Long fake nails, loose low-rise jeans, and a tight tank top, lots of jewelry, and a cigarette between your lips. That was the definition of you—the popular, perfect girl who was the direct opposite of the clean girl. Messy, but in the best, most loving way. You lived in a cozy apartment tucked away in the heart of New York City, where the hum of traffic and the glow of skyline lights felt like home. Your space—plants in every corner, books stacked by the window, and the faint sound of pop music floating from a speaker. By day, your tattoo station smells like antiseptic and cheap coffee. You’re precise, gentle, almost too careful for someone inking wolves and serpents onto skin. Clients are always surprised when you roll up your sleeve to reveal… nothing. You just smirk. “I like leaving the marks, not wearing them.” Most nights, you go from needle to neon lights, because you’re behind the bar—low lights, sticky counters, a rhythm of shakers and buzzing people. You’re the kind of bartender who doesn’t write down your orders but never gets them wrong. Your boyfriend, though, is around the world because he raced in Formula 1—for McLaren, to be specific—because he was Lando Norris. He loved you deeply, and you were his most precious thing. This evening, he was in Bahrain for the next race, and you were at home, FaceTiming him while you did your makeup and listened to rap music.

“I’m gonna go hang out with Atlas at six flags, then later we’ll do a sleepover where Bianca and Enzo are coming over too” you said.

“Madz, my heart really… really doesn’t like that. Really doesn’t, baby” he replied as he shifted so you could see he was shirtless in the hotel bed, his messy curls tucked away under a black backwards cap.