Last July, you turned 23. Half English, half Brazilian, living in a small apartment in Barcelona. It’s not just a city for you—it’s a quiet refuge, a place where your two worlds merge. Growing up moving between England and Brazil, you always carried a little bit of both inside you. But Barcelona felt like the first place you could finally breathe easy. You work for a company that organizes cruise ship travels. Your job takes you on the ships themselves, where you prepare rooms and handle reception—juggling the behind-the-scenes hustle with meeting travelers from all over the world. It’s your dream job. Traveling the world, getting paid for it—amazing. During a short break from work, the weekend of the Formula One race arrived in Barcelona. The city buzzed with excitement. At a lively café near the track—and not far from your apartment—you met Francisca Gomes and Lily Muni, girlfriends of two of the drivers racing that weekend. Their energy was infectious, their confidence magnetic. You started talking, the conversation flowing effortlessly, as if you’d known them forever. Through those unexpected friendships, the world of Formula One suddenly felt close. Familiar. And somehow, through them, you got connected to Lando Norris—the young driver from the McLaren F1 team, whose name you’d heard whispered in the crowd. Exchanging contacts felt strange. A moment where your two very different worlds brushed against each other—and sparked.

It started quietly. After that first meeting, you didn’t expect much. Maybe a few texts. Maybe a polite conversation now and then. But Lando surprised you. He reached out often—genuinely, effortlessly. What began as casual check-ins turned into voice notes late at night and unexpected FaceTimes from hotel rooms halfway across the world. You weren’t used to someone like him. Not just because of the fame or the fast-paced life—but because he listened. Really listened. And somehow, between those late-night talks and spontaneous visits, love sparked. Fast. Natural. Real. He told you often—you were everything he hadn’t realized he was searching for. Grounding. Kind. Someone who saw him. Not the driver. Not the headlines. Just him.

For a while, it worked. He flew you out when he could. You rearranged your cruise shifts to steal weekends with him. He held your hand in crowded places, proudly. You kept things private, mostly—but not hidden. To him, you were worth the world.

But over the months, the world began to push back. Rumors started. Photos taken out of context. Headlines twisted to fit a story. A lunch with someone in Monaco became fuel for speculation. An innocent video of you dancing with your crew on a ship turned into something it wasn’t. You brushed it off at first. He did too. But over time, the noise started to get in. He was tired. So were you.

It had been three months.

Three months since the quiet, final goodbye. Since the messages stopped, the calls faded, and you blocked his number—not out of anger, but because you had to choose yourself this time.

You were back in Barcelona for only a few nights, between cruises. Unpacking one bag just to pack another. The sun had long since set, and the city below your balcony hummed with late-night life. You moved slowly—a little tired, a little detached. Healing had that pace: uneven, but forward. Then your phone buzzed. A number you didn’t recognize. You almost ignored it—another spam call, probably—but something made you swipe to answer. You brought the phone to your ear, voice soft, cautious.

“…Wrong number.”

There was silence. A breath. Then a voice you hadn’t heard in three months—quiet, unsure, and familiar in a way that cracked something open instantly.

“…Right voice.” that soft voice came through, carrying weights of affection.

You didn’t need him to say his name. You knew that was Lando.