Until my Last Breath

82

Barcelona, Spain

It's raining outside.

Not the cinematic kind. Not the kind that fits the mood with some poetic, tragic beauty. Just rain - plain, grey, and miserable. Exactly like I feel.

I'm back in Barcelona. Back in my home. Back in a world that's supposed to feel like mine. But nothing does anymore.

Maverick is curled on my lap, breathing softly, head nudged beneath my hand as if he knows. He always knows. I don't know what I'd do without him.

The lights are off in the hallway. I haven't turned them on since I got back. The only glow is from my phone screen, lighting up my face in that soft, unnatural blue.

No new notifications.

Again.

It's been three days since I stepped foot off the plane from Budapest and told Red Bull I was done. Done with the politics. The gaslighting. The fake support. The lies. My resignation wasn't poetic or strategic - it was an escape. I sent it in before I even landed.

I couldn't take another second under their thumb.

The aftermath? Hell.

Articles. Tweets. Headlines in every language I can understand. Some are calling me dramatic. Some are defending me like I'm a war hero. Others think I cracked under pressure - that I was never going to make it anyway.

I don't even care about any of that.

What I care about is that the one person I needed through all of it... disappeared.

Gavi.

He didn't call after the race.
Didn't text when I landed.
Didn't even like the one post I made on Instagram about leaving F1.

I check my messages again - as if this time, one will magically appear. That maybe my screen glitched the last hundred times I looked.

Nothing.

It's not like I haven't tried. I've texted. I've called. Once I even typed out this long, rambling voice note before deleting it at the last second because I sounded too desperate.

But nothing.

Absolutely. Nothing.

He's in Barcelona. I've seen the photos on his club's account. Training. Laughing. Alive and well.

And somehow, too busy to answer me.

I shift slightly, my fingers twitching, heart racing. My thumb hovers over the screen again. My chest feels tight.

I don't even know if we're still together.

The thought punches through my ribs like a fist.

That's what really kills me - not the silence, not the humiliation, not even the pit in my stomach from walking away from everything I've worked for.

It's not knowing why.

It's not knowing if he even cares.

A few more seconds pass. I blink slowly. My gaze drifts toward the Twitter icon on my home screen.

Marina's voice creeps back into my head.

"They were seen leaving the same restaurant... just two weeks ago."

I didn't ask for the link. I didn't search the tags. I didn't want to believe it. What kind of girlfriend checks social media to see if her boyfriend is cheating? What kind of girlfriend doesn't trust?

But now?

Now I don't even know if I am his girlfriend.

So I hover.