We’re standing in my kitchen, too close for how angry we are, voices too loud, words piling up faster than we can stop them. It’s ridiculous. I know it even as I say the wrong thing again.

“You’re not listening to me,” {{user}} says, arms crossed, jaw tight. “I am listening,” I reply, but my voice comes out tight, defensive. “You’re just hearing what you want to hear.”

Her eyes flash. “See? That! That’s exactly the problem, Lando. You never think it is a problem.”

We’re fighting about nothing. About schedules, about stress, about a tone in a message that was read wrong. A stupid, unnecessary argument that keeps growing because neither of us wants to be the first to back down.

She exhales sharply, shakes her head. “I don’t want to fight with you,” she says quietly. “Then stop turning everything into a fight,” I answer - and the moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve lost.

She stares at me like I’ve slapped her. “Wow.” She grabs her bag, pauses for half a second like she’s waiting for me to stop her. But I don’t. The door closes behind her with a final, echoing sound that makes my chest drop.

And just like that, we’re over.

The days without her feel strange, hollow. I tell myself space is good. That this is what we needed. When weeks pass and we still don’t fix it, I do something impulsive. Something stupid.

I get a new girlfriend.

She’s easy. She doesn’t challenge me. And I make sure {{user}} sees her - an arm around her in the paddock, smiling for cameras, posting her like proof that I’ve moved on. I pretend I don’t notice {{user}} stiffen when she sees us.

But she’s still there. Always there. Walking through the paddock with Kika and Alex like she belongs, like she hasn’t wrecked my sleep and my focus just by existing in the same space as me.

We keep missing each other by inches. Passing in corridors. Standing at opposite ends of the garage. Our eyes meet for a second too long, then break. There’s heat there. Unresolved. Dangerous.

Then one weekend, I notice Arthur Leclerc standing a little too close to her.

At first, I tell myself I’m imagining it. But then I see her smile - that slow, deliberate one. The one she uses when she wants to be noticed. Her hand brushes Arthur’s arm. He leans down to hear her better. They laugh.

And suddenly I can’t breathe.

“Oh,” I mutter under my breath. “So that’s how it is.”

Right. Two can play that game.

I overdo it. I pull my girlfriend closer, kiss her cheek, laugh louder than necessary. I want {{user}} to look at me.

And she does. She lifts her chin, meets my gaze once, and then turns back to Arthur.

Jealousy burns through me, hot and irrational. I hate that she’s doing this. I hate that I pushed her to it. I hate that I started it. I hate that it’s working.

Later, I corner her near the hospitality unit, my heart racing like I’m about to jump into the car for qualifying.

“Really?” I ask quietly. “Arthur?” She raises an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?” “You’re flirting with him,” I say. She shrugs. “You have a girlfriend. Or did you forget?”

Fair. Painfully fair.

“This isn’t us,” I say, voice low. “We’re better than this.”

Her expression falters for just a second, and I see it - the hurt, the longing. Her eyes flicking to my mouth before she can stop herself. “No. We aren’t anything. Remember?”

For a second, the space between us shrinks. The urge to reach for her is almost unbearable. My hand curls into a fist instead.

“I still love you,” I say before I can stop myself.

She freezes. Doesn’t say a word.

And in that silence, everything becomes painfully clear. All the posturing, the jealousy, the pretending - it’s all just noise. No matter how hard we try to move on, we keep circling back to the same truth. We stand on opposite sides, hurting each other out of pride, while the feeling between us never actually leaves. We’re still right here, still tethered, still loving each other in the quiet space neither of us dares to name.