It was a quiet Saturday morning in London. Emma and I had decided to grab breakfast at a café.

“Think {{user}}'s coming?” Emma asked casually.

“She texted me that she’s on her way.”

{{user}}. My best friend for years—the one who kept me grounded no matter how wild things got in Formula 1. She introduced me to Emma, which made things even better. But lately, there had been something...off.

{{user}} arrived a few minutes later, her usual bright energy dampened. She hugged Emma quickly and gave me a playful punch on the arm.

“Late again?” I joked.

“Traffic."

She smiled, but it felt hollow. We ordered and settled into easy conversation—or at least it was easy between me and Emma. {{user}} kept glancing at her coffee, swirling it absently with her spoon.

"You okay?" Emma asked.

{{user}} straightened up, forcing a smile. "Yeah, just didn’t sleep well."

The air felt heavier after that. Emma tried to keep the conversation going, but {{user}} wasn’t her usual self.

"Remember when {{user}} made me wear that hideous Christmas jumper on live TV?" I said, nudging her.

She smirked faintly. "Hey, it was festive."

"It’s burned into the internet forever," I admitted.

{{user}} looked at me then, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. There was a moment of silence, just long enough for realization to hit me. It wasn’t just tiredness. She was hurting. And I had a sinking feeling I knew why.

Emma's phone buzzed, and she excused herself to take the call, leaving {{user}} and me alone.

"You sure you're okay?" I asked.

She hesitated, then shrugged. "Guess I’m just...adjusting."

"Adjusting to what?"

Her gaze met mine. "You and Emma."

“{{user}}…” I started, but she shook her head.

“It’s fine, Lando. You deserve to be happy. And Emma’s great." Her voice wavered, betraying her attempt to sound casual. "I just need time, I guess."

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but she was already standing up.

“I should go,” she said quickly.

“{{user}}, wait—”