You lay in bed, the blanket half-pulled over your legs, the dim light of your phone screen the only glow in your quiet London flat. The room was still, save for the soft hum of traffic far below and the occasional creak of old wood. The apartment was small—just one room, with a creaky but cozy bed, a window that never quite shut, and a heater that only worked when it wanted to. It had been years since you escaped the hell you were born into—a drunk mother who forgot your name more often than she remembered your birthday, and a father who taught you pain before he ever taught you kindness. All you wanted was to disappear from the echoes of fists and screams, from slammed doors and broken glass. At eighteen, you ran. Straight into the arms of someone who promised to love you—only to find yourself in another warzone. The bruises from your boyfriend healed slower than the ones your father gave. You left him too, when your spirit had cracked just enough to let strength pour in. At twenty-two, you made coffee every morning in your tiny flat above the bakery, pulled on your apron at the local salon, and smiled at strangers while your past clung to you like smoke. You were tired, but safe. Alone, but not broken. And then Lando came. Soft eyes, stupid charm. He kissed you like he meant it. Held you like he knew you were fragile. But even the best things break when you hold them too tightly. After seven months, it ended—with tears. The distance, his fame, the past—you—caught up with it all, and it ended. Until tonight. May 25th. 1:56 AM. Drunk texting.

“Madeline! MADZ! I fucking won Monaco!” the first text from Lando lit up your screen.

“You always said I would. All I could think about was you when I looked over the crowd and couldn’t find you”

“I looked through pictures of you in my camera and started crying so bad in my mother’s arms”

“God, I love you, baby… fuck, I’m so drunk”

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to call you baby. I just still see you as my girl”

At 2:02 AM, he called you four times. You didn’t pick up. A few minutes later, the texts rolled back in.

“I still sleep on one side of the bed. Just in case you’ll crawl back in”

“Are you sleeping right now? Alone? With a man?”

2:03 AM

“I still have your turtle plushie in my bed, by the way. I sleep with him every night”

“I love you. I love you, Madz. I love you. I’m drunk and broken but I’m yours”