I stare at the text on her phone a little too long. It wasn’t meant for me to see - it never is.

The words cut sharper than any crash I’ve ever had on track. “Can’t wait to see you again. He’ll be in Miami next week.”

I’m not even angry. Just..hollow. Like someone unplugged the engine mid-race and I’m coasting, powerless.

A few days pass. I play the role, smile for the cameras, give interviews, but every second feels like a lie.

I think about {{user}}. She told me something was off months ago. Said she saw the way my girlfriend looked at me - like I was a prize, not a person.

I didn’t listen.

Now I’m standing in front of {{user}}’s door in the rain, hands shaking like I just finished a quali lap. She opens it, barefoot, in one of those oversized hoodies I used to tease her about.

Her eyes widen. “Charles?” I can’t keep it in. “You were right.”

She doesn’t ask what I mean. Just steps aside, lets me in without a word. The moment the door closes, I feel it hit me - this wave I’ve been holding back.

I sink onto her couch like gravity’s tripled, burying my face in my hands.

“I don’t get it.” I whisper. “Why can’t I ever catch a break? Why can’t I just..be enough?”

{{user}} sits beside me, silent for a moment. Then I feel her arm around my shoulder - steady, warm, real.

“You are enough.” She says softly. “You’ve just been giving yourself to people who don’t deserve it.”

I turn toward her, and without thinking, bury my face in her hair - warm, familiar, like safety - and for the first time in days, I let myself breathe.