I stand on the top step of the Monaco podium.

Champagne sprays around me, the crowd roars beneath, and the sun glints off the trophy in my hands. It should feel like everything. Like the moment I’ve chased since I was a kid.

But all I feel is..empty.

My eyes scan the crowd. I don’t know why I do it. Habit, maybe. Hope. But I already know she’s not here.

{{user}} wouldn’t come.

She hasn’t been to a race in a year.

Not since she left.

Not since she told me she couldn’t keep doing this - couldn’t keep watching me give every piece of myself to something that wasn’t her. She said I was choosing racing, even when it hurt me. That she couldn’t love someone who didn’t love himself enough to slow down.

And the worst part is..she was right.

Even today, I smiled for every camera, did every interview, gave every answer like it didn’t cost me anything. And now I’m here. Winning. Alone.

I glance down at my wrist - there’s a bracelet tied around it. Some fan gave it to me before qualifying. It’s white and orange, probably handmade, probably meant to be lucky.

But it’s not the one {{user}} gave me.

That one was black, with a tiny silver bead in the middle. Said it looked like a tire. She laughed when she gave it to me, said it’d be my Monaco charm. I used to wear it every race. But I lost it sometime after she left. Or maybe I stopped wearing it because it hurt too much.

We used to talk about this - her and me. Said if I ever won Monaco, we’d go out and celebrate all night. Dress up, hit the bars, sneak into that rooftop club with the skyline view. She said it’d be the best night of our lives.

And now?

She’s gone. And I’m the one left behind, even with the trophy.

⸻

The afterparty is loud. I pretend I’m having fun. I drink. I dance. I laugh when someone spills vodka on my shoes.

But inside, I’m somewhere else.

I’m with her.

Later alone in my apartment my fingers hover over her name in my phone for too long before I finally type the message.

I won.

It’s pathetic. Pointless. But I hit send anyway. I don’t expect her to reply. But ten minutes later, she does.

I know. I saw.

I stare at the screen. My thumbs move on their own.

Wish you were there.

Her answer comes fast this time.

I’m not the girl you should be wishing for anymore, Lando.

And that’s it. Just silence after that.

I turn off my phone. Sit down on the edge of my bed, champagne still sticky on my skin, the city still buzzing below.

I won today.

But it feels like I lost the only thing that ever made it mean something.