𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 ~ | 𝘔𝘢𝘹 𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯

Pull the Trigger

~'~

Things felt quieter now Benji was gone.

Quiet is a better word than lonely. I stretched out on the couch, a book open in my lap, but I hadn't turned a page in fifteen minutes. The evening had this oppressive stillness, the kind that made my apartment feel too big, too empty. I missed the little footsteps racing up and down the hall, the bursts of laughter, the endless questions about racing and life. Benji could fill every room he walked into, even the ones in my mind. Now there was just silence.

I shifted on the couch, pulling the blanket up over my legs as if that would keep the feeling at bay. My phone buzzed against the coffee table, lighting up the dim living room. I reached for it, wondering if maybe Benji was calling to say goodnight. But when I saw the name on the screen, my heart sank a little.

Ver-stop-pan.

Of course. I really needed something to make this evening better.

But there was still that small, annoying, part of me that was curious as to why the hell he was calling this late. Why he was calling me of all people. Why he was calling at all.

I picked up.

"I don't particularly want to talk to you any more than is absolutely necessary. So make it quick, por favor." I answered, holding up my phone.

No reply.

No response on the other end.

"Hello?" I tried again.

Nothing. Just muffled noise in the background, static, and something that sounded like loud music.

"Right," I muttered, shaking my head as I hung up. Must have been a pocket dial, though Max hardly seemed the type to pocket dial.

The phone buzzed again. His name lit up the screen, and I hesitated before answering.

"Ver—"

"Get out of my head."

His voice was slurred, thick with an edge I didn't recognize. For a moment, I froze.

"Excuse me?"

"You," he muttered. "In my head. Get out."

"Are you drunk?" I asked, realizing.

"No."

"You are drunk."

"And she clever too." He laughed dryly. "You are the whole package."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, exhaling sharply. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You're in there," he muttered again. "Can't think straight. Can't stop seeing you."

Something in his tone made me pause. He sounded wrecked, like he wasn't just drunk but unraveling at the seams.

"Where are you?" I asked, my voice softening against my better judgment.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, Max, it matters. Where are you?"

He laughed again, humorless and rough. "Somewhere loud. People. Don't know, don't care."

"You're not helping."

"Wasn't trying to."

"Verstappen, I swear-"

"Why do you stay there?" he interrupted, his tone teetering between frustration and despair. "Why can't you go find someone else's head to haunt? Pick another victim. Hell, haunt Lando, he's nice. You're not nice. You're... difficult."