𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri ✔

EPILOGUE

In honour of the McLaren 1-2 quali, I thought now was a good time to publish this. Based off of the original ending, not the alternate ending.

God, I miss writing this story.

Word count; 2,988

Oscar

— July 30th, 2023. Spa, Belgium.

Heart hammering against my ribcage, I shot up, welcomed by the darkness of my hotel room. Instinctively, I glanced beside me, to the empty half of the mattress, expecting something else, someone else. But nobody was there.

I was alone.

Another instinct forced my fingers to brush over my cheeks, grazing along the tear-stained skin. My phone buzzed from the nightstand and it took me a second to reach for it, still differentiating between reality and the well of my subconscience. Except, as I unlocked it, I forgot what I was doing, presented with the only reason I managed to get to sleep last night.

It was a video - one of several. This one in specific was from a few months ago, when Taz had driven us to Cardenete. He was rapping to some sort of Spanish drill music, word-for-word.

My lips tilted slightly, my eyes narrowing on the bright screen as I swiped.

This video was a lot more recent. In it, Taz was playing hide and seek with P, trying to ignore the fact she was hiding in plain sight. He kept trying not to laugh, only for his gaze to cross with my camera and burst into giggles, forcing P to do the same. He used that as his excuse for finding her.

I swiped. This was of him wrestling with Lando, who'd stolen his cigarettes and refused to give them back. My smile began to fade. We'd taken it for granted back then. Now, Lando could only dream of agitating his best friend. All because of me.

I swiped. Taz's head was buried under my shirt, like he was trying to crawl into my skin. I say something; to think this is Formula 1's next World Champion. He realises I'm recording and tries to snatch my phone. 

My smile widened, tears rolling over my cheeks. I tossed my phone aside, rubbing my eyelids with my knuckles, but it was of no use. I brought my knees to my chest, tucking them beneath my shirt, pretending it was him.

Mark picked me up from the hotel a few hours later. That morning had been a blur; drifting in and out of sleep, trips to the bathroom to splash water over my face, until it was time to face the fact it was Race Day. The sound of a horn jolted me awake, and I didn't realise I had fallen asleep in the first place.

My fingertips rubbed over my cheeks, gladdened that there weren't any tears.

"You sure you got enough sleep, kid?"

"Yeah," I cleared my throat, neck sore from leaning on the window. "Yeah, I'm fine."

My manager sighed, bringing his smallest finger to his lips so he could bite at the nail. We both knew I was lying. It had been seven days since half of my soul was ripped out of me - and I didn't even have a choice about it. Of course I didn't get enough sleep. I wasn't sure if I ever would.