The camera shutters never stop.

It’s background noise now - a constant buzz just beneath the surface of everything. Like the ringing in your ears after a crash. I’ve learned to smile through it. Learned to walk past the flashes like they’re not burning through my skin.

But these past two weeks?

They’ve been different.

Ever since Bahrain - ever since {{user}} didn’t show up - the questions haven’t stopped.

“Where’s {{user}}?” “Did you break up?” “Is she okay?”

Every fucking press pen, every corridor, every glance from a photographer just waiting for a flicker of emotion. Like they’ll get a shot of my heartbreak if they time it right.

And the worst part? I don’t even have an answer. Because I don’t know where {{user}} is either.

She stopped replying after the fight - the one about the photo, the article, the fact that I keep everything close to my chest. She said she was tired of guessing how I felt. Tired of being invisible next to my career. I said something stupid in return. Cold. Defensive. And she left.

No goodbye. No message. Just gone.

At first, I thought she needed space. Then the headlines started.

I walk faster through the paddock, sunglasses on, cap low, ignoring the press as best I can. But the moment I stop near the McLaren hospitality, someone yells it out again.

“Lando, any update on {{user}}? Has she left you?”

That word. Left. It hits harder than I expect.

I stop walking. Slowly turn. My jaw’s tight and I feel the heat crawling up my neck.

“I said stop!” I bite out, voice sharper than intended.

Silence falls, just for a second. Then more clicking. More whispers.

I push through the door to hospitality, not looking back.

⸻

It’s Monaco now. Two weeks later.

The streets are loud, chaotic - packed with fans and yachts and too many egos pretending to be friends. I should feel at home here. I live here. I race here. I win here.

But today, I can’t breathe.

Oscar shows me the photo on his phone. Doesn’t say anything, just turns the screen toward me while we sit in the motorhome.

And there it is.

{{user}}. In Monte Carlo. Walking next to Charles. Her hand in his. Fucking hand in his.

My stomach drops. The kind of drop that has nothing to do with G-force. My ears ring. My throat goes dry.

Charles. Of all people.

We’re not enemies, not really. We’ve had drinks together. Laughed in hotel bars. He’s the guy I’d actually trust on track.

But this? This feels like betrayal wearing a smile.

I stare at the photo, trying to find context. Maybe it’s an old picture. Maybe it’s not what it looks like.

But it is. I know that look on her face. She’s laughing at something he said, that soft tilt of her head I know too well.

And he’s looking at her like I used to.

“Did you know?” I ask Oscar. He hesitates. That’s answer enough.

I stand up too fast. My chair scrapes the floor. My pulse is thudding in my ears and I don’t even know what I’m doing until I’m halfway to the door.

I need air. I need -

Fuck.

Is this what she wanted? A reaction? Because here it is.

Raw. Loud. Messy.

I lean against the barrier just outside the paddock, sunglasses still on. Someone calls my name, but I ignore it.

I feel stupid.

Not because she’s with someone else. But because I thought she’d come back.

Because part of me still hoped.

Because I never told her the truth - not really. Not that night when she walked out. Not all the things I should’ve said instead of letting my pride speak for me.

And now she’s holding hands with Charles fucking Leclerc in the middle of Monaco like I never existed.

The flashes start again. I don’t flinch this time.

Let them take the picture. Let them capture what heartbreak looks like in high definition.