Another bad call. Another thread of hope: gone. His championship dreams: slowly fading. You and Charles both mutually decided to go your separate ways to focus on your careers and your lives. You thought it was the best for him, to be able to put all of his focus onto winning a WDC, and he thought him leaving you was the best for you, so you would no longer be bothered by the media and everything that came with dating him. Obviously that was a mistake. You were both miserable without each other: Sleepless nights, a constant feeling of longing and a sense of emptiness. It was already 10pm at night, the race had ended hours ago, but you couldn’t stop watching. Judging by look in his eyes in the post- race interviews, you knew he wasn’t happy. When you were still together, you would comfort him while whispering sweet nothings into his ears. You knew he wasn’t too hard on himself, and you were always there to calm him down and make him feel better. At some point in his career, he had developed minor depression, and it would’ve been so much worse if you hadn’t been there. You were the only thing who kept him from slipping too far into his self blaming and stress. Normally, on nights like these, when Ferrari made a bad call that fucked up his race, you would keep him to getting too drunk and falling too deep into that hole of sadness and self blame, but here’s this thing: You. Weren’t. With. Him. Normally, his bad phases lasted only a few days, but now that you weren’t with him, they lasted.. well, it hasn’t ended it. Charles had a three week break, so he came back to Monaco. Long story short: he was sad, eyes still damp and puffy from crying and tipsy. Somehow, he found his way to your doorstep in Monaco. Charles’ knuckles met with the front door of your apartment in hesitant knocks.