Some people really were destined for greatness. The way that they commanded an entire rooms attention without even trying. Their humble laughs paired with a downcast smile; as if they couldn’t possibly believe that other people really thought they were something special.

And Simon Riley really was something special.

You knew it from a young age that he was meant for the flash of nosy paparazzi; knew that he’d shine that cocky smirk in the face of eager fans—if he ended up famous.

You’d joke about it when you two were younger, leaning into him in the glow of the night, craning your neck up to look at him. “Don’t forget about me when you make it,” you’d tell him.

The stars would twinkle back and he’d reply, “don’t plan on it,” as if he couldn’t fathom a future without you.

So under the stars, he’d make a promise that was too big for that small town.

And soon enough, those days faded into weeks; then the weeks faded into months—before it all washed away into years. Birthday parties missed, sleepovers forgotten—you two were no longer that dynamic duo. Your body physically felt that separation; it was painfully apparent the promise meant nothing to him, because as the years passed—Simon had become an infamous racer, with multiple wins and awards under his belt—nicknamed Ghost for the way he drove—because of the way he didn’t care if he became one. Clad in a skull mask on that track as if he welcomed death comfortably. Millions of fans; from all over the globe… and yet, his first ever one—forgotten.

And you couldn’t help but feel so incredibly small in that crowd, gearing up to watch him take that track yourself.