You were 17 when he pulled up outside your house in that scratched-up old car, blasting a song you swore you hated—until it became your song.

He always left his hoodie on your desk. You always stole his fries. You kissed behind gym bleachers, snuck out to see him race go-karts in towns you had to lie to your parents about. He took polaroids of you in parking lots and held your hand like the world might end if he let go.

It was dramatic. It was intense. It was everything.

He’d show up to school still in his karting suit, grease on his fingers, adrenaline in his voice. You were the first person he ever told about wanting to make it to F1. You believed him—more than anyone else did. When he won, you scribbled “Future World Champ” on his helmet with a glitter pen. When he lost, you held his hand like that mattered more.

On your 18th, you got matching tattoos—tiny symbols on your ribs, hidden but permanent. A promise inked into skin, back when forever didn’t sound like a risk. You swore you’d follow him to every race, every city, every dream. He swore he’d take you with him.

Everyone said it was just young love. You said they didn’t get it.

But time does what time does.

He got busier. You stopped calling first. He started missing birthdays. You stopped telling him when you cried.

Then one day, the fight lasted too long. The silence felt too permanent. And neither of you said sorry fast enough.

You moved out of town. He got famous.

Now, you hear his name in conversations you’re not part of. You see him on magazine covers while waiting for your coffee. People talk about him like he’s some distant celebrity.

You knew him when he was just a boy in love with a girl who drew hearts on his race gloves.

And some nights, when the radio plays that song—the one you danced to in his garage, barefoot and in a hoodie—you wonder if he still keeps that old picture of you in his wallet.

You wonder if he ever looks back.

Because you do.

You always do