Until my last breath

23

August 2022
Barcelona, Spain

Maverick greets me at the door, his entire body wagging with excitement as I step into the house. He jumps up, paws pressing against my legs, and I can't help but smile. "Mav, I missed you too," I say, scratching behind his ears. His fur feels warm under my fingers, and for a moment, the stillness of the house doesn't feel so overwhelming.

I drop my bag by the door, making a mental note to unpack later. For now, I just want to sink into the quiet. No cameras, no questions, no forced smiles. Just this—a moment to breathe.

Maverick follows me into the kitchen, his claws clicking on the tile as I grab a bottle of water. The late afternoon sunlight filters through the windows, casting golden streaks across the countertops. I lean against the counter, watching as Maverick circles his bed a few times before settling down.

I take a long sip of water, letting the coolness ease the dryness in my throat. My phone buzzes on the counter, but I ignore it. Probably Marina or Arthur, maybe even Charles checking in. I'll answer later. Right now, I need to clear my head.

A few moments later I step into my trainer then into the gym.

Just 1 drill

I tug my hair into a high ponytail and start with some stretches, letting the familiar motions ground me. It feels good to move, to focus on something physical instead of the endless chatter in my head.

Once I'm warmed up, I move to the treadmill, setting the incline high and the speed higher. The belt hums beneath my feet, and I fall into a steady rhythm. The sound of my breathing mixes with the pounding of my shoes, creating a beat that drowns out everything else.

I'm supposed to be resting during this break—Marina's orders—but resting feels impossible. How am I supposed to sit still when my mind won't?

My body pushes through the exhaustion, muscles burning in a way that feels like punishment and relief all at once. I focus on the physical strain, channeling everything I don't want to think about into each stride.

The room fills with the sound of my effort: breaths coming in hard and fast, sweat dripping down my neck. I lose track of time until my legs feel like jelly, and I finally step off the treadmill, chest heaving.

Grabbing my towel, I collapse onto a nearby bench, wiping the sweat from my face. The ache in my muscles feels good, earned, but the noise in my head hasn't quieted.

And then my phone buzzes.

I glance at it, expecting Marina again—or maybe another useless notification I can ignore—but the name on the screen makes my stomach drop.

Lando Norris.

The message preview stares back at me, taunting me with its simplicity.

-Hey. I'm in Barcelona next week. Can we please talk?

I stare at the words, my heartbeat pounding louder than it did on the treadmill. My first instinct is to close the notification, pretend I didn't see it. Maybe he'll take the hint and leave me alone.

But another part of me—a quieter, more conflicted part—knows I can't.

Maverick nudges my knee, as if sensing something's shifted. I sit on the floor beside him, running a hand through his fur as my mind races.

I haven't seen or spoken to Lando since...
that night. The fight.

The memory is a sharp stab, something I've tried to bury but can't seem to shake. The words we said, the way he looked at me. It plays on a loop in my mind, even now, months later.