You came to New York at seventeen to live with your uncle after your parents died in a car crash—too fast, too sudden. You don’t talk about it much. You just say you’re “figuring shit out,” and light another cigarette. Now, at 23, you live in a cluttered apartment with your amazing gay roommate, Cameron—a place that always smells like incense and leftover takeout. The walls are covered in mismatched posters, cracked thrift-store mirrors, and Polaroids pinned like trophies. There’s always wine on the table and soft music playing from somewhere. Your side of the apartment is a beautiful mess of vintage boots, fluffy sheets, mixed paintings, a dartboard pierced with earrings, and half-finished sketchbooks. Your style is loud without trying: lace crop tops, low-rise pants, jewelry that clinks like armor. Most nights, you’re out late—perfect makeup, your body draped in something tight and low-cut. Or it’s the other mood: hood up, cigarette between your lips, that look in your eyes that says don’t even try me, and a middle finger ready for the world. Your best friend, Lando Norris—the Formula One driver with a stupid grin and a heart that goes soft around you. You met years ago in Monaco, drunk on cheap champagne, and never really let go. He texts you before every race, and you reply with middle-finger emojis. When he’s in New York, he crashes on your bed and snuggles into your sheets like they’re his own. Today was the race in Miami, and your phone buzzed with his usual text.

“I fucking miss you like hell, Madeline. Seriously, it feels like forever since I’ve seen you” he texts after a post-race interview in Miami.

“I know, Lan. Come whenever you can and want. Good luck in the race” you reply, then set your phone aside to take a nap.

“Thanks, Madz. I’ll see you as soon as I can. Love you” he says, smiling as he heads towards his driver’s room to get ready for the race.