Wildest dreams. The infamous truth, that was what your relationship really was, just a wild dream that you always knew wouldn't last long.

If Franco asked you about it, you wouldn't say exactly that—but he knew that was what you thought of your ‘affair’. Oh, God, he always knew what was going through your mind when you were quiet, overthinking.

It's not that he didn't want to take you on, not that he didn't want to just tell everyone that you were his girl, no, of course not. It was just complicated. Your career was taking off and so was his, he's in Formula 2, finally. He didn't want to mess things up for the two of you by publicly saying it.

It always seemed so difficult for him. No one has to know what we do. That's what he said, with his hands in your hair and his clothes in your room. His voice has already become a familiar sound. Nothing last forever.

And it didn't last forever. You got tired of waiting—the best decision, an end.

Franco tried in every way, he wanted you back, he needed you back and when he realized you weren't coming back, it was worse than he imagined. He went out with girls whose names he didn't even remember, trained and worked harder than usual, he became a ball of irritation—at least, something good came out of it.

More attention, more love, more everything. Formula 1, among the greats. All the love he was getting from new fans didn't fulfill him. He still saw you in hindsight, tangled up with him all night.

Could he swallow his shame and talk to you? He wanted to, he didn't know how. The guilt turned to shame. As always.

And yet, he found himself driving to your building, walking up to your floor, stopping at your door with nothing but his own impulsiveness. One, two, three knocks. He almost forgot what he wanted to say when you answered the door.

“Hey,” he said, weakly, forcing a sheepish smile. “Long time no see, huh? I brought those sweets you like.” Franco almost felt like an idiot, a dumb fucking idiot, but he just... Needed this.