Until my last breath

4

Gavi

The music thumps through my chest, a pulsing rhythm that matches the energy of the crowded room. I'm used to the chaos of nights like these, with people swarming every corner, the scent of alcohol thick in the air. It's not really my thing, but after the match tonight, it's where we all ended up. My mind's still halfway in the game, replaying moves, and the adrenaline is slowly fading. But this place—it's packed, and I can't even move without bumping into someone.

Suddenly, I feel a sharp impact as someone crashes into me. My first instinct is irritation. I'm about to snap when I turn to face the culprit, but then... everything just pauses.

She's standing there, staring up at me, a bit flustered, her mouth already moving with an apology, but I barely hear it. She's wearing a short silver halter dress, backless and exposing just enough to be striking, but still elegant. The lights of the club flicker and bounce off the metallic sheen, casting her in flashes of different colors. Her brown hair is sleek, pinned back, and her eyes, just as brown, catch the light. They're warm and deep, but there's a spark in them—something that pulls me in, a brightness that cuts through the haze of the night.

Her voice finally cuts through my thoughts. "Oh god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No worries, it's all good," I respond, managing a genuine smile, though my mind's still playing catch-up. I'm taken off guard by her, by the way she's holding herself. Something about her is... different. I can't stop the smile from forming on my face, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room quiets down. Her presence fills the space in a way I can't quite describe.

"It really isn't your fault. It's so hard to not run into someone in this room," I add, looking around, trying to regain some composure. She seems a little embarrassed, which only makes her more... captivating.

"Yeah, I know, it's unbearable," she says, following my gaze before looking back at me. The flashing lights give me a quick glimpse of her face again, and it hits me that there's something familiar about her. I can't place it, though.

I want to ask who she is, but instead, I just find myself staring at her dress again, the way the silver fabric drapes over her skin. It's bold, but not in a way that feels too much. It's... perfect, honestly.

She seems to notice me staring, her lips parting like she's about to say something. "I'm Rita, Rita Bianchi," she says, snapping me out of my thoughts.

The name rings a faint bell, but before I can think too much on it, I just blurt out, "Yeah, I figured. People have been screaming your name for the past couple of hours." I nod toward the group of people behind her, loud and animated. They're celebrating something.

"Oh, yeah, that's my team. We won the championship, so we came here to celebrate," she says, smiling proudly.

I raise an eyebrow. "What team?"

She looks at me, her smile growing just a little. "I'm a race car pilot. Formula 2."

I blink. A race car driver? Now I know where I've heard the name before. I've seen the headlines, but it's more than that. It's the confidence, the energy she has. It's like the room isn't enough for her—she's bigger than this space, bigger than the crowd.

"That's impressive," I finally say, unable to hide my admiration. I try to keep my cool, but she's... fascinating. Her drive, her focus, the way she carries herself—it's magnetic.

As I look at her, I can't help but analyze every detail, from the way the lights hit her dress to the slight flush in her cheeks from the warmth of the club. She's stunning, but not in a way that feels unattainable. She's right there, real, grounded. Yet, there's an air about her, something untouchable.

"Pablo," I finally introduce myself, clearing my throat. "Pablo Gavi."

Her eyes widen just slightly in recognition. "Oh, that's where I recognize you from," she says, smiling like she's pieced together a puzzle. "Barça fan?"

"Haven't had much time to watch football lately," she admits with a shrug, "but yeah, I am."

A smirk tugs at my lips. "Not surprised. Everyone's a Barça fan." I throw the line out casually, but there's something playful in the way I say it, and she catches it immediately, rolling her eyes in response.

"If that helps you sleep at night," she shoots back, taking a sip of her drink, eyes still locked on mine. There's a challenge in her gaze, a spark, and I feel it. It's the kind of spark that sets something off inside you, like you've just met someone who could change everything.

We hold each other's gaze for a long moment. I don't say anything. I don't even know what to say. I can hear my thoughts battling against the reality of the situation. She's captivating, and there's a part of me that wants to know more—much more—but there's also that nagging voice in my head reminding me that this can't happen. Not now. Not ever.

I hear someone call her name, breaking the moment. She smiles again, softer this time. "Well, it was great meeting you, Pablo," she says, her voice pulling me back to the present.

"Yeah, nice meeting you too, Rita. And congratulations," I manage to reply, watching her as she turns to walk back to her group.

I watch her go, I can't help but let my eyes follow her. Her silver, backless halter dress catches the light in the club, every step displaying the graceful curve of her back. It's elegant but understated, exposed yet somehow modest, the kind of dress that draws attention without asking for it. She moves through the crowd with confidence, the silver fabric shimmering as the lights dance over it..
For a second, I consider stopping her, asking for her number, or just keeping the conversation going. But then I remind myself of the reasons why it's impossible.

-.-.-.-.-.-
Rita

"Thanks for the ride, Arch," I say as I step out of his car, the cool night air sobering me up slightly. "I had a lot of fun tonight."

"No problem, champ," he replies with a smile.

As soon as I get inside, I drop my bag and head straight for the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water to wash away the lingering taste of alcohol. The night was long and exciting, but the exhaustion is starting to hit me. I head for the bathroom, peeling off my clothes and hopping into the shower to rinse away the night.

Once I'm done, I braid my hair, change into my pajamas, and sink into bed, phone in hand, scrolling through notifications and replying to messages congratulating me on the win.

A memory notification pops up—seven years ago today. It's a photo of me with my uncle in a race car, his arm around me, explaining the purpose of each button. I look so focused, so determined, and he seems to be enjoying every moment of teaching me.

I stare at the picture for what feels like forever, not realizing that tears have begun to slip down my cheeks. I quickly wipe them away, locking my phone and turning off the light. The familiar ache of grief settles in my chest, but I bury it,
like I always do.

April 2022

The sunlight burns into the back of my head, and I groan, squinting at my phone.

8:30.

Shit.

I leap out of bed, tripping over myself as I race to the bathroom. I have less than fifteen minutes if I want to make my flight. Thankfully, my clothes are already laid out in the dressing room. I take the fastest shower of my life, throw on my outfit, and grab my suitcase, making a mental note to grab breakfast at the airport.

Just in time, I make it to my gate, boarding pass in hand.

London, here I come.