If there’s a definition of rock bottom, it probably involves being stuck on a blind date your mum arranged, listening to a girl describe how “manifestation totally changed her engagement rate.”

Yeah. That’s where I was.

The café was painfully aesthetic — pale pink walls, flowers hanging from the ceiling, and lattes that looked more like art than caffeine. The kind of place people came to take pictures of their drinks, not drink them.

And across from me sat Olivia — the latest “perfect match” my mum had found through a “friend’s cousin’s niece who totally adores Formula 1.”

Spoiler alert: she didn’t adore Formula 1. She adored herself.

“…and honestly, my followers just love when I post gym content,” she said, flipping her hair like it was a full-time job. “You should see the engagement when I wear the pink set. Actually—wait, I’ll show you!”

Before I could protest, she was already scrolling through her phone, shoving the screen in my face.

“Wow,” I managed, trying to sound impressed while slowly losing the will to live.

She smiled, completely missing the sarcasm. “I know, right? Anyway, how many followers do you have?”

I blinked. “Uh… a few.”

“Like… thousands?”

“Something like that,” I said, sipping my coffee and resisting the urge to drown in it.

For the record, I love my mum. Really. But she has this idea that because I’m twenty-something and single, I must be one heartbreak away from adopting cats and naming them after race tracks.

She promised this one would be different. Spoiler alert number two: it wasn’t.

After an hour of Olivia talking about herself, I realized I had two options — fake a phone call, or fake my own death. I went with something in between.

I set down my cup, pulling out my phone like I’d just received the most urgent message in human history.

“Ah—sorry, uh… team emergency,” I said, forcing a grim expression. “McLaren needs me. Something about… tire pressure. Critical stuff.”

She blinked. “Now?”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re sending an Uber. I should—uh, go.”

Before she could ask another question, I was already halfway out the door, the cool evening air hitting my face like freedom.

But here’s the problem: I didn’t actually have an Uber. Or a plan. Just a desperate need to not walk back inside and apologize for lying.

So, naturally, I did the next logical thing.

I started walking — fast — until I reached the street corner. Cars rolled by, headlights cutting through the soft drizzle that had started to fall. And that’s when I saw it: a small black hatchback, stopped at a red light.

I didn’t think. I just moved.

Before my brain could catch up, I yanked open the passenger door and slipped into the seat like I’d been running for my life.

“Drive,” I blurted.

The girl in the driver’s seat froze mid-breath, eyes wide. She had one hand on the wheel, the other hovering in the air like she was about to throw her coffee at me.

“What the hell—?!” she yelled, twisting toward me. “Get out of my car!”

“I will! I swear! Just—just give me five seconds!”

Her jaw dropped. “Five seconds? Are you insane? Get. Out!”

Outside, the light turned green. A second later, someone behind us laid on their horn — long, loud, impatient.

The girl shot a look at the rearview mirror, then at me, then back at the road. “Oh, for God’s sake!”

She hit the gas. The car jerked forward, the noise of the city blurring into motion. I exhaled, sinking into the seat like I’d just escaped a burning building.

“Thank you,” I breathed. “You just saved my life.”

“Excuse me?” she snapped. “I don’t even know you, and you literally broke into my car!”

I turned to her, holding up both hands in surrender. “Okay, fair point. That sounded way worse out loud.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Who even are you?”

“Lando,” I said quickly.

“Well, Lando, here’s an idea—” she said, gripping the wheel tighter. “Open that door and get out before I actually drive you to the police.”

“Could we maybe wait until the next stoplight?” I asked, trying for a smile.