack of notes on my desk, color-coded tabs sticking out like paper wounds. The mock trial was in three days. My team was counting on me. I hadn’t even finished outlining my closing argument.

But my mind was elsewhere. Stuck in a holding pattern around someone who felt further away every time I tried to reach him.

Lately, I’d started doing this thing. Every night, after my last class or study session or library sprint—I’d record a voice note. Not long ones. Just small pieces of my day. Like breadcrumbs. Like a trail back to me. For him.

So that when the chaos quieted—when the interviews stopped and the engines fell silent—he could find his way home through them. He could press play, and there I’d be. Still here. Still loving him in the in-between.

I told myself that maybe, one day, he’d listen to them all in one go, headphones on, eyes closed, smiling like he used to. And we’d catch up on everything we missed—not in real time, but in heartbeats stored in voice memos.

I opened the app. Hit record. My voice sounded thinner than usual.

"Hey," I said, and waited. The silence after that one word felt heavier than it should. “I know it’s probably past midnight over there. Or… early. I keep messing up the time difference.”

A soft laugh escaped me, more breath than sound. I hated how I sounded. Tired. Hopeful. Small.

“I hope you’re sleeping, though. You looked tired in the photos from media day. I saw the clip from the press conference. That question about Lando made you laugh—your real laugh, not the PR one.”

I paused, thumb hovering over the stop button.

“I miss that. I miss you.”

The words hung there.

Too vulnerable. Too much.

I sat with them for a second, staring at the wall across from me like it might offer a better version of myself.

Then I sighed, and started over.

"Hey. Just checking in. Hope you’re resting. Good luck tomorrow. You’ll kill it."

I sent that one. Short. Clean. Non-intrusive. The kind of message someone could reply to with a single emoji. And lately, that’s all I ever seemed to get.

Once, he would’ve called the second he heard my voice—told me I sounded sleepy and asked if I was still drinking that terrible instant coffee. I'd sent a video of my cat pawing at his headphones he had left home, and he told me he missed hearing me play the piano in the background when I studied.

Once, I was the person he reached for first.

Now, I wasn’t sure I even made the list.

Sometimes I wondered if he was drifting from me on purpose—or if he didn’t even notice he was pulling away. Maybe it wasn’t deliberate. Maybe it was just what happened when your lives started to run parallel instead of intertwined.

I picked up my phone again and scrolled up through our chat.

Oscar: Call me when you wake up x

Oscar: You’d laugh at what I just said in the drivers’ briefing lol

Oscar: I’ll FaceTime you after quali, promise

That one stung. That promise had gone unkept three times in a row now.

I scrolled up further. To voice notes I used to replay when I missed him.

“Love you. Don’t forget to eat today.” “I’ll be back before you know it.” “You’re the best part of my day, you know that?”

It didn’t feel like that now. Not anymore.

I didn’t want to admit it, but part of me was starting to wonder what it meant when someone stopped making room for you. Not all at once—no loud exit, no sharp turn. Just a quiet, slow fading. Like the dimming of a light you didn’t notice had grown weak until you were suddenly sitting in the dark.

I wrapped myself tighter in my sweater, let my tea grow colder. Oxford’s sky outside my window was heavy with clouds, the kind that never gave way to proper rain—just a dull, oppressive gray. The streetlights had already flickered on. The city was winding down. Except for me.

I was still here. Still waiting.

“Hey, Osc. I know you probably won’t hear this until morning—or maybe after qualifying—but I just wanted to say good luck tomorrow. I’ll be watching, even if I have to sneak it between lectures. You’re going to be brilliant. You always are. Also… I’m sorry I’ve been a little quiet. Things here have just been a lot lately. Law school is kind of relentless right now and I didn’t want to add noise to your already chaotic week. But that’s not fair. I should’ve still shown up.. I miss you… Just… drive safe. And don’t forget to breathe before Turn 1. You always forget to breathe there. Call me anytime, okay? I hope you feel me cheering for you—loudly—even from across the world.”

By morning, the voice note was marked as “played.” That was the first thing I saw when I reached for my phone—half-asleep, still tangled in sheets and the warmth of things I wanted to believe were still true. I blinked at the screen, heart ticking a little faster in that silly, soft way it always did before a race day. Waiting for his reply. His voice. Something.

Instead, a single sticker appeared. The one with the cartoon thumbs-up.

That was it.

No “morning, you,” No “wish you were here,” Not even a tired little selfie from the paddock with a half-smile that said nerves are kicking in.

Just… a sticker.

I stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen like touching it might coax something more out of him. Something warmer. Something real.

He’d always called before qualifying. Always. Even when the Wi-Fi was terrible or he only had five minutes between briefings. Even when he was exhausted or cranky or losing his voice. He’d FaceTime me—camera low, his hair messy, helmet half-off, and that crooked smile that made everything else feel a little lighter.

But today? Nothing.

I told myself maybe it was different this time. Maybe his whole family was there for the home race. Maybe his mum was fussing over his breakfast and Hattie had stolen his phone to post something embarrassing. Maybe being surrounded by people who had known him since he was small was comfort enough—and I wasn’t needed this time in the same way.

That was okay, wasn’t it?

Still, something in me sagged. A quiet fold of something unspoken.

I set the phone down, facedown this time. Tried to get on with my day.

But even as I packed my books for the library and tied my hair back for another endless shift at the study desk, that tiny sticker reply followed me like a shadow. Harmless. Casual. Forgettable to anyone else.

But not to me. To me, it felt like being answered with silence in a language I used to be fluent in.

I’d tried FaceTiming him—after class, after reworking the ending to my mock trial argument, even right before I fell asleep. Every time, it rang out unanswered. No reply. No emojis. Just the quiet echo of a line that used to feel like home. So today, I recorded a voice note, again. 

Hey… I saw quali. P2. That’s—wow. That’s amazing, Oscar. You were brilliant yesterday. Good luck for today, O. I hope you drive safe and smart and maybe send me a little smile later, yeah? I miss you..

By the time I woke up, the race was just starting.

The group chat from my study group had already started buzzing—last-minute case outlines, a panicked voice note about courtroom posture, and two frantic messages about the mock trial dress code. I scrolled through it all mechanically, thumb swiping while my mind waited for something else. For one name. One notification.

There was nothing from him. Again.

No reply to last night’s voice note. No FaceTime call. No “wish me luck” the way he always used to say it—casual, like it didn’t matter, but always with that boyish smile that said it actually meant everything.

I stared at my phone a little longer than I should’ve, letting the silence settle in my chest like fog.

Last year, for the Australian Grand Prix, he’d FaceTimed me at 5 a.m. my time. I’d picked up groggily, barely awake, and he’d grinned through his screen in full race gear.

“Told myself I needed to see your face or I’d mess up Turn 1,” he’d joked. “You’re ridiculous,” I’d said. “Maybe. But I’m lucky,” he answered.

Even when time zones tangled us, he made space. Two minutes here. A quick call while walking to the garage. Once, just to hear my voice before lights out.

But this time? Nothing.

I told myself not to overthink it. Maybe his family was with him—maybe the paddock was crowded, or the nerves were louder this year. Maybe he needed to stay focused. Maybe he thought I’d understand.

And part of me did. I knew the pressure. I’d watched it from up close. But the other part—the one that used to be his—felt like it was slowly being replaced by silence. Sticker replies. Missed calls. Half-hearted heart reactions on things he used to comment on.

It wasn’t just distance. It felt like absence.

I set my phone down, face-up this time. Just in case. Just in case he called.

But deep down, I already knew. Today wasn’t going to be like last year.

My day was already packed—mock trial prep with my teammates, case brief revisions, printing final documents, ironing out cross-examinations over bad coffee. It was one of those days where the air felt too thin and the hours too fast. My phone stayed buried at the bottom of my tote, buzzing occasionally with study group updates and debate edits.

I didn’t even watch the race—not properly. Just caught glimpses when someone opened F1 Twitter or whispered a result under their breath. At some point, someone mentioned Oscar had finished P2.

I smiled faintly and kept flipping through my notecards, repeating a closing argument under my breath. There was no time to overthink.

But during one of our breaks—when I finally let myself sit down with my tea—I opened Twitter.

And there she was.

A blurry screen cap from the broadcast. Hattie—Oscar's sister standing in the garage. Beside her—a girl I didn’t recognize. Beautiful blonde hair. Big sunglasses. Wearing those big team headphones. Laughing, her hand brushing Hattie’s arm like they were familiar. Like they’d known each other for years.

My heart stuttered, but I brushed it off quickly. Maybe a cousin. A family friend. Someone from Melbourne they grew up with. That made sense. Hattie had a wide circle. So did Oscar. I told myself not to spiral. Not to read too much into things.

But then I kept scrolling. The algorithm knew before I did.

Clips began popping up on TikTok. Snippets of that girl again—this time, in the garage. In Oscar’s garage. A video taken from afar. Yet they stood too close. Laughing too loud. Someone had recorded them from the stands. The comments were crowded and loud.

“Who is Oscar’s girlfriend? This isn’t the usual one we’ve seen.” “Soft launch???” “Where’s the other girl??”

The other girl. Me.

My stomach dropped. I locked my phone. Put it screen-down. Tried to breathe through it. Tried to focus.

I told myself the internet makes everything seem louder than it is. That people don’t know anything. That maybe it was just badly framed, edited out of context. I told myself I had a mock trial in less than 24 hours and now wasn’t the time to fall apart.

So I pushed it down. I pushed it all down.

Focused on the courtroom. On my voice. On the facts. On the law.

And when it was finally over—when I’d delivered my statement and shaken the judges’ hands and smiled through the exhaustion—I found myself outside the building, in the gray Oxford light, dialing Oscar’s number with trembling fingers.

It rang.

And rang.

No answer.

So I texted the only thing I could.

You: are we okay?

And then, when the silence stretched too long and I couldn’t stand the not-knowing anymore, I did something I hadn’t done in months.

I messaged Hattie.

You: Hey. Is Oscar okay? Is he healthy? Sorry, it’s just been really quiet on his end and I’m not sure if… I don’t know. Just worried, I guess.

She replied ten minutes later.

Hattie: Hey Y/N! He’s out right now! He went to dinner with Maddie and some friends. 

You: Glad to know he’s okay. Who’s Maddie?

Hattie: Oh! It’s Oscar’s close friend, the one who came to the race with us yesterday. He’s been spending time with her and some friends after the race. Thought you were with him too this week??

I stared at her message until the words lost meaning. 

Maddie. The name settled like dust in my chest—familiar in the way old things sometimes are. I remembered it now, suddenly, vividly. One night years ago, back in the dorms, we were curled up on the floor eating instant noodles and teasing each other about exes. I’d asked if he’d ever been in love before, half-joking, and he’d shrugged, grinned a little, and said, “There was a Maddie. Long time ago. I was in junior high.” I hadn’t thought about it since. Until now. Until Hattie said her name like I was supposed to know her place.

Dinner. Maddie. Came to the race with us. Thought I knew.

I didn’t.

And suddenly, I wasn’t even sure what I did know anymore.

It wasn’t cheating. That was the first thing I told myself. Over and over, like a line from a textbook I was trying to memorize.

It wasn’t cheating. He hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t kissed her. He hadn’t said anything cruel or final.

And yet, it felt like something sacred had been undone.

Because what he gave her—his time, his nearness, the small pieces of his day—that used to be mine. Used to be ours. He used to FaceTime me even when his eyes were half-closing from exhaustion. Used to send voice notes from the back of the garage, laugh whispering into the phone like it was a secret just for me. He used to say “Two minutes is enough if it’s with you.”

And now, all I had were those words from Hattie.

Maddie. Dinner. Thought you knew. Thought you were with him.

I didn’t.

I didn’t know a thing.

The mock trial had ended yesterday, but I didn’t feel anything. No relief. No pride. Just silence ringing in my ears as my teammates celebrated with group pictures and takeaway food, their voices echoing around me like I was underwater.

It hit slowly, like a tide coming in.

I came home that night and everything was still. The kind of still that feels staged. Like the room was pretending to be normal so I wouldn’t notice what had changed.

I took off my blazer, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the floor for a long time.

And then I saw them. The biscuits.

Still sealed. Shoved into the back of my pantry, right where I’d left them weeks ago—his favorite kind, the ones with the buttery centers. I’d bought them on impulse when I thought he might be visiting in April. I remember checking the expiry date. Making sure they’d still be good.

They were still good. I wasn’t.

I left them there and moved into the bathroom, needing to do something, anything. That’s when I saw his toothbrush—soft-bristled, pale blue, still standing in the glass beside mine like it belonged here.

I stared at it too long. Too long to pretend I was okay.

And then the final undoing. The photo.

It fell out from between the pages of a notebook I was clearing—tucked there like a pressed flower I didn’t remember saving. It was from that photo booth in Barcelona. We’d gotten soaked in the rain and ducked into a tiny alley café, and there was a booth by the back wall. Four frames of both of us—laughing, my hair damp and wild, his hand half-covering the lens in the last one because he’d been trying to pull me closer. We looked… impossibly happy. 

And I broke.

Just like that. No warning. No storm.

I sank to the floor, photo still in my hand, and let the weight of it all finally crack me open. The grief wasn’t sharp—it was slow, aching, familiar. Mourning someone who hadn’t died, just slowly faded from the version of them you once loved.

I wasn’t crying because he cheated. I was crying because I didn’t know we’d already ended. Because he’d left me behind gently, silently, like putting down a book you don’t plan to finish, but can’t quite bring yourself to close. Because he stopped letting me in quietly, and I hadn’t even noticed the door closing. Because somewhere along the way, I stopped being the person he shared his days with. 

I didn’t plan on calling him. Not really.

I’d rehearsed the words in my head a dozen times, tucked them into half-written texts, whispered them in the dark like a secret I wasn’t sure I was ready to say out loud. But that night, when the quiet became too loud and the weight of everything I hadn’t said pressed against my ribs, I found myself holding the phone again.

One ring. Then two. Then three.

He answered on the fourth.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was soft. Uncertain. Like he wasn’t sure which version of me he was about to get.

And I almost hung up.

But instead, I breathed in, and let the truth unravel.

“I’m not calling to fight,” I started. “I’m not even angry, Oscar. I just… I need you to know that I know.”

There was a pause. He didn’t ask what I knew. He didn’t have to.

“I saw her,” I said. “Maddie. I saw all of it. And it’s not that I think you cheated—I don’t. But you gave her parts of you I didn’t even know you’d stopped giving me.”

Silence again. A weighted breath on his end. But he still said nothing.

“I tried. God, I tried. I recorded voice notes when you stopped calling. I sent messages that barely got answers. I watched you win, and I cheered for you even when it felt like I didn’t exist in your world anymore.”

My voice cracked then, just once.

“And I missed you. Every day, I missed you. But I can’t keep giving when you don’t even notice I’m gone.”

Still, he didn’t interrupt.

“I’m not saying this to make you feel bad. I just… I need space. I need to remember who I am when I’m not waiting on a message that never comes.”

A long beat.

And then, softly, he said, “I didn’t know it had gotten this bad.”

I closed my eyes. Let the silence ruled. He didn’t fight. Didn’t beg me to stay. And maybe that hurt the most.

Maybe he thought, like always, I’d come back when the air cleared. When the tension softened. When time stitched things back together like it always did.

But I didn’t.

That was the last time I called.

Oscar’s POV

I didn’t mean for it to happen like this.

Not the silence. Not the distance. Not the feeling of waking up and realizing the only person who ever made all this feel real had stopped waiting for me.

It wasn’t a decision. It wasn’t one moment. It was a thousand tiny ones.

I told myself I was tired. That the schedule was brutal. That time zones were messy and I’d call her when things calmed down. After media day. After the car felt better. After I figured out how to explain the exhaustion without sounding ungrateful.

And then Maddie showed up.

It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just familiarity. She was around again—someone from home, someone who didn’t need explaining. Someone who already knew the version of me that existed before the pressure, before the travel, before the grid turned me into something slightly less human every weekend.

When I got back to Melbourne, everything moved too fast. Media, family, press runs, fans. I barely had time to sleep, let alone think. Maddie showed up one afternoon, casual as ever, laughing like the years hadn’t passed. She came with Hattie, actually. It was just supposed to be dinner.

And maybe I should’ve told Y/N that. Maybe that was the moment—where I should’ve sent a text, called, said something. But I didn’t.

Not because I didn’t care. Because I didn’t want to hold it up to the light and realize how far I’d already drifted.

It wasn’t romantic, at first. It wasn’t intentional. But the truth is, I let someone else fill in the silence she used to keep warm for me. I leaned on someone close because the person I loved was far. Because she felt like the part of my life I couldn’t carry in the suitcase anymore.

I didn’t realize how far I’d let things slip until Hattie texted me.

“Did you talk to her yet?” “Y/N messaged me asking if you were okay. She didn’t know you were out with Maddie.”

But instead of fixing it, I froze.

I stopped calling—not because I didn’t want to hear her voice, but because I didn’t know what to say when I did. The guilt made me quiet. The fear kept me there. I kept telling myself I’d reach out after this weekend, after the chaos, after the race.  But there was always another race.

And deep down, I thought she’d wait. That she’d still be there. That she’d understand like she always did. That I could fumble and fall short and she’d still be the one to reach back. So I let the days pass. I let her messages sit unopened. I told myself it was temporary. That once the chaos settled, I’d explain. I’d FaceTime her and she’d smile, tired and soft, and say, “You’re an idiot, but I missed you too.”

Then the phone rang. I picked up.

Her voice—tired but even, cracked but careful—told me everything I hadn’t been brave enough to admit. She didn’t yell. She didn’t accuse. She didn’t demand anything from me.

“I can’t keep giving when you don’t even notice I’m gone.”

That line hit me like a crash I didn’t see coming.

Because I hadn’t noticed. Not until she said it. Not until it was already too late.

And I didn’t fight. I didn’t stop her. Because what right did I have?

All I’d given her was silence. And now, that silence is all I have left of her.

The results were good. Better than good. Pole positions. Podiums. A win that lit up the paddock and had half the world calling it the best drive of my career.

On paper, I was thriving.

But something was off. And those closest to me—engineers, trainers, even Lando—they could feel it, even if they didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the way I started pushing the car harder than necessary, taking risks I didn’t usually take, burning through sectors like I had something to prove. Or lose.

“You’re pushing when you don’t need to,” they said.

They weren’t wrong.

Because when you’re distracted, when your chest is full of static and your head’s somewhere else entirely, pushing becomes easier than feeling.

I’d sit on the podium, smile for the cameras, hold the trophy like it meant something—but the smile never quite made it to my eyes. I knew it. I could feel it. I’d look out into the crowd and think, She should be here.

But she wasn’t. And I was the reason why.

At night, in hotel rooms that all blurred together, I’d find myself opening our old messages. Just to look at them. Like a museum of the person I used to be. Like maybe if I scrolled long enough, I’d find a version of us I hadn’t ruined yet.

I nearly texted her. So many times.

Typed things like “I miss you.” or “I’m sorry.”

But I never hit send. Because I didn’t know if I had the right anymore. Because I kept thinking—maybe she just needs time, she’ll call when she’s ready.

But she didn’t. She didn’t call. She didn’t text. She didn’t even watch the races anymore, at least not that I could tell.

And that’s when it hit me.

She wasn’t waiting for me to notice. She wasn’t hoping I’d chase her. She was already gone.

I thought she’d always be there. I really did. But now that she’s not, I realize just how much of my world she actually was.

The team won again last weekend. I crossed the line first. Champagne, cheers, confetti. Another podium. Another perfect result.

I didn’t stay for the photos.

I walked straight past the camera crews, peeled off my helmet like it was choking me, and locked myself in the back of the motorhome until everyone stopped knocking. I stared at my gloves on the table like they belonged to someone else.

Everything around me was winning. Except me.

People kept saying I was driving better than ever—but I wasn’t. I was driving harder. Recklessly. 

My engineer’s voice cracked through the radio mid-race, “Oscar, calm down. You’re five seconds clear, you don’t need to push—”

But I did.

Because every time I eased off, the silence came back. Her voice, that last call, the way she didn’t yell, didn’t cry—she just told me the truth. That she’d given everything. And I didn’t even notice she was slipping away.

So I pushed. And pushed. And nearly lost it in Turn 8.

I caught the slide by instinct alone. For a second, the rear snapped so violently I saw the barriers rushing toward me like jaws opening. I didn’t even blink. I didn’t even flinch.

A part of me wanted to let go. Just for a second. Just to see what it would feel like to surrender to something.

Because grief isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s this low hum behind your ribs, so constant you forget what quiet really sounds like. I carry it in my chest now—in the way I walk back to the hotel, in the way I eat alone, in the fact that I don’t even check my phone after a win.

There are no messages from her anymore.

No “Proud of you, even from across the world.” No voice notes. Not even a question.

And now I’m stuck in this loop of podiums I can’t feel, nights I can’t sleep through, and a version of myself I don’t recognize anymore.

The truth is—I don’t want to die. I just don’t know how to live without her.

Y/N’s POV

I’ve been focusing on myself lately.

It sounds simple, like a self-help cliché. But for me, it’s new. Foreign. Not because I didn’t have dreams before, but because I’d spent so long folding myself around someone else’s orbit, I forgot how much space I could take up on my own.

Now, I fill my days with things that are mine—brief-writing marathons in the library, mock trial rehearsals that stretch into midnight, group lunches that turn into debates about case law and coffee orders. I laugh more. I sleep less. I am busy in a way that finally feels like building, not waiting.

I miss him. Of course I do. Some mornings, it hits me like a breath I can’t quite catch—when I wake up and reach instinctively for a voice note that’s not there. When something funny happens and I think, he’d love this, and then remember there’s no one to send it to.

I still watch him race. Quietly. From afar.

Sometimes, in the middle of a study break, I’ll stream races with the volume low, just to see how he’s doing. He’s winning. The world is cheering for him, and he deserves it. But there’s something about the way he carries himself now that feels… off. Like the light’s there, but it doesn’t touch his eyes anymore.

Last race, he almost lost it. The car snapped. Just for a second. But my heart dropped like a stone. My hand was already halfway to my phone before I caught myself.

I didn’t call. I couldn’t.

Because I knew—if I dialed his number, I’d be right back where I started. I’d be the girl who waited, who compromised, who made herself smaller just to stay in someone else’s story.

And I’m not that girl anymore.

I loved him. I still do, in some shape or shadow of that love. But I won’t shrink for it again. I won’t forget everything it took for me to choose myself.

So I let the silence stay. I sat with the ache. And I knew, even as my heart tugged in a thousand directions, that I made the right choice.

It was the kind of rain Oxford is known for—more mist than downpour, the kind that settled into your skin like memory.

I’d left my umbrella somewhere, maybe in a lecture hall, maybe under a library chair. My shoulders ached from hours bent over legal drafts, and my eyes burned from sleep I hadn’t caught. All I wanted was the quiet of my room and the sound of nothing.

And then I heard it—my name.

Soft. Familiar. Almost shy.

I turned.

There he was. Oscar.

Soaked through the sleeves of his shirt, his hair curling damp at the ends, standing like he didn’t know whether to come closer or disappear. He looked the same, mostly. A little older around the eyes. A little more undone.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stepped toward me and held his umbrella out, tilting it gently over my head like it still made sense to protect me from the rain.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t lean in. Didn’t lean away.

We just stood there, in the thin hush of drizzle and unsaid things, and I waited to see what kind of man he’d become in the silence.

Then he said it, “I’m sorry.”

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just... honest. Unadorned.

“I thought I had more time. I thought you’d always be there. But I get it now. I lost something I didn’t know how to hold.”

I felt the weight of it land in my chest—not because it was perfect, but because it wasn’t. Because it was flawed and fragile and real.

And still, I didn’t say anything.

The rain was soft against my cheeks, or maybe it was something else. I couldn’t tell.

A part of me wanted to fall into him—let the moment wrap around us like it used to. Pretend the hurt hadn’t taken root, that missing him hadn’t changed me. That I wasn’t still holding all the pieces I had to gather when he left me behind.

But I’d grown around the ache. I’d learned to carry silence like a second skin. I’d built a life that didn’t have him in it—and somehow, that life still stood.

So I just looked at him.

Not with anger. Not with forgiveness. Just with the quiet of someone still deciding.

Because maybe forgiveness doesn’t come in grand declarations or sweeping gestures. Maybe it comes in moments like this—soft, unsure, standing in the rain where everything could be rewritten, or nothing at all.

He didn’t ask for anything more.