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After the Monaco grand prix George had said Alex owes him dinner to make up for the race. I can't help but feel a pang in my chest because of how light and almost carefree George sounded in a way. The fact that neither him nor Alex would let a stupid race effect their relationship is... It's beautiful. It hurts. I always taught Nico and I would've been like that, I always hoped that we could get past anything but we couldn't.
They didn't. Because now, Nico is away living a life without racing, without me... I think about him more than he should. I think about his pretty blonde hair and his blue eyes and the way he used to smile at me and how quickly all of that turned sour. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth whenever I sees George and Alex together not because I don't like them or don't don't want them together but because I knows their history, at least some of it and yeah, it hurts physically when I see them together. They were childhood friends, they made it into formula 1 together and they always defend each other. They don't get angry at each other over a race, they don't skip meals when they fight, they don't end their formula 1 career and disappear without a word. No. They don't do that.
When they look at each it's like they're the only two people in the world, it used to be like that with Nico and I but the inevitable happened and now we know nothing of each other, know we don't talk to each other, we don't smile at each other, we can't even see each other and why? Because we're both idiots. I hate the days when I miss him so much it makes me sick, I hate thinking about how we could've been just like Alex and George had we just talked to each other, I hate that he left. I hate that I could never hate him for leaving because I get it so much it makes me crazy.
Watching Alex and George together is like looking at a mirror expect they won't end with tossing hats at each other or just painful silence because they're both too stubbornly immature to speak. I wish Nico and I were different. I wish we could've lasted. I wish he was here. But he isn't and we didn't but at least Alex and George would have the endgame Nico and I couldn't. At least they have each other and they seem too far gone for each other to break.
I shouldn’t be watching him.
I know that. I know it in the same way I know how to breathe, how to brake later than anyone else, how to keep my shoulders relaxed even when my stomach feels like it’s been scooped out with a dull spoon. I know I shouldn’t be watching George not the way I am right now, not the way that feels like someone has wired my nerves straight into him but I’m still doing it.
I’m leaned against the cool steel railing of the balcony in Monaco, the sea stretching out behind me, glittering and indifferent. Journalists swarm below like flies around honey, asking the same questions in a dozen different accents. Teams pack up garages, engineers disappear into briefings, PR managers chase drivers like anxious sheepdogs.
And there he is.
George, standing close to Alex with his hands moving in the air as he talks, animated and bright, like something warm and young and hopeful. His cheeks are flushed from the post-race chaos. His curls still damp from the podium champagne fall into his eyes as he laughs at something Alex says. Laughs. Not a little polite laugh either. A real one. The kind that softens his entire face.
And I feel it.
That familiar sharp ache under my ribs. Like a bruise someone pressed too hard.
After the Monaco Grand Prix, when we all dragged ourselves out of the paddock, George had said Alex owes him dinner to make up for the race. Teasing. Light. Carefree in a way that made my chest feel tight. Like he was exhaling a weight I’ve never been able to let go of.
I’d smiled at the comment because I don’t really have another choice but something about the way he said it stayed with me, sticky and uncomfortable. Not jealousy. Not exactly. More like longing. Longing for something impossibly simple: a friendship unruined by competition. A bond that racing couldn’t corrode. Something… pure.
Something I used to think Nico and I would have.
My fingers tighten around the railing until my knuckles ache.
I always thought Nico and I would get past anything. I hoped for that like an idiot like a kid who believes that if you love something enough, no amount of pressure or pain can break it.
But that’s the thing about pressure.
It doesn’t just break things.
It reshapes them into something unrecognizable.
Nico is away now, living a life without racing, without me, without the constant burn of trying to beat me or understand me or escape me. And I should be happy for him. I should be at peace with it after all these years. But god I think about him more than I should.
More than is healthy.
More than is reasonable.
More than is safe.
I think about his pretty blonde hair and sharp blue eyes and the way he used to smile at me the real smile, the one before everything turned sour and defensive and weaponized. I think about how it felt to sit beside him in the motorhome, legs pressed together under the table, sharing food, sharing secrets, sharing pieces of ourselves neither of us realized we’d miss later.
Then I think about the end.
The bitterness.
The silence.
That final press conference where he tried so hard to pretend everything was fine.
And then the disappearing act.
Gone.
Just like that.
I swallow hard and force my gaze back down to the paddock, but George and Alex are still there, still wrapped in that effortless gravity that pulls them together whether they mean it to or not.
It hurts.
Physically.
A tight, cold pressure blooming in my chest.
Not because I don’t like them I do. I adore Alex, and George… George is a complicated ache I never asked for. It hurts because I know their history. They grew up together. They chased the same dream. They made it into Formula 1 at the same time. They defend each other without hesitation. They don’t get angry at each other over a race. They don’t skip meals when they fight. They don’t spend nights lying awake wondering if they ruined something permanently. They don’t tear each other apart until nothing is left.
They don’t end their Formula 1 careers and disappear without a word.
No.
They don’t do that.
They look at each other like the world shrinks down to just the two of them the moment their eyes meet. And it used to be like that with Nico and me. A private orbit. A connection built on childhood memories, shared ambition, stolen glances, whispered confessions in the dark.
But then the inevitable happened.
And now we know nothing of each other.
We don’t talk, don’t smile, can’t even be in the same room without feeling like ghosts passing through old battle grounds.
Why?
Because we are both idiots.
I hate days like this days when the missing is so strong it feels like a sickness. Days when seeing George laugh with Alex feels like a reminder of everything I lost and everything I never got to fix. Days when the sunlight in Monaco feels too bright, too sharp, too honest.
I hate thinking about how different things might’ve been if Nico and I had just talked to each other. If we’d been braver, kinder, softer. If we hadn’t let fear and pride and pressure turn love into a battlefield.
I hate that Nico left.
And I hate that I could never hate him for it.
Because on some deep, painful level… I get it. I get why he ran. I get why he never came back.
Sometimes I even wish I’d run with him.
A cheer breaks out below fans spotting George as he waves, that bright PR-trained smile slipping naturally across his face. Alex nudges him playfully. George’s grin widens, and he bumps Alex’s shoulder back.
It is… beautiful.
Sickeningly beautiful.
Watching them together is like looking into a mirror a reflection of something I once had but couldn’t keep. Except their ending won’t be mine and Nico’s. There won’t be hats thrown at each other’s heads or tense debriefs or painful silences stretching for months. They won’t break apart the way we did. They won’t shatter something so precious out of ego and fear.
They’re too far gone for each other for that.
I let out a slow exhale and close my eyes.
For a moment just a moment I let myself imagine it.
Nico standing beside me again.
Shoulder pressed to mine.
Blue eyes soft.
Voice quiet.
Maybe apologizing.
Maybe forgiving.
Maybe both.
But when I open my eyes, it’s just Monaco.
Just the sea.
Just the crowds.
Just George and Alex walking away together, sunlight catching on George’s damp curls like a halo.
I push away from the railing, chest tight.
At least they have each other.
At least they’ll have the endgame Nico and I couldn’t.
I whisper it under my breath quiet enough to be swallowed by the wind.
“It’s good they have something we lost.”
But the truth is harsher.
I miss Nico.
I miss him so much it hurts to breathe.
And watching George god, watching him makes me feel like I’m grieving two different things at once,the boy I once loved, and the man I can’t stop wanting.