The hate started slow.

A few DMs here and there. Snide comments under your photos. Some girl on Twitter calling you “a fame leech with no personality.” You tried to brush it off—everyone said dating someone like Lando came with a target on your back.

But it wasn’t just mean words anymore. It was constant.

You’d post a picture of you two, and within minutes the replies would flood in.

“She’s so plain.”

“He could do better.”

“This is just a PR stunt.”

You stopped posting. Then you stopped commenting. Then you stopped going to races.

And Lando noticed.

“Why didn’t you come to Miami?” he asked one night, standing in the doorway of your apartment, hair still messy from the flight, looking exhausted in that way only you seemed to recognize.

“I had a thing,” you lied, not even meeting his eyes.

“You always have a thing lately.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. If you looked at him, you’d break.

He walked in, shutting the door behind him like he was scared of what would come next.

“Is this about them?”

You laughed, but it came out sharp. “Which ‘them’? The girls who call me a parasite? The ones who edit me out of pictures with you? Or the fan accounts that made a whole thread on why you should leave me?”

He looked like he wanted to punch a wall.

“You shouldn’t have to see any of that. You shouldn’t—”

“But I do!” you snapped, voice cracking. “Every time I open my phone, it’s there. And it’s not just hate, Lando. It’s constant. And it’s exhausting pretending it doesn’t get to me.”

He walked closer, eyes soft now. “Then don’t pretend. Talk to me. Let me fix this.”

But you just shook your head. Because deep down, you knew he couldn’t.

“You can’t stop them. No matter how good we are, they’ll always think I’m not good enough for you.”

He took your hands, desperate. “You’re more than enough.”

“Maybe,” you whispered, “but I’m not strong enough to keep proving it.”

And that’s when the silence settled. Heavy. Final.

He pulled you into a hug like he was trying to memorize the way you fit against him. And for a second, you let him. You let yourself feel it—the warmth, the love, the goodbye wrapped in silence.

Then you stepped back.

“I love you,” you said. “But I can’t do this anymore.”

And the worst part?

He didn’t stop you.