🏁 Two rivals. One unforgettable season. 🏁
She's the daughter of a racing legend, determined to carve her own name. He's Germany's brightest prodigy, ruthless in his pursuit of perfection.
Both are sick of each other.
Stella Torres has spent the l...
Hello, goblins. It's certainly been a while since I last posted. But if there was ever a story to bring me back, it's this one.
For those worried about the ending, given my track record (yes, I've seen your comments), this book is a certified HEA. No heartbreak, I promise. Sort of.
Anyway! The video above is a fun aesthetic intro to Formula 1, but I wouldn't recommend playing it while reading. It's there for the vibes.
A few disclaimers:
1. First To Apricity will have a lot of graphics and added media, so for maximum reading experience, please have your internet switched on! (seriously, I worked very hard on these)
2. This is a work of fiction. Names of real people, companies, organisations, teams, sponsors, events, and locations—including but not limited to Ferrari, Mercedes, Formula 1, and associated entities—are used in a fictional context. All characters, dialogues, events, and depictions are entirely fictional and created for storytelling purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author has no affiliation with any real-world brands, organisations, or individuals mentioned herein.
Additionally, comments are always welcome and encouraged. And if you feel like leaving a vote, well... my ego says thank you in advance.
I think that's it (?) I'm going to make myself a sandwich while you scroll down.
𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓎 𝑔𝑜𝓁𝒹𝑒𝓃💛
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ＳＴＥＬＬＡ
𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 a strength of mine.
I'm not ashamed to admit that I've cried while saying goodbye to people I know I'll see next week, or that I once got choked up watching a colleague pack up their desk to switch departments, despite not being able to recall a single conversation I'd had with him.
So, one could imagine I didn't handle it particularly well when forced to reduce eleven years of work and everything I'd built into a single A4 sheet of paper.
But that's what professionals were supposed to do. We document our exits in clean margins and polite phrasing, even when the reason for leaving isn't failure or scandal but rather something more painful than that, something you couldn't have prevented, only endured.
The letter, folded into exact thirds and stuffed into a pale envelope, sits in my pocket, oppressive and heavy. My focus constantly returns to it. I trace the sharp edges that protrude into the fabric of my pants, and I wonder, not for the first time, how long I've been grieving.
