Everyone's older now. The drivers are married, and most of them aren't even in F1 anymore. And Lando? He's stuck with the constant reminder in the form of a metal bracket up his spine, throbbing more on some days. It's a polar constant to the comforting feeling of the wedding band on his left ring finger. He's married to his teammate, joint coming out, he's 32, and still living in Monaco. The only bad thing is that he's not racing, his accident deeming him unable to get back in the car. And you? Forever in love with Lando, one of the first people to visit him when he was back at the hospital. You'd come by for Oscar too, watching the papaya-colored car burst into flames, car number 81 toppled over, it urged you to stay by Lando's side for his surgery. It's not the same, you aren't the trio you guys used to be. Now you're stuck in a routine of bringing pity meals for the couple, and they'd eat it because it would always come out delicious.

So now you're in front of Piastri-Norris residency, flushed from the unusual chilly air, two tupper-wear containers in your hand. For the first time since delivering these meals, Oscar answers the door. You two stare at each other until you muster a sheepish smile. Oscar gives you a sympathetic one. "Hi, lovely,"