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verstappenverse · 13 days ago

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All This Time

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was your first everything, first friend, first heartbreak. Now years later he’s world champion, and you’re standing in front of him like no time has passed at all. (Requested)

3.1k words / Masterlist

You didn’t expect him to remember.

Not after all this time. Not after the years had passed like train cars speeding in the dark, loud, fast, and gone before you could even wave.

You’d stayed in motorsport, of course. Racing had been in your blood too once. You never fully pursued it like Max did, but you’d carved out a place for yourself behind the scenes, making a name for yourself in strategy, development, coaching, anything that kept you close to the world you loved. Anything but Formula 1. You avoided that part like a wound you never let scab, too afraid it might tear open the second you saw his name on a garage wall.

But today when you finally step into the Red Bull garage and your eyes meet his, those same ocean-blue eyes that once squinted against the sun as he begged you to race him down some dusty backroad the world doesn’t just pause. It stops entirely.

Max Verstappen freezes like he’s seen a ghost.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper. Because really, what else can you say after almost ten years, multiple countries, and the ache of being forgotten?

He blinks once. Then again. His jaw tightens.

“You came.”

You nod, nervous under the weight of his gaze. “Yeah. I mean, your mum invited me, and… it felt like time.”

Time. That strange, cruel thing that unraveled the knot you’d once tied so tightly between you, a knot built from scraped knees, shared dreams, and the kind of trust that only comes from growing up side by side.

Time turned summer sleepovers into unanswered texts. Turned secret handshakes into blank stares across a room you no longer shared. It turned “always” into “used to.” You had been inseparable. Velcro. Chaos in a two-person unit. Trouble, always in pairs and never quite as brave alone.

You’d kept up with his career of course. You knew his stats, his wins, the way the crowd chanted his name now. But the Max you remembered the one with grass stains on his knees and ice cream on his chin felt like someone else entirely.

You grew up in karting garages together, your laughter bouncing off concrete walls louder than the engines. You were twin shadows slipping between toolboxes and tyre stacks, dodging mechanics and stealing zip ties like they were gold. Oil-smudged fingers. Greasy fries in one hand, tyre pressure gauges in the other. Max taught you how to kick-start an engine before you’d even mastered telling the time. You taught him how to tie a tie, how to tape a blister, how to calm down after a bad lap.

You used to sneak snacks off each other’s trays and pretend neither of you noticed. You fell asleep shoulder to shoulder in the back of his dad’s van, watching old F1 races on a cracked iPad and whispering commentary until one of you snored. You had a notebook, battered and dog-eared, where you’d both sketch ridiculous helmet designs, all glitter paint and fire decals. He always said he’d wear yours if he ever made it. You still have that page, folded and faded.

After every race, whether he won or crashed out, he’d find you. Every time. He’d pull off his gloves and jog toward the barriers just to hear your opinion. When you raced his face would light up when you crossed the line whether first or last didn’t matter. You were his best friend. That was enough.

But then life did what life does. You moved. He kept racing. You said you’d write. He said he’d call. And you did at first, but life moves fast and somewhere along the way you stopped.

Now here you are standing in the Red Bull garage as if no time passed, as if the world hasn’t changed, as if you’re still those two sunburnt kids who thought karting trophies and fizzy drinks were all that mattered.

Max looks at you like you might disappear if he blinks again.

His gaze flicks over your face with an urgency he’s trying to hide, like he’s checking to see what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. Like he’s afraid to find too much of one or the other.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you around here again,” he says finally, voice low and rough-edged, like it’s scraped up from somewhere buried.

You swallow the lump that rises instantly in your throat. “Didn’t know if you’d even remember.”

His mouth tilts not a smile, exactly. More like the ghost of one, soft and haunted around the edges. “You’re kind of hard to forget.”

And just like that, something inside you, something carefully packed away for years, twists, sharp and sudden. An old ache, familiar and stupidly alive. He used to say things like that all the time, back when the only people in your world were each other.

Max shifts like he wants to say something else. Instead his eyes catch on your features again, and he frowns faintly.

“You look…” he starts, then trails off. His lips part like he might keep going, but nothing comes.

You don’t press him. You’re not sure you could handle it if you did.

So you offer a crooked smile. “Older?”

He snorts, a low, almost fond sound that slips past his defences. “Still short.”

You roll your eyes and shove at his arm. “Still rude.”

Then he laughs. Really laughs. It hits you in the ribs like a punch, that sound because it’s the same. Deeper now, with age and wear, but still the same boyish rasp that used to echo through paddocks and across bunk beds and over midnight walks when the world felt too big and all you had was each other.

For a second, it’s like no time passed at all.

You don’t realise how long you’ve been staring, locked into the space between who he was and who he is, until his voice drops lower, softer.

“I missed you.”

Three words, barely breathed.

They land like a stone in your chest.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first. Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for something that might no longer be yours.

“I missed you too,” you whisper finally, and the truth in it feels like something dangerous.

Because now you’re not just remembering him.

You’re feeling him.

The next morning, the paddock is alive with chaos, engineers buzzing, cameras swiveling, drivers darting past like comets. But all you can think about is the message from Max that was left at your hotel for you.

Come by the garage in the morning, before FP?

Your fingers tremble slightly as you enter the paddock. You’ve barely slept, head full of things you almost said and things he nearly did. It’s like a door opened yesterday, and now you can’t stop looking inside.

He’s waiting by the back of the garage, half in uniform, half in thought.

His face softens when he sees you.

“I was hoping you’d come.”

You nod, trying not to stare at the way his fire suit clings to his frame. “I figured if I didn’t you’d just track me down.”

He smirks. “Yeah probably. I know where you’re staying.”

You laugh, but there’s a tightness in your chest.

You watch as he fiddles with the velcro of his gloves, not quite meeting your eyes. “There’s something I want to show you. Maybe it’s stupid.”

He leads you to his driver room, past engineers, down the corridor with controlled chaos humming all around you, and when the door clicks shut, it’s just you and him.

He opens a drawer. Pulls out something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

A photo.

Faded. Bent at the corners. But unmistakable.

You and him. Teenagers, around fifteen. Covered in dirt and grease and beaming like idiots. You’ve got a bottle of water in one hand and Max is mid-squint, arm slung over your shoulders.

“I’ve had it since that last race before you left,” he says, voice low. “I kept it in my wallet for years. Then it started to fall apart, so I moved it here.”

Your fingers graze the edge of the picture.

“We look ridiculous.”

“You look happy,” he corrects quietly.

You don’t ask how often he’s looked at it. You don’t have to.

Because you remember that day too.

The air had smelled like petrol and hot asphalt, and your heart was still pounding from the race. You were grinning, practically vibrating with adrenaline. Because for the first time ever you beat Max.

He pulled off his helmet slowly, curls a sweaty mess, and sulked like someone stole his dog.

You plopped beside him in the pit lane, holding out the fries you’d bought from the food truck near the gate. “Truce?”

He gave you the side-eye. “You cut me off on turn six.”

You shrugged. “You left the inside line open. Rookie mistake.”

“I hate you.”

You popped a fry into your mouth. “No you don’t.”

He didn’t say congrats, but the way he smiled when he thought you weren’t looking that said enough.

You offered him the last fry without looking at him. “For your bruised ego.”

He took it, but didn’t eat it right away. “You’re gonna win a lot of races,” he said quietly.

“So will you.”

“But I’ll always remember this one.”

You turned to him, confused. “Why this one?”

His gaze met yours, and something in his expression shifted, a flicker of hesitation, like a thought stumbled too close to the surface.

He leaned in.

It wasn’t fast or sudden. It was slow, careful, uncertain.

Your breath hitched. The grease-stained paper bag slipped from your fingers onto the ground. You felt the sun on your skin and the heat of his body so close, his mouth a breath away from yours.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Your noses nearly brushed. His eyes flicked to your lips. You could count his freckles.

But then, footsteps. Loud. Sharp.

You both jolted back like the moment hadn’t happened at all.

His father walked past, barely glancing at either of you.

You looked down. Max rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in his shoelaces.

And just like that, it was over.

Not a kiss.

Just an almost.

An almost that would live quietly in the silence between you, never spoken about, never quite forgotten.

You didn’t expect to be invited to the RedBull motorhome for lunch. And you definitely didn’t expect Max to sit across from you the entire time, answering questions from media with one eye always flicking back to you.

After the interviews, he corners you in a quiet hallway.

"Come for a drive with me."

You blink. “Now?”

He nods. “Yeah. I need to clear my head. I think… I think we need to talk.”

You hesitate for only a moment before you follow him out into the sun.

The car is fast, obviously, and expensive, a blur of black and blue. But inside it everything slows.

“I tried calling once… recently, I mean” he says, not looking at you.

You swallow. “I changed my number.”

He nods. “I figured. I just, you were gone. One day you were there, and the next…”

“I didn’t want to leave Max, I was a teenager I didn’t get a say.”

Silence. Then, “I know, but I really didn’t want you to. I wished I could’ve done something.”

“You were just a kid too. It was no ones fault.” You take a deep breath and then add. “I waited for you that last night, you know. I kept thinking… maybe you’d come find me.”

You’d gotten the news on a late afternoon: your family was relocating. New country. New start. It felt like the world cracked open beneath your feet.

You’d ran to him heart pounding with the knowledge that your whole life was about to split in two.

“I need to tell you something,” you’d said, voice shaking.

He looked up instantly. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated. Then forced the words out.

“I’m leaving.”

Max blinked. “What do you mean, leaving?”

“My dad got a job offer. We’re moving.”

He stared at you. Completely still. “When?”

You bit your lip. “Soon.”

His soda can crumpled slightly in his grip.

You hated the silence that followed. You wanted him to fight it. You wanted him to shout, to say no. Instead, he looked down.

“For how long?” he asked quietly.

You couldn’t lie. “I don’t know.”

He nodded once. Too slowly. Too carefully. Like the movement itself hurt.

You waited. You waited for him to reach for you, to say anything, that he’d miss you, that he was angry, that you meant something. But he just stood there, like his body had shut down and left only a shell behind.

So you swallowed your tears, your pride, and your heartache and whispered, “Guess I’ll see you around.”

You wanted to throw your arms around his neck and say you’d fight this, that you didn’t want to leave, but your throat burned and your eyes were wet and you couldn’t force the words out.

Then you turned and walked away.

“I should’ve said something,” Max says quietly. “Anything. I was a coward.”

You look at him.

You don’t say me too.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a decade.

It’s quiet after that. The kind of quiet that lives in the space between memory and regret.

He drives to a lookout over the sea. It reminds you of a place you used to sit together as kids, eating fries from a greasy paper cone and talking about what you’d do if you ever made it.

“You made it,” you say as you climb out of the car.

“So did you,” he replies.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Not in the same way.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans against the hood of the car and looks at you like he’s trying to memorise you.

“I thought about you,” he says quietly. “All the time.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“I kept waiting for you to come back. For years, I’d look for your face in the stands. I kept thinking maybe today.”

Your throat tightens. You remember all the times you wanted to reach out, to send a letter, an email, anything. But something always stopped you.

Fear. Pride. Guilt.

“I didn’t know if you’d care.”

He turns fully to you then, and his eyes, older, sharper, but still that same ocean blue burn into yours.

“Of course I’d care. You were everything to me. You still are.”

The air between you shifts.

“Max,” you whisper, and this time your voice trembles. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what it means anymore. It’s been years.”

“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “But you’re still the only person I’ve ever felt like this about.”

You’re too stunned to speak.

He exhales, eyes flicking to your lips before dragging back up. “I don’t expect anything. I just… I needed you to know.”

For the first time in a decade, you let yourself touch him, your fingers brushing against his, slow and tentative.

“I still feel it too,” you whisper.

His hand closes around yours like he’s afraid to let go again.

That night, you sit on the edge of your hotel bed and stare at your phone.

A message from Max.

Come up. Roof bar. Just us.

Your heart is in your throat as you ride the lift.

When the doors open, he’s already there two drinks in hand, back turned to the city view. He turns as you approach, something soft and aching in his smile.

“You came.”

“You asked.”

He hands you a drink. “For old times?”

You take a sip. “Something like that.”

You stare at him. At the man he’s become. Stronger. Sharper. Quieter, somehow. But the boy you knew the one who always gave you the last bite of his sandwich, who held your hand during thunderstorms, who whispered secrets to you in the dark he’s still there.

“Do you think we can go back?” you ask, your voice barely audible over the city noise.

He steps close. Not touching, not yet. But close enough that you feel the pull in your chest like gravity.

“I don’t want to go back,” he says. “I want to start again.”

His next words crack something open.

“You know how often I used to write texts I never sent. Every race, every flight. I’d delete them before takeoff like an idiot.” His voice breaks, just slightly. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you again?”

You nod, because you do. Because every stupid highlight reel of his wins made your heart ache. Because you once screamed into your pillow after seeing him kiss someone else in the paddock and you thought you’d missed your chance for good.

He reaches out. Not touching you yet, just hovering. “I’m never losing you again.”

Your breath catches.

“Max…”

“No. Don’t.” His fingers find yours. Threaded. Familiar. “Please. I’ve won everything I ever wanted. Except this.”

Your forehead presses to his chest before you can stop yourself, and he holds you like he remembers exactly how to. Like he’s angry at the space between you. Like if he squeezes tight enough, you’ll forget the wasted years and remember everything else.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper.

“Don’t ever leave again,” he mutters into your hair.

You don’t answer with words. You don’t even think you just act on instinct.

You kiss him.

Desperate but somehow gentle. A question.

He answers with a hand on your waist, the other on your cheek, anchoring you like he used to when the world spun too fast.

And just like that, you’re fifteen again. And twenty-two. And every version of yourself that ever loved him.

Later, when he walks you back to your room, he doesn’t try to come in.

He just stands there in the hallway, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

His eyes soften. “Stay. In Monaco. Just for a while.”

You bite your lip. “Max…”

“Not just for me,” he says quickly. “For you. For us. Let’s see where this goes.”

You look at him, this man who waited years, who still looks at you like you hung the stars and you know the answer, you’ve always known.

“Okay.”

And when he leans in, forehead resting against yours, everything feels still.

You were always meant to find your way back to him.

It was always Max.

Always you.

Even after all this time

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oreegaanoo · 1 year ago

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Hey all is it just me but are ALT texts just disappearing from posts where there used to be ALT texts? I'm looking at my art from the last two months and most of my drawings don't have their ALT texts on anymore, at least not on mobile.

I went back and added some to the ones I've posted in the last month but idk if it's just a bug on mobile or something? Do others have the ALT texts still available?

#p #I'm very confused because I remember writing the ALT texts to so many of those posts and now they're gone #the only ones I don't think I added any texts to were the ones with sketches but that's about it. everything else should have the texts #noticed this now as I was adding alt texts to my instagram post and went to copy the texts from here but. no texts. confusing

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burntoutdaydreamer · 2 years ago

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Things That May Be Causing Your Writer's Block- and How to Beat Them

I don't like the term 'Writer's Block' - not because it isn't real, but because the term is so vague that it's useless. Hundreds of issues all get lumped together under this one umbrella, making writer's block seem like this all-powerful boogeyman that's impossible to beat. Worse yet, it leaves people giving and receiving advice that is completely ineffective because people often don't realize they're talking about entirely different issues.

In my experience, the key to beating writer's block is figuring out what the block even is, so I put together a list of Actual Reasons why you may be struggling to write:

(note that any case of writer's block is usually a mix of two or more)

Perfectionism (most common)

What it looks like:

You write one sentence and spend the next hour googling "synonyms for ___"

Write. Erase. Write. Rewrite. Erase.

Should I even start writing this scene when I haven't figured out this one specific detail yet?

I hate everything I write

Cringing while writing

My first draft must be perfect, or else I'm a terrible writer

Things that can help:

Give yourself permission to suck

Keep in mind that nothing you write is going to be perfect, especially your first draft

Think of writing your first/early drafts not as writing, but sketching out a loose foundation to build upon later

People write multiple drafts for a reason: write now, edit later

Stop googling synonyms and save that for editing

Write with a pen to reduce temptation to erase

Embrace leaving blank spaces in your writing when you can't think of the right word, name, or detail

It's okay if your writing sucks. We all suck at some point. Embrace the growth mindset, and focus on getting words on a page

Lack of inspiration (easiest to fix)

What it looks like:

Head empty, no ideas

What do I even write about???

I don't have a plot, I just have an image

Want to write but no story to write

Things that can help:

Google writing prompts

If writing prompts aren't your thing, instead try thinking about what kind of tropes/genres/story elements you would like to try out

Instead of thinking about the story you would like to write, think about the story you would like to read, and write that

It's okay if you don't have a fully fleshed out story idea. Even if it's just an image or a line of dialogue, it's okay to write that. A story may or may not come out of it, but at least you got the creative juices flowing

Stop writing. Step away from your desk and let yourself naturally get inspired. Go for a walk, read a book, travel, play video games, research history, etc. Don't force ideas, but do open up your mind to them

If you're like me, world-building may come more naturally than plotting. Design the world first and let the story come later

Boredom/Understimulation (lost the flow)

What it looks like:

I know I should be writing but uugggghhhh I just can'tttttt

Writing words feels like pulling teeth

I started writing, but then I got bored/distracted

I enjoy the idea of writing, but the actual process makes me want to throw my laptop out the window

Things that can help:

Introduce stimulation: snacks, beverages, gum, music such as lo-fi, blankets, decorate your writing space, get a clickity-clackity keyboard, etc.

Add variety: write in a new location, try a new idea/different story for a day or so, switch up how you write (pen and paper vs. computer) or try voice recording or speech-to-text

Gamify writing: create an arbitrary challenge, such as trying to see how many words you can write in a set time and try to beat your high score

Find a writing buddy or join a writer's group

Give yourself a reward for every writing milestone, even if it's just writing a paragraph

Ask yourself whether this project you're working on is something you really want to be doing, and be honest with your answer

Intimidation/Procrastination (often related to perfectionism, but not always)

What it looks like:

I was feeling really motivated to write, but then I opened my laptop

I don't even know where to start

I love writing, but I can never seem to get started

I'll write tomorrow. I mean next week. Next month? Next month, I swear (doesn't write next month)

Can't find the time or energy

Unreasonable expectations (I should be able to write 10,000 words a day, right????)

Feeling discouraged and wondering why I'm even trying

Things that can help:

Follow the 2 min rule (or the 1 paragraph rule, which works better for me): whenever you sit down to write, tell yourself that you are only going to write for 2 minutes. If you feel like continuing once the 2 mins are up, go for it! Otherwise, stop. Force yourself to start but DO NOT force yourself to continue unless you feel like it. The more often you do this, the easier it will be to get started

Make getting started as easy as possible (i.e. minimize barriers: if getting up to get a notebook is stopping you from getting started, then write in the notes app of your phone)

Commit to a routine that will work for you. Baby steps are important here. Go with something that feels reasonable: every day, every other day, once a week, twice a week, and use cues to help you remember to start. If you chose a set time to write, just make sure that it's a time that feels natural to you- i.e. don't force yourself to writing at 9am every morning if you're not a morning person

Find a friend or a writing buddy you can trust and talk it out or share a piece of work you're proud of. Sometimes we just get a bit bogged down by criticism- either internal or external- and need a few words of encouragement

The Problem's Not You, It's Your Story (or Outline (or Process))

What it looks like:

I have no problems writing other scenes, it's just this scene

I started writing, but now I have no idea where I'm going

I don't think I'm doing this right

What's an outline?

Drowning in documents

This. Doesn't. Make. Sense. How do I get from this plot point to this one?!?!?! (this ColeyDoesThings quote lives in my head rent free cause BOY have I been there)

Things That Can Help:

Go back to the drawing board. Really try to get at the root of why a scene or story isn't working

A part of growing as a writer is learning when to kill your darlings. Sometimes you're trying to force an idea or scene that just doesn't work and you need to let it go

If you don't have an outline, write one

If you have an outline and it isn't working, rewrite it, or look up different ways to structure it

You may be trying to write as a pantser when you're really a plotter or vice versa. Experiment with different writing processes and see what feels most natural

Study story structures, starting with the three act structure. Even if you don't use them, you should know them

Check out Ellen Brock on YouTube. She's a professional novel editor who has a lot of advice on writing strategies for different types of writers

Also check out Savage Books on YouTube (another professional story editor) for advice on story structure and dialogue. Seriously, I cannot recommend this guy enough

Executive Dysfunction, Usually From ADHD/Autism

What it looks like:

Everything in boredom/understimulation

Everything in intimidation/procrastination

You have been diagnosed with and/or have symptoms of ADHD/Autism

Things that can help:

If you haven't already, seek a diagnosis or professional treatment

Hire an ADHD coach or other specialist that can help you work with your brain (I use Shimmer; feel free to DM me for a referral)

Seek out neurodiverse communities for advice and support

Try body doubling! There's lot's of free online body doubling websites out there for you to try. If social anxiety is a barrier, start out with writing streams such as katecavanaughwrites on Twitch

Be aware of any sensory barriers that may be getting in the way of you writing (such as an uncomfortable desk chair, harsh lighting, bad sounds)

And Lastly, Burnout, Depression, or Other Mental Illness

What it looks like:

You have symptoms of burnout or depression

Struggling with all things, not just writing

It's more than a lack of inspiration- the spark is just dead

Things that can help:

Forget writing for now. Focus on healing first.

Seek professional help

If you feel like it, use writing as a way to explore your feelings. It can take the form of journaling, poetry, an abstract reflection of your thoughts, narrative essays, or exploring what you're feeling through your fictional characters. The last two helped me rediscover my love of writing after I thought years of depression had killed it for good. Just don't force yourself to do so, and stop if it takes you to a darker place instead of feeling cathartic

#writing #creative writing #writer problems #writing advice #writing community #writing a book #writing problems #novel writing #on writing #writing tips #writing help #writers on tumblr #writers block #female writers #writers of tumblr #writers blog #adhd writer

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dollishmehrayan · 3 months ago

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# “I NEED YOUR LOVING, LIKE THE SUNSHINE, EVERYONE’S GOT TO LEARN SOMETIME.” ── .✦ ( batboys when they have a crush on you ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ )

dollish note ౨ৎ: yes this is based off that one korgis song and if you know it, your elite marry me immediately anywayss I need like more cute events to do omgg and guys I’m going to look for a new divider edition but the bunny will always stay don’t worryyy tags: (batboys x reader)

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

He’s so obvious. Everyone knows. Even villains probably know, even you probably know but we always play hard to get. (that’s js me sorry)

Overly casual compliments: “Wow, you look… good. Like, really good. Is that new? No? I just never noticed how great you always look??”

Purposely hangs around you way more than necessary. “Oh wow, fancy seeing you here again... at this coffee shop... at this exact time... for the fifth time this week…”, “uh.. sure okay dick.”

Gets physically flustered. You smile at him and he bumps into a wall.

Brings you little gifts like coffee, snacks, or something you mentioned once two months ago that he totally remembered.

Accidentally lets it slip to Barbara. You find out two days later because she’s evil (and supportive). GIRL BOSSSSS

RASON RODD (IF YKYK) ── .✦

Denies it to everyone. Even himself. “Me? Crushing? Pfft. Please. I'm just being nice. I’m always this nice. Shut up.”

Acts all chill and tough but turns into a sarcastic teddy bear when you're around.

Tries not to care but notices everything about you like when you’re tired, upset, or need space.

Gets really protective, then downplays it. “Yeah I threatened that guy because he was being annoying. Not because he was flirting with you. Nope.” ( our little nonchalant guy )

Will read/watch your favorite stuff in secret so he can talk about it with you, then pretends he hated it. “No, I didn’t like it. But the plot twist in episode 7 was wild. Just sayin’.”

Probably punches a wall the first time someone calls him out. Literally everyone in the family: “Just ask them out already.”

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Has a million tabs open on “how to tell if someone likes you back.”

Obsesses over every text you send. Sends a reply. Deletes it. Writes a better one. Deletes that too. Eventually sends “lol yeah same” and regrets it instantly.

Runs into you and forgets how to function for 3 seconds. “Hey—hi—hey. Sorry. I mean. Hello.”

Will research your interests so he can impress you or casually bring them up. “Oh, you’re into ___? I read a couple papers about that, super cool stuff.”

Accidentally calls you “cute” in passing, then vanishes for two days to a point you wonder if he might appear on the missing website thing.

You find out he has a playlist called “maybe someday” and the first song is something painfully romantic.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Pretends he doesn’t like you. Like, aggressively. But it’s so obvious.

Gives you weirdly thoughtful gifts and says things like, “I noticed you were using inferior supplies.”

Blushes if you compliment him. Denies he’s blushing. “Tt. The temperature is simply warm.”

Subtly changes his schedule to be around you more. He’ll be in the library when you’re there, in the gym at the same time it’s definitely not a coincidence (even though he insists it is).

Draws you. Like, sketches. Constantly. Says it’s “for anatomy practice.”

Acts annoyed when you talk to someone else, then pouts in a corner like a feral cat.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

He doesn’t even realize it at first. It hits him out of nowhere, like genuinely out of thin air.

Brooding increases by 200%. He stares off into space, thinking about you, and Alfred has to snap him out of it.

Becomes awkwardly formal. “Would you… perhaps… like to join me for dinner? I understand if that’s… inconvenient.” ( like despite being a former player and all and smoothhh as hell when he genuinely likes someone he can’t be smooth, your like his Andrea beaumont but if they worked out )

Totally asks Alfred for advice. Alfred gives him the same advice he gave him at 16.

When you smile at him, he short-circuits a little. You get a rare, soft Bat-smile in return.

Once he’s sure of his feelings, he’s all in but oh boy, it takes a while.

2K notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 2 months ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 22: June 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent. Apparently I am once again messing up my chapter numbering on Tumblr. 21 is correct according to AO3 and Wattpad though. No, you didn't miss anything, I promise.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Max Verstappen

GP: Heard about the post-race press. Are you and Belle okay?

Max: I’m fine. Belle’s shaken. Tired. But she’s okay. (ish.)

GP: “Okay-ish” isn’t exactly reassuring, mate.

Max: She’s stronger than she thinks. But it hit her hard. Even after everything… she still hoped they’d see her.

GP: That’s the cruel part. Hope.

Max: Yeah.

GP: Is she at home? You with her?

Max: I am.

Max: Doesn’t feel like enough.

GP: It’s enough. You’re there. You see her. That’s already more than most have ever done.

Max: She deserves better than this.

GP: She’s got it now. She’s got you.

GP: (and the cats.)

Max: True. Jimmy thinks he’s her bodyguard.

GP: Smart cat.

GP: Tell her we’re all thinking about her, yeah?

Max: I will. Thanks, GP. For checking in.

GP: Always. She’s part of the team now. Whether she likes it or not.

***

The breakfast table was too quiet.

A spread of croissants, jam, fresh fruit, and espresso cups sat untouched in the center of the table—untouched because no one could eat. Lorenzo’s revelation from the day before hung in the air like a thundercloud.

Isabelle had quit her job.

Months ago.

Without telling a single one of them.

Charles still hadn’t wrapped his head around it. Isabelle had always loved her work. She breathed design. She stayed up late sketching, doodling floor plans on napkins, whispering ideas into voice memos when she thought no one was listening.

And then one day… she just walked away from it. From them.

Arthur sat with his head in his hands, looking half-murdered by guilt. Pascale was pale and tight-lipped, stirring her tea without drinking it.

“I don’t understand,” Pascale whispered. “How could she just… leave her job? She worked so hard for it.”

“She didn’t just leave,” Lorenzo said, pacing. “She ghosted the entire office. Packed her things in one night. Sent a polite goodbye email. Nothing else.”

“And no one noticed?” Arthur asked, stunned.

“No one bothered to notice,” Charles muttered.

Pascale looked toward Alexandra. “Did you know anything?”

Alexandra hesitated, then straightened a little. “She’s safe.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Charles’s head snapped toward her. “What?”

“I texted Emilie,” Alexandra said, calm but firm. “Isabelle’s best friend. She replied this morning. Said Isabelle is okay.”

A collective breath was held—and slowly released.

“Why didn’t you say that sooner?” Pascale asked, eyes wide.

“Because you were all too busy spiraling,” Alexandra said. “And because Emilie was clear: Isabelle doesn’t want to talk to any of you right now.”

Charles swallowed hard.

“She’s mad,” he said. “Of course she’s mad.”

“She’s not mad,” Alexandra said. “She’s hurt. She’s done. There’s a difference.”

Lorenzo closed his eyes. Arthur muttered something under his breath.

Then Alexandra added, almost absently, “She’s not alone. Emilie said her boyfriend likes taking care of her.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“Oh my god,” Arthur muttered. “She has a sugar daddy.”

Charlotte choked on her orange juice.

Pascale actually dropped her spoon.

“Arthur!” Alexandra hissed, scandalized.

Arthur looked wildly between them. “Think about it! Moved out. Quit her job. No one knows where she is. Isabelle’s always been quiet, not mysterious. What if she—”

“No. No,” Charles said quickly, shaking his head like that would erase the words from the room. “She wouldn’t. Isabelle is not like that.”

“People change when they feel abandoned,” Arthur muttered, clearly spiraling now. “This is how Netflix documentaries start.”

“I will kill whoever that man is,” Charles muttered, eyes narrowing like he was already imagining chasing someone through the Monaco harbor with a champagne bottle.

“I’m just saying,” Arthur hissed, “stranger things have happened! And let’s not pretend we’re not a family of unresolved emotional issues. We all have daddy issues!”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then Pascale, horror dawning on her face, said, “Excuse me?!”

Arthur looked up, mid-sip of juice. “What?”

Pascale blinked, stunned. “Since when?!”

Arthur just stared at her. “I mean, come on. Dad died when we were kids, Charles is out here trying to win his approval from the afterlife, I started karting again like I have something to prove, and Isabelle— Isabelle moved in with a mysterious man and quit her job because he "likes taking care of her!"

“Oh my God,” Pascale said faintly, sinking into her chair.

“Okay, this is going off the rails,” Alexandra groaned.

Lorenzo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Arthur, this is not about your unresolved need for paternal validation.”

Arthur shrugged helplessly. “I was just trying to explain that maybe Isabelle was looking for emotional stability and someone gave it to her. And maybe he also had a good skincare routine and a yacht. I don’t know.”

“She moved in with her boyfriend,” Lorenzo said sharply. “Not a sugar daddy. Her boyfriend. That’s what her old neighbor said. She left the firm. Left her apartment. But she didn’t run away. She just stopped waiting to be seen.”

Arthur groaned, slumping in his seat. “We didn’t even know she had a boyfriend.”

“Because she didn’t tell us,” Charles said bitterly. “Because she stopped expecting us to care.”

“Or because she knew you were going to freak out.” Charlotte murmured.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Charlotte looked up, startled. “What?”

“You said that like you know something.”

Charlotte hesitated. “I don’t know anything.”

“Charlotte,” Lorenzo warned.

She shifted. “It’s just—she’s always been around racing. She used to hang around the paddock all the time. If she was seeing someone, I wouldn’t be shocked if it was someone from the grid.”

Silence.

Then Arthur: “Wait. You’re saying she could be dating someone we know?”

Charlotte winced. “I said maybe. Don’t start spiraling.”

“I’M ALREADY SPIRALING,” Charles announced.

Alexandra sighed, sipping her coffee. “And now we’ve entered the panic phase.”

Arthur leaned back, muttering, “If it’s Fernando I swear to God—”

Pascale clapped her hands together. “Enough.”

But Charles barely heard her.

Because if Belle was dating someone from the paddock…

Then there were nineteen men it could be, currently on the grid.

And not one of them had said a word.

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Logan Sergeant, Daniel Ricciardo, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda, and Valtteri Bottas

Charles: SOMEONE TELL ME

Who is dating my sister??

Charles: IS IT FERNANDO?? Are you her sugar daddy?? Just tell me. I need answers.

Fernando: Pardon?

Lewis: Oh we’re doing this.

George: Charles, breathe.

Oscar: You’re spiraling. Please stop.

Pierre: Wait WHAT??

Yuki: I feel like I’ve walked into the last five minutes of a telenovela

Fernando: Charles. I’m flattered. But no.

Charles: OK FINE. MAX. Charles: IS SHE DATING JOS?!

Logan: …bro

George: I need to leave this chat forever

Lando: oh my god

Max: What. Did. You. Just. Say.

Charles: I don’t know, okay?? Everyone’s being weird. She’s gone, she moved, she quit her job, no one’s telling me anything and YOU’RE ALL BEING WEIRD.

Max: Don’t you ever say something like that again.

Max: Not as a joke. Not out of panic. Not ever.

Max: Belle is your sister, Charles. She deserved your attention, your support, your respect—and she didn’t get any of it. Max: And now you want to cover up your guilt by making a disgusting joke like that?

George: Whoa.

Charles: It’s not a joke! She smiled at him during Monaco!

Max: You forgot her birthday. You forgot her entire life outside of your world. And now you’re so desperate to catch up you’re throwing shit against the wall like it doesn’t have consequences?

Oscar: He’s right. That was low, man.

Lando: Way out of line.

Max: You’re panicking and flinging names around like this is a soap opera, and you’re forgetting that this isn’t about you.

Carlos: He’s right.

Max: Belle isn’t your property. She doesn’t owe you updates of her life. And the fact that your first instinct is to accuse my father of something that insane? That tells me everything I need to know about where your priorities are.

Max: You’re not trying to protect her. You’re trying to control the fallout of your own guilt.

Alex: Oof.

Oscar: He’s not wrong.

Lando: I mean, he’s definitely not wrong.

Daniel: That was… surgical.

Max: You forgot her birthday. You didn’t realise she moved or that she quit her job. And now that it’s all blowing up in your face, you’re treating your sister like a scandal to manage instead of a woman who deserves better than you’ve given her for years.

Charles: Max…

Max Verstappen: Don’t. You had every chance to show up. And you didn’t.

Oscar: …Well. That was the cleanest emotional takedown I’ve ever witnessed.

Pierre: I’m afraid to even type right now.

Alex: Respectfully, that needed to be said.

Lewis: Sometimes silence is the most respectful response. And sometimes it’s watching Max drop a nuke and sipping your tea.

Charles: … I’m sorry.

Max: Don’t say sorry to me. Say it to her.

Daniel: And maybe do it without accusing her of having a sugar daddy next time.

Fernando: Sincerely never thought I’d be defending Jos Verstappen’s honor in a group chat. And yet. Here we are.

Pierre: Did we all just witness character development in real time?

Oscar: No, we witnessed Max finally snap.

Carlos: Honestly? Fair.

Max: Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife wants to go see her horse.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Oscar: (sends screenshots) Are we gonna talk about that??

Lando: I don’t think I’ll ever emotionally recover.

George: That wasn’t an argument. That was Max opening a precision-cut emotional autopsy on Charles.

Daniel: Surgical strike. Zero survivors.

Carlos: I think I stopped breathing somewhere between “not your property” and “scandal to manage.”

Alex: And he still managed to slip in “my wife” at the end like it was casual.

Lewis: Subtle as a sledgehammer. Iconic.

Sebastian: Imagine standing that close to the truth and just completely going off the deep end. JOS VERSTAPPEN?!?!

David: Charles is lucky we’re not recording this for Drive to Survive. This would be season finale material.

Fernando: Still recovering from the fact that I had to defend Jos Verstappen’s honor today. Truly humbling times.

Mark: Also Max casually confirming "wife" like we didn’t hear that bomb drop.

Lando: The whole chat: staring at “my wife” like: [INSERT SHOCKED PIKACHU MEME]

Logan: Also Max: anyway gtg horseback riding with Belle bye

George: Meanwhile we’re left here emotionally blinking like stunned goldfish.

Zhou: Respectfully? That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in a group chat.

Logan: He read Charles’ whole life like it was a menu.

Esteban: No crumbs left. Truly an artist.

Lewis: I hope Belle gives Max a damn medal.

Carlos: It’s what he deserves.

Lando Norris: At this point Max could straight up declare war on Monaco and all of us would follow him.

Nico H.: Only if Belle asks nicely though.

Fernando: Honestly, after that? She deserves her own Grand Prix.

Sebastian: Belle Verstappen GP. Street circuit. Emotional trauma bonus points.

David: Winner gets emotional literacy and a free hug.

Lando: Charles gets last place. Obv.

Oscar: Someone check on Charles, though. Like... at a distance. With caution.

George: Give him a juice box and a reflective corner.

Lewis: He needs to sit with this one. You’re up, Seb.

Sebastian: I hate you.

Carlos: And next time? Maybe start by actually listening to Belle. and not accuse her of having a sugar daddy.

Oscar: Can we also talk about how Charles accused Fernando of being Belle’s sugar daddy?!?

Lando: No because I actually SCREAMED when I read it Out loud. In a public place.

George: Charles really said “if the unhinged shoe fits…”

Lewis: Fernando being asked if he’s the sugar daddy of a 25-year-old woman live in a chat is peak 2024.

Daniel: The best part is Fernando didn’t even deny it immediately. He said “pardon” like a man trying to calculate if this was a compliment or an insult.

Fernando: I was genuinely weighing my options.

Logan: He 100% thought about it for a second Did the math in his head Age difference analysis

Carlos: He pulled out a mental calculator before answering.

Alex: Plot twist: he was flattered.

Fernando: I am flattered.

Logan: ARE YOU NOT TOO OLD FOR THIS SIR

Fernando: Age is just a number. Experience is a blessing.

David: Shut up you're scaring the children

Daniel: I'm crying. This man is two bad decisions away from opening a luxury wine bar in Marbella.

Zhou: Would 100% attend Fernando’s shady rich sugar daddy wine parties tbh.

George: You know somewhere there's an alternate universe where Fernando is soft-launching Belle on Instagram with a blurry wine glass and a cryptic caption.

Sebastian: Don’t manifest that energy.

Lewis: The timeline barely survived Charles forgetting her birthday We are NOT surviving "Fernando Alonso soft launches Belle Verstappen."

Oscar: Good morning to everyone except Charles for inventing this nightmare.

Carlos: He should be banned from texting before noon.

Daniel: Imagine Belle reading that conversation The secondhand embarrassment would kill her instantly

Lando: Max would bury Charles under the Red Bull Energy Station if Belle found out

Fernando: That’s why I stayed calm. For everyone’s safety.

David: You’re a better man than I am.

George: Let’s be honest Max’s entire speech wasn’t just a takedown It was a warning.

Lewis: And Charles still doesn’t realize how close he was to emotional decapitation.

Daniel: Fernando being accidentally involved will forever be my Roman Empire

Lando: Same. Sugar Daddy Alonso 2024 Never Forget.

Kimi: I don’t care.

Fernando: Good. One sane man among us.

Mark: Honestly Kimi deserves a medal for surviving this chat with brain cells intact.

Lando: Meanwhile I’m Googling “how to recover from emotional whiplash" and "can you sue your friend for public embarrassment.”

Oscar: Suing Charles for pain and suffering. Class action.

Lewis: Count me in.

Daniel: Put me down for emotional damages and lost productivity.

Carlos: And mental anguish from hearing "Jos" and "sugar daddy" in the same sentence.

George Russell: I’m still trying to bleach my brain from that.

Sebastian Vettel: The worst part is… We know it’s only going to get worse.

Valtteri: Spain is going to be the emotional equivalent of a demolition derby and I'm here for it…

Oscar: Prayers up for Charles. He’s about to get hit with the reality sledgehammer.

***

The air smelled like sun-warmed hay and old wood and something softer — something Max couldn’t name but recognized instantly as peace.

The stables weren’t far from the city — a quiet, tucked-away stretch of land up in the hills — but it might as well have been another world compared to the chaos vibrating through the paddock, the media, the group chats.

Belle was already a few steps ahead of him, moving with easy, instinctive confidence down the center aisle. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and she wore one of his oversized hoodies over her jeans, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Even in battered sneakers, even in dusty sunlight, she looked luminous.

This, Max thought, is who she really is.

Not the invisible sister standing silently in the Ferrari garage.

Not the afterthought.

Not the forgotten one.

Here, among the horses and the golden dust motes, Belle was someone else entirely. Someone free.

He watched as she reached Fleur’s stall — the mare with the soft eyes and white coat — and the change in her was immediate. Belle’s whole body softened. Her voice dropped into something low and sweet, barely a whisper, as she murmured to the horse in French, offering a gentle hand.

Fleur pressed her nose into Belle’s palm like she had been waiting for her all day.

Max stayed back, leaning against a beam, just… watching.

Belle ran her fingers through the mare’s mane, smiling quietly when Fleur nosed into her ribs for a treat. She laughed, soft and breathless, pulling a carrot from her pocket like she’d always known it would be needed.

Max felt something hot coil under his ribs.

Not anger. Not yet.

Something heavier.

Because standing there, watching her, Max didn’t understand — and probably never would — how the people who were supposed to love her first and fiercest could have ever made her feel like this side of her wasn’t worth seeing.

How did you miss this?

How did you miss her?

How could you look at Belle — at her patience, her stubbornness, her gentleness — and think she was someone it was okay to forget?

Max didn't know how Charles or Pascale or Arthur or even Lorenzo could live with themselves.

She had been right there, waving from the garage, smiling through being overlooked, standing quietly beside them her whole life — and they’d blinked, and she was gone.

He didn’t know if they'd ever get her back, not in the way they thought they were entitled to.

And maybe they didn’t deserve to.

Max shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the steady beat of his own pulse against his knuckles. He wasn’t angry on his own behalf — he was angry for her. For every memory she had where she learned she needed to be small to survive. For every year she thought invisibility was safer than asking for more.

But here — here, she didn’t shrink herself.

Here, she was all soft light and warm hands and quiet magic.

He watched as Belle rested her forehead against Fleur’s, closing her eyes. Whispering something Max couldn’t hear.

He didn’t move.

He would wait forever if it meant she never had to be small again.

When she finally turned toward him, cheeks flushed, hair tangled in the breeze, Max just smiled — slow and sure — and opened his arms without a word.

Belle crossed the space between them like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when she folded herself against his chest, Max pressed his mouth to the top of her head and thought, fiercely, I will never let you feel invisible again.

Not here. Not with him.

Never.

***

Belle sat curled into the armchair, hands knotted in the hem of her sweater. Her phone buzzed on the low table beside her — again — and she flinched without meaning to.

She didn’t pick it up. She hadn’t read any of them. Not a single message.

Across from her, Simone sat, notebook closed, pen resting untouched on the armrest. She didn’t need notes yet. She was just watching — waiting for Belle to breathe first.

"You don’t have to," Simone said finally, nodding toward the phone. "We can leave it buzzing all session if you want. This is your hour."

Belle looked down at her hands.

"I don’t know what they want," she said, voice thin. "I don’t know if I want to know."

"That's a choice," Simone said simply. "It’s your choice."

Belle twisted the hem tighter. "They keep calling. Texting. DMing. It’s like... once Charles realized, they all remembered I exist."

"That realization isn’t yours to carry," Simone said. "You didn’t make yourself invisible. They chose not to see you."

“You haven’t answered,” Simone asked, her voice even…non-judgemental.

Belle shook her head, pressing the rim of the mug tighter against her palms.

“I don’t know if I want to,” Belle whispered.

Simone leaned forward slightly. “You’re allowed to make that choice, Belle. Access to your life — your heart — isn’t something anyone is automatically entitled to. Not even family.”

Belle blinked hard.

“It feels… wrong,” she admitted. “Like I’m being cruel. But also like… maybe it’s finally protecting myself.”

Simone nodded. “Both can be true.”

They sat with that for a moment, letting the air between them settle.

"I feel like if I open one message, I’ll lose the ground I gained," she whispered. "Like they'll pull me back in before I even realize it."

Simone nodded slowly. "That fear is real. It’s valid. But remember — reading a message doesn’t obligate you to answer. They don’t get to set the terms anymore. You do."

Belle sat with that for a long moment, staring at the phone like it was a bomb she didn't know how to disarm.

"You can read what they have to say," Simone continued gently, "and then decide how much access you want to give them. How much of yourself you want to offer back. Or none at all. But the decision has to come from a place of power — not guilt."

Belle swallowed hard, something inside her cracking open.

"I don’t want to live my life shrinking," she said, so quietly it barely made it into the room.

"You don’t have to," Simone said simply. "You’re allowed to grow bigger than the spaces they built for you."

Belle wiped under her eyes, feeling the tears spill anyway.

"I’m pregnant," she said, almost impulsively, almost defensively — like the words had been trying to claw their way out of her for days.

Simone didn’t react, didn’t widen her eyes or gasp or rush forward.

She just smiled, slow and warm.

"Congratulations," Simone said.

Belle let out a shaky laugh, covering her face for a moment.

"I haven’t told most people yet," she admitted. "It’s... still just mine and Max’s, mostly. But I—"

She broke off, chest tight.

"I don’t want my baby to feel the way I felt," Belle whispered. "Invisible. Like they have to earn love. Like being quiet or not causing trouble makes them easier to keep around."

Simone nodded slowly. "You don’t want them to feel like they have to disappear to be safe."

Belle’s throat closed. That was it. That was everything.

"I want them to know," Belle said, tears slipping freely now. "Every second. That they matter. That they are wanted."

"You can give them that," Simone said gently. "Because you know what it feels like to need it."

Belle hugged her knees tighter to her chest, breathing in slow, ragged pulls.

"I don't know if I can be enough," she whispered.

"You already are," Simone said simply. "You're enough because you see them. The way you should have been seen."

Belle wiped her face roughly with her sleeve, heart pounding painfully against her ribs.

Simone leaned in just a little, voice steady.

"You get to break the cycle," she said. "Not by being perfect. Not by fixing everything. But by loving without conditions."

Belle stared down at her belly, still barely showing under the oversized sweater. A secret, soft and growing.

Not alone anymore.

Not invisible.

Not shrinking to fit someone else's version of worth.

She exhaled shakily.

"I think," Belle said slowly, "I’ll read the messages. Because it’s my choice now."

Simone smiled. "Exactly."

Belle sat back in the chair, letting the silence settle.

For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel heavy.

It felt like freedom.

***

The cats were asleep — a warm, purring pile on the foot of the bed — and the only sound in the room was the hum of the city beyond the windows and the soft rustle of Max shifting beside her.

Belle sat curled up in the corner of the bed, Max’s hoodie swallowing her whole, the phone clutched in both hands.

She hadn’t wanted to look. Not at the missed calls. Not at the voicemails. Not at the dozens of unread messages blinking like warning lights across every app she had.

But now… Now she read them.

One by one.

Apologies. Explanations. Pleading.

Arthur. Lorenzo. Charles.

And Maman. Always Maman.

Maman:Ma chérie… I didn’t realise. I thought I messaged you, but I sent it to Charles by mistake. That’s not an excuse. You deserved more. Always. Please let me come see you. I miss you.

Belle stared at the words, blinking back the slow, stunned weight building behind her eyes.

Because if her mother had texted Charles that morning — if she had thought about Belle enough to even try — then Charles would have known.

He would have remembered.

There wouldn’t have been blank stares in the Ferrari garage.

There wouldn’t have been celebrations swirling around her while she stood still, invisible.

There would have been a smile.

A hug.

A word.

Anything.

But there hadn’t been.

Because her mother hadn’t texted.

Not her.

And not Charles.

She hadn’t thought about her at all.

Belle felt the first tear slip free before she could stop it. Then another. And another.

Her hands shook as she lowered the phone to her lap.

She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, willing herself to breathe, to hold it together — but the ache was too deep. Too old. It cracked open the quiet places she thought she had stitched shut months ago.

The mattress dipped beside her, and Max’s arms were around her before she could say a word.

No questions. No demands. Just solid, unwavering Max, pulling her into his chest, pressing his chin to the crown of her head, wrapping her up like he could protect her from everything the world had failed to.

Belle buried her face in his hoodie and cried — deep, broken, shuddering sobs that shook her ribs and soaked the cotton between them.

Max held her through all of it. Rocked her gently like she was something precious. Whispered soft, fierce things into her hair — I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. I love you.

When the tears finally slowed — when Belle could breathe without gasping — she shifted just enough to look up at him.

“She lied to me,” Belle whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Max tensed, not pulling away, but going still — like a storm gathering quietly over open water.

Belle twisted the fabric of his hoodie between her fingers, needing something to hold onto. “My mother. In her messages. She said… she said she thought she had texted me on my birthday. That she checked and realized she sent it to Charles instead.”

Max didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

He just waited.

“But if she had really texted Charles,” Belle said, blinking hard, “then he would have remembered. Wouldn’t he?”

Max’s jaw tightened against her forehead.

“He would have realized when he saw me. He would have known it was my day.”

Belle swallowed thickly. “He would have said something. Anything.”

She felt Max’s hand, slow and careful, run up her spine — like he was grounding himself as much as her.

“They didn’t forget by accident, Max,” she whispered, the crack in her voice slicing the room in half. “They just… didn’t think about me at all. And now she’s lying to make herself feel better. Or maybe to make me not be angry anymore.”

There was a long, vibrating pause.

When Max finally spoke, his voice was low. Dangerous.

“She lied to you." Not angry for himself. Angry for her.

“She lied to your face to protect her own feelings,” he said, tightening his grip around her protectively. “And she didn’t even think about what it would do to you.”

Belle didn’t trust herself to speak.

“She didn’t check,” Max said, every word precise and sharp. “She didn’t text you. She forgot you. And now she wants you to comfort her guilt so she doesn’t have to sit with the truth.”

Belle closed her eyes, tucking herself deeper into his chest.

Max’s voice dropped even lower. Colder. Deadlier.

“They don’t deserve to be the ones to tell you how much you matter, Belle,” he said. “Not when they couldn’t even see you standing right in front of them.”

Belle felt herself break apart a little more — not because of the anger in his voice, but because of the fierce, unyielding love underneath it.

Max pulled back just enough to tip her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“They can lie to themselves all they want,” he said, voice rough. “But you’re not invisible anymore. You never were. You are the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen.”

Belle tried to smile but it broke halfway through, another tear slipping free.

Max kissed her — not rushed, not desperate — but slow and sure and reverent.

“I see you,” he murmured against her mouth. “I will always see you.”

Belle clutched his hoodie tighter, feeling the words stitch into the broken places inside her chest.

And when she whispered, “Thank you,” it was the kind of thank you that carried a lifetime of hope she hadn’t known how to say before now.

Max brushed her forehead with his lips, arms still wrapped firmly around her.

***

The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of the city outside the windows, and the faint golden light spilling from the kitchen where Max was making tea.

The cats were already asleep, draped dramatically across the couch like tiny emperors, and Belle sat curled up at the dining table, phone in hand.

Her thumb hovered over the Instagram app for a long time.

She hadn’t posted anything in weeks. Maybe longer. Not since before everything cracked open — before her birthday…

It felt strange, almost dangerous, to think about letting the world see even a piece of her life again. To stop living like she needed to apologize for taking up space.

But she was tired.

She was tired of pretending her life was something to be ashamed of.

She was tired of being invisible.

Of hiding her joy like it was a crime.

She tapped into her camera roll.

The photo was simple. Max had taken it — taken earlier that afternoon, in the warm haze of the stables. Fleur was grazing and Belle’s arm was tucked around her neck, leaning against the warm white fur.

It wasn’t a professional shot.

It wasn’t curated.

It was real.

And for once, Belle didn’t care about anything else.

She clicked ‘post’ before she could talk herself out of it.

Caption:Some things were always meant to find their way back to you.

She stared at it for a moment, heart hammering — not with fear, but with something quieter. Something steadier.

Not everyone would understand.

Most wouldn’t even know what it meant.

But the people who mattered — the ones who knew her, who loved her — they would understand exactly what she was saying.

Max’s voice floated from the kitchen, casual and warm. “You want mint or chamomile?”

Belle smiled softly to herself.

“Mint,” she called back, slipping her phone onto the table, feeling lighter than she had in months.

No more hiding.

No more shrinking.

Her life was hers now.

And she was finally — finally — ready to live it.

***

Instagram Post: @/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/charles_leclerc: …From where did you get a horse??

@/arthur_leclerc: ??? SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A HORSE AGAIN???

@/lorenzo_leclerc: Since when are you even riding again??

@/charles_leclerc: Isabelle. Please answer your phone.

@/arthur_leclerc: PLEASE RESPOND.

@/randomfan72: THE WAY SHE JUST DROPPED THIS WITHOUT CONTEXT???

@/f1updates: Isabelle disappearing for a week and then coming back with a horse is the most iconic thing I’ve seen in a while.

@/f1fanpage: Okay, but WHO GAVE HER A HORSE???

@/monacoroyalty: Isabelle casually revealing that she has a whole horse like it’s a new handbag is sending me.

@/gridgossip: He/she’s gorgeous! What’s their name? ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Fleur ❤️ She’s a 7 year old Selle Francais mare.

@/emilie_abadie: God, Belle, she looks just like Blanche…

↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Like Mother, like Daughter ❤️

@/coralie.g: She looks like your childhood horse…

↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Because she’s her last foal 😭

@/horselover99: Omg did you always plan to start riding again? 🥹 ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: I never stopped wanting to. Just couldn’t afford to for a long time.

@/victorialaps: This is so random but… how did you even find her? ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: I didn’t. She was a gift. Best surprise ever.

@/f1updates: WAIT WAIT WAIT.

@/f1theories: GIFT?? FROM WHO??

***

The tea had just finished steeping when Max’s phone buzzed once. Then again. And again.

He frowned, setting down the mugs. It wasn’t like his phone to light up at midnight unless something dramatic had happened — and judging by the flood of notifications, the world had just decided to catch fire.

But when he flipped it over, his chest tightened in a very different way.

It wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t panic.

It was Belle.

Her name. Her Instagram. A new post.

Max opened it instantly, barely breathing.

The photo was simple, quiet — Fleur leaning into Belle’s hand, golden light painting everything soft around them.

But it wasn’t the picture that hit him hardest.

It was the caption.

some things are always meant to come back to you.

Max stared at the screen, heart thudding slow and heavy in his chest.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t a declaration.

It was a quiet, stubborn reclaiming of everything Belle had once been taught to hide — her dreams, her peace, her self.

And she hadn’t asked permission.

She hadn't needed anyone’s blessing.

She had simply... posted it.

Without apology.

Without explanation.

Max set the phone down, grabbed both mugs carefully, and crossed the living room to where Belle sat curled up at the table, her knees tucked under her, the soft edges of exhaustion lingering around her eyes.

She looked up when she heard him, tentative, like part of her was still braced for criticism she didn’t deserve.

Max didn’t say a word.

He placed the tea down. Then he crouched in front of her, sliding his hands over her knees, resting his forehead gently against hers.

No words. Just this.

Just I'm proud of you.

Belle let out a soft, shaky breath, her hand sliding into his hair, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered — because sometimes, he was.

“You saw it?” she whispered.

Max smiled against her skin.

“I saw everything,” he murmured. “And I see you, liefde. Always.”

Belle’s breath hitched.

She closed her eyes and let herself believe it — let herself soak in the truth of it without second-guessing.

She wasn’t invisible here.

She was home.

And Max — Max was exactly where he had always promised he would be:

Right here. Always. With her.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Arthur: Shared Isabelle’s Instagram post

Arthur: …So. Uh.

Arthur: When were you guys planning on telling me that Isabelle suddenly has a HORSE?

Charles: SHE HAS A WHAT.

Lorenzo: Excuse me??

Arthur: A horse, Lorenzo. A living, breathing, four-legged animal. You know. Like the one that was sold when she was a teenager.

Charles: No. No way. That’s not possible.

Arthur: Look at the photo. LOOK AT IT.

Charles: It looks exactly like Blanche.

Lorenzo: That’s not possible.

Arthur: AND YET.

Lorenzo: Okay. Okay. Let’s just—think about this logically.

Arthur: Sure. Logically. Isabelle now has a horse that looks IDENTICAL to the one that was sold to pay for Charles' karting?!?!

Arthur: LOGICALLY, how does that make any sense?!

Charles: Who gave her a horse?

Arthur: WHO KNEW SHE STILL WANTED ONE???

Lorenzo: …Clearly, not us.

Pascale: …We should have known.

Arthur: …Maman?

Pascale: We took away something she loved.

Pascale: And then we never gave it back.

Charles: We didn’t have the money.

Pascale: No. But when we did have the money, we put it into restarting Arthur’s karting career.

Arthur: …

Charles: …

Lorenzo: Merde.

Pascale: And we never even considered doing the same for Isabelle.

Pascale: Not once.

Arthur: I—Maman, I didn’t even think—

Pascale: No. None of us did.

Pascale: She cried for weeks when we sold Blanche. And then, one day, she just stopped talking about it.

Pascale: I thought she had let it go.

Charles: She didn’t let it go. She just realized no one was listening.

Pascale: And I, her own mother, let her believe that if it wasn’t about racing, it wasn’t important.

Lorenzo: We all did.

Arthur: We failed her.

Pascale: And yet she still loved us enough to stay.

Pascale: Even when we didn’t see her.

Charles: We need to fix this.

Arthur: Step one: find out who gave her the horse.

Pascale: Step one: apologize.

Arthur: Step two: figure out how we didn’t even KNOW she was riding again.

Lorenzo: When would she have had the time?

Pascale: She found a way. Because we didn’t give her one.

Pascale: Do you know what hurts the most?

Charles: What?

Pascale: That I don’t even know what kind of life she’s been living.

Pascale: What she loves. Where she goes. Who she spends time with.

Pascale: She grew up right in front of me, and I don’t know her at all.

Arthur: …How do we fix this?

Pascale: I don’t know if we can. ****

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1TeaSpillerIsabelle Leclerc just casually dropped a photo of a whole horse on Instagram, and her brothers had NO IDEA she was even riding again. The family drama is writing itself.

↳ @/LandoSimp44: How do you not notice your sister getting into an expensive, time-consuming hobby???

↳ @/FerrariF1Stan: Maybe because they’ve never paid attention to her interests in the first place…??

↳ @/LeclercFanGirl16: Charles and Arthur are spiraling in the comments, Lorenzo is confused, and Isabelle is just out here ignoring them all. QUEEN.

@/F1GossipGirlHold on. Isabelle didn’t just get any horse. If I’m reading this correctly, this foal is from her childhood horse. The one her family SOLD.

↳ @/MaxForPresident33: Oh, so she’s still THAT angry. And honestly? Good for her.

↳ @/RedBullRacingUpdates: The way she’s been quiet for two whole weeks and then dropped a horse like a bombshell?? I need to know who gave it to her.

↳ @/FerrariDramaAccount: Isabelle’s silence has been screaming for a week straight, and now this. The Leclerc brothers are doomed.

@/F1MemeLordLeclerc brothers: "We totally care about our sister." Also the Leclerc brothers: Completely unaware she’s been riding again and now owns a horse.

↳ @/CharlesFanClub: Yeah, Isabelle is 100% still mad. She really said, "You forgot my birthday? Watch this."

↳ @/MonacoMess: Isabelle is SO passive-aggressive and I respect it.

↳ @/HorseGirlFC: I just KNOW she’s been waiting for the perfect moment to drop this. Iconic behavior.

@/F1InsiderTalk: No, but real talk—if her brothers had no idea she was even riding again, that means they haven’t been paying attention to her at all. That’s rough.

↳ @/TifosiQueen: She had a birthday and they forgot. Now she has a whole damn horse and they didn’t even know she still liked horses.

↳ @/MonacoGossip: Isabelle could disappear to another continent, and I swear they wouldn’t notice until someone tagged them in an Instagram post.

↳ @/ArthurFan27: I love Arthur, but the way none of them know anything about her is actually kind of sad.

@/ChaosModeF1I just KNOW Isabelle had this horse for a bit before dropping it like a bomb on Instagram. The drama, the suspense, the Leclerc brothers losing their minds in real time.

↳ @/MaxVerstappenDefenseSquad: The fact that she didn’t post anything about her birthday but came back with a horse tells me everything I need to know.

↳@/FerrariWoes: I feel like this was the final straw moment.

@/RedBullTroll33Okay, but WHO gave her the horse? Because that’s a serious gift.

↳@/ F1ConspiracyClub: If it was Charles or Arthur, they wouldn’t be so confused in the comments. If it was Lorenzo, he wouldn’t be freaking out too.

↳ @/FerrariPain42: Soooo… secret boyfriend? 👀

↳@/F1ShippersAnonymous: If this turns out to be a soft launch, I WILL lose my mind.

@/MonacoRoyaltyI don’t know who gave Isabelle Leclerc a horse, but I do know that person knows her better than her own family does.

↳ @/FerrariNation: …Damn. That’s actually heartbreaking when you put it like that.

↳ @/IsabelleLeclercDefenseSquad: She really just had to go out and find people who see her, huh?

↳ @/WhoGaveHerAHorse33: Someone get me the details. NOW.

@/F1ChaosModeThe funniest part of this is that Isabelle still hasn’t responded to any of her brothers. Just posted her horse and dipped.

↳ @/LeclercFamilyUpdates: The sheer level of pettiness. I love her.

↳ @/TifosiHeartbreak: Isabelle really said you forgot me, so now I’m forgetting you.

↳ @/FerrariShambles: I want a documentary about the exact moment Charles realized they were bad brothers.

@/F1SpicyTeaI know we’re all laughing, but this actually makes me so sad for Isabelle. Imagine your whole family forgetting your birthday, ignoring you for years, and then being SHOCKED when you move on with your life.

↳ @/MonacoMess: They didn’t even know she still loved horses.

↳ @/FerrariF1Pain: The worst part? She didn’t even make a dramatic callout post about her birthday. She just let their silence speak for itself.

↳ @/TifosiAngstClub: She is the human embodiment of "I no longer expect anything from you."

@/F1ConspiracyClubIsabelle didn’t just buy this horse. Somebody gave it to her, according to her. Whoever they are, they know her better than her entire family.

↳ @/SoftLaunchDetective: If this is a secret boyfriend reveal, it’s the most dramatic and poetic one I’ve ever seen.

@/MonacoRoyalty: Isabelle Leclerc is the queen of quiet revenge. No loud callouts. No arguments. Just a perfectly timed Instagram post that says everything.

↳ @/FerrariTears: And the best part? Her brothers are LOSING IT in the comments.

↳ @/ArthurLeclercDefenseSquad: Arthur is panicking like she’s about to disappear forever.

↳ @/CharlesHasNoClue: Charles sounds like he’s five seconds away from personally investigating who gave her the horse.

↳ @/TifosiDetectives: The thing is, they should know. But they don’t.

@/TifosiMess: So let me get this straight:

Isabelle’s family forgot her birthday.

She disappeared for two weeks.

Charles finally remembers that he has a sister.

Isabelle comes back with a horse.

Drops it on Instagram like it’s a casual Tuesday.

Her brothers have no idea where it came from.

I am obsessed with this timeline.

↳ @/FerrariAngst: I’m still stuck on "they didn’t even know she was riding again."

↳ @/CharlesNeedsHelp: The way they suddenly care now that it’s public.

@/F1SoftLaunchDetective: I’ll say it. Whoever gave her the horse loves her more than her own family does.

↳ @/FerrariHeartbreak: And that’s why the Leclerc brothers are panicking.

↳ @/RedBullInsider: Just waiting for the next phase of this drama. I know something bigger is coming.

↳ @/TifosiConspiracies: I have a gut feeling that when we find out who got her the horse, the internet will EXPLODE.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Arthur: I don’t really know how to start this.

Arthur: But I guess the first thing I need to say is—I’m sorry.

Arthur: I keep thinking about when I had to stop karting. How devastated I was. How unfair it felt.

Arthur: You know, when I was younger, I used to think we were the same.

Arthur: We both lost something for Charles. We both had to step aside.

Arthur: But the difference is, I got my second chance.

Arthur: And you never did.

Arthur: They gave me my dream back. But nobody ever thought to give you yours.

Arthur: And the worst part is, I never even thought about it.

Arthur: I was so focused on getting my own dream back that I never stopped to ask if you wanted yours.

Arthur: Or if you were even okay.

Arthur: I remember when they sold Blanche. You locked yourself in your room for days. Maman kept saying you’d get over it.

Arthur: But you never did, did you?

Arthur: I should have noticed. I should have asked.

Arthur: I should have known that you never stopped loving it. That you never moved on just because we assumed you did.

Arthur: But we never gave you a choice, did we?

Arthur: You were always the one who had to sacrifice something. You were always the one who had to step aside.

Arthur: And I never even thought about how much that must have hurt.

Arthur: I let myself believe you were fine because it was easier than realizing we left you behind.

Arthur: When I saw that horse, I thought my heart stopped. She looks just like Blanche.

Arthur: I had to read your post three times before it sank in. That you never let go of that part of yourself. That you found your way back.

Arthur: And none of us even knew.

Arthur: I don’t know where to start making this right. I don’t know if I even can.

Arthur: I don’t expect you to answer me. I don’t even know if I deserve an answer.

Arthur: But Isabelle, if there is even the smallest chance that I can fix this, that I can fix us—

Arthur: Tell me how. And I’ll do it.

Arthur: No hesitation. No questions asked.

Arthur: Je suis désolé, petite sœur.

Arthur: And I miss you.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

Lando: (sends screenshots) Belle is choosing violence.

Carlos: She posted Fleur 😭

Alex: Softest betrayal ever. I’m crying.

Sebastian: That's not just any horse. That’s the horse.

Zhou: WAIT??? THAT'S THE FOAL FROM HER CHILDHOOD HORSE??

Fernando: The symbolism is destroying me. Quiet vengeance at its finest.

David: Imagine getting obliterated by your sister posting a horse.

Lance: Charles is about to have another breakdown isn’t he

Oscar: He’s already melting down in her comments.

Logan: WHO GAVE HER THE HORSE THOUGH

George: who do you THINK

Nico Hülkenberg: lol max the softest secret husband in existence

Daniel: max is so whipped it's beautiful

Lewis: He literally said “my wife wants to visit her horse” the other day with the softest voice known to man

Kimi: Good. Someone should love her properly.

Lando: the LECLERC BROTHERS are LOSING IT

Oscar: literally fighting for their lives in the comments while Belle is posting like nothing happened 😂

Fernando: This is what true passive-aggressive excellence looks like. I’m so proud.

Valtteri: horse girl revenge >>> everything

Zhou: also can we talk about how she hasn’t answered a SINGLE one of them

George: Do you think Charles is gonna figure it out soon??

Carlos: absolutely not.

Oscar: he's gonna lose his mind when he finds out Max bought her the horse

Daniel: WAIT TILL HE FINDS OUT THEY'RE MARRIED LMAOOOO

Lando: oh my god he still doesn't know

Lewis: beautiful chaos.

Alex: 10/10 no notes

Oscar: Honestly Belle just won the soft war without even lifting a finger.

Daniel: She dropped a horse and bounced. ICON.

George: Meanwhile Charles is running around Monaco like a headless chicken.

Carlos: good. he deserves to sit with this.

Fernando: actions have consequences. and sometimes those consequences come with four legs and a braided mane.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/coraliegaudin: I don’t think people really get how much Isabelle Leclerc sacrificed. I knew her at university, and she was one of the smartest, hardest-working people I’ve ever met. But she never seemed happy. A thread.

↳ @/coraliegaudin: She wasn’t the type to talk about herself. She showed up, did the work, and left. No parties, no celebrations, nothing. Just school and her jobs.

↳@/coraliegaudin: And she always had jobs. She tutored, did internships, and worked at a stable. Yes, a stable.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I remember seeing her come to class still smelling like hay, her hands rough from work. And the thing is? That was the only time she ever looked truly alive.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She never told people why, but I found out later—her family sold her childhood horse when she was a teenager.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She didn’t ask them to fix it. She didn’t ask for help. She just worked. Worked herself into the ground to afford even a few hours of riding time.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I remember once, someone asked her why she never celebrated her grades. She just said, “It’s not that important.”

↳@/coraliegaudin: Not that important. Graduating with top honors. Getting a degree. None of it mattered to her. Because all she ever wanted was something she lost years ago.

↳@/coraliegaudin: And now, she has a horse again. Not just any horse—the foal of the one she lost.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I don’t think people understand how huge that is. This isn’t just a gift. It’s her entire dream given back to her.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She spent years giving up things for other people. But someone finally gave something back to her.

↳@/coraliegaudin: If anyone deserves that kind of love and thoughtfulness, it’s Isabelle Leclerc. I hope she’s finally as happy as she always deserved to be.

***

Text Messages: Lorenzo Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Lorenzo: Isabelle.

Lorenzo: I know you probably don’t want to hear from me.

Lorenzo: But I need to say this.

Lorenzo: I’m sorry.

Lorenzo: I don’t know how we forgot your birthday. I don’t know how we’ve made you feel so invisible.

Lorenzo: But we did. And I hate that it took this for me to realize how badly we’ve failed you.

Lorenzo: You’ve been riding again. I didn’t know. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Lorenzo: I should have. I should have asked. I should have paid more attention.

Lorenzo: But I didn’t.

Lorenzo: I should have asked what you were up to. I should have…I should have known that you were riding again. And that you moved. And that you quit your job. But I didn’t.

Lorenzo: I just assumed you were fine, even when you had every reason not to be.

Lorenzo: I don’t expect you to answer.

Lorenzo: I just need you to know—I see it now. I see you now.

Lorenzo: And I will spend however long it takes making sure you never feel forgotten again.

Lorenzo: I love you, Isabelle.

Lorenzo: Whenever you’re ready.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/Clara_Marelli: So I wasn’t going to say anything, but seeing all the speculation about Isabelle Leclerc and her new horse? I need people to understand why this is such a big deal. Because I knew her back when she lost her first horse, and let me tell you—it broke her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: Isabelle wasn’t just a horse girl, she was the horse girl. You know how some kids live and breathe a sport? That was her with riding. It wasn’t just a hobby, it was everything.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: She used to come to school with hay in her hair because she’d wake up early to ride before class. She had riding gloves permanently stuffed in her pockets. She sketched horses in the margins of her notebooks. It was who she was.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And then one day, she stopped.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: We were all confused. She never shut up about riding, and suddenly, she wouldn’t even mention it. If you asked about her horse, she’d just give this tight little smile and say, “She’s gone.” No explanation. No emotion. Just… gone.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: We only found out later that her family sold her horse to help fund Charles’ racing career. And look—I get it, racing is insanely expensive, and the Leclercs aren’t the first family to make sacrifices for motorsport. But this wasn’t just some hobby she could pick up again later.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: This was the thing that made her happiest, and it was ripped away from her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And what made it worse? She never complained. Not once. She just swallowed it, like she had already learned that what she wanted didn’t matter.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: After that, she changed. She got quieter. She stopped sketching horses. She stopped talking about anything she loved, really. It was like she decided—consciously or not—that if she didn’t care about things, they couldn’t be taken from her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And now, years later, she suddenly posts that she has a horse again. And her own brothers didn’t even know she was riding.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: That tells me everything. It tells me that she never stopped missing it. That, at some point, she must have started riding again, but she kept it completely to herself. She didn’t tell her family. She didn’t trust them with it.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And honestly? That makes me so, so sad. Because they should’ve been the first to know. They should’ve noticed that she was still hurting.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: Instead, she had to find her way back to something she loved on her own.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: Whoever got her that horse—because let’s be real, this wasn’t a random purchase—they didn’t just give her a gift. They gave her back a part of herself. And that means more than her family probably even realizes.

@/F1Girl99: This is actually so heartbreaking. The way she just shut down after losing her horse?? And her family didn’t even realize??

@/LeclercNation: Nah, this makes the whole thing so much worse. Like, it’s one thing to forget her birthday, but not even knowing she still rides??

@/redbullgirly: “She didn’t trust them with it” is actually such a devastating sentence. Imagine having to hide the thing that makes you happiest because you know your family won’t care.

↳@/arthurfairy: The fact that she got a horse again but didn’t tell a single soul in her family tells me everything I need to know about how much that hurt her.

@/gridgossip: Everyone’s talking about how sad this is, but can we also talk about who got her that horse? Because that’s not a small gift. That’s a “someone knows exactly what you lost and wanted to give it back” kind of gift.

@/tifositilidie: Imagine being Charles or Arthur and realizing you never even thought about getting her back into riding.

↳@/ohmyf1: The fact that they restarted Arthur’s karting career but didn’t do the same for Isabelle and just assumed she got over it… yeah, that’s rough.

@/chaoticquadrant: Isabelle’s silence about all of this is louder than anything she could’ve said.

@/pitlaneprincess: The fact that a random classmate knows more about Isabelle’s pain than her own family is WILD.

@/verstapwinning: I actually can’t get over the part where she just stopped talking about things she loved after they sold her horse. That’s not just sadness, that’s trauma.

@/softforcharles: I love Charles, but the way they all just assumed she was fine… like, did no one ever ask her if she wanted to ride again??

↳@/F1andChill: I’m just saying—if my sibling was secretly riding again and I found out from Instagram, I would simply pass away from shame.

@/IsabelleLeclercFan: The worst part? She didn’t even announce it like “Look what I got!” She just posted it, like it was a casual thing. That’s how you know it meant everything to her.

@/formula1tea: Okay, but do we think her family even realizes what this means yet?? Or are they still stuck on the “Wait, she rides?” stage?

@/offtrackchaos: Imagine Charles thinking she just outgrew the horse phase, only to find out she’s been hiding it from them for years.

@/arthurisstressed: Arthur’s probably having a full-blown crisis over this. You just know he’s the type to blame himself.

@/MaranelloMess: Isabelle’s whole family right now: “Wait… are we the villains?”

↳@/tifosiprincess: Yes. Yes, you are.

@/undercutf1: Like imagine realizing your sister got back into her childhood passion, something that was taken from her, and you had no idea. No one knew. That’s insane.

@/arthurwasfoundshaking: Arthur realizing he got his dream back but she never did… oh, he’s spiraling.

@/paddocksecrets: Her whole family just realized in real time that they don’t actually know her anymore.

@/charlesnation16: Charles must be freaking out because, in his head, Isabelle never even mentioned wanting to ride again. But the reality is she probably knew they wouldn’t care, so she never said anything.

@/leclercsdaughter: Imagine looking at your sister’s post and realizing someone else—not you, not your family—gave her back the thing you all took away.

@/mclarendreaming: The fact that there was ZERO lead-up. No hints. No casual mentions. Just BAM, full horse.

@/paddockwhispers: At this point, someone needs to check on the Leclerc group chat. I know they are LOSING IT.

@/padlockpundit: Someone said this isn’t just a gift, it’s an apology on behalf of the universe, and honestly?? Yeah.

@/blisteringbarnacles: I can’t tell what’s funnier—Twitter solving this mystery in real-time or the fact that Isabelle is probably watching all of this unfold while sipping tea.

@/hamiltonshalo: Someone find out how much horses cost because I need to understand just how deep this gift goes.

@/GridTea: Sorry, but how do you have a sibling making millions in F1, and you’re out here working three jobs and shoveling horse stalls just to afford riding lessons?? I need someone to make it make sense.

@/F1DramaFiles: So Charles was making Ferrari money and Isabelle was out here grinding like a broke college student?? He couldn’t spare a little “my sister should live like a human being” fund???

@/OverworkedLeclerc: She was out here studying, working multiple jobs, AND still showing up to races when she could. Meanwhile, her whole family forgot her birthday. I would simply cut everyone off.

@/HorseGirlAnon: Do you know how EXPENSIVE equestrian sports are? And she worked her own way back into it with no support? That’s insane. She deserved so much better.

@/TifosiMess: Charles in every interview: “Family is everything.”Meanwhile Isabelle: was forgotten at every major milestone in her life.

@/F1Receipts: It’s also the fact that Isabelle has never once publicly complained about it. No bitter comments, no shade—she just put her head down and worked. Meanwhile, Charles was out here with a whole family support system hyping him up.

@/F1Overthinker: Not to be dramatic, but if I were Charles, Arthur, or Lorenzo, I would simply never recover from the public dragging happening right now.

@/F1TeaSpiller:

Charles: “I’m so grateful to my family for supporting me.”

Isabelle: literally working at a horse stable just to be around them again.

@/JusticeForIsabelle: Nah, the fact that she was grinding through multiple jobs while Charles was out here buying sports cars, yachts, and luxury vacations is actually making me sick.

@/MonacoMess: Me reading Isabelle’s old interviews where she barely mentions herself and only hypes up her brothers, knowing now they weren’t doing the same for her: [GIF: "This is so much worse than I thought."]

***

Text Messages: Pascale Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Pascale: Ma chérie, please talk to me.

Pascale: I saw your post. The horse… she looks just like Blanche.

Pascale: I didn’t know you were still riding.

Pascale: I should have known.

Pascale: I should have asked.

Pascale: I don’t have the words to tell you how sorry I am.

Pascale: When we sold Blanche, I told myself you would be okay. That you were strong. That you would move on.

Pascale: But that was just me making excuses. I should have fought harder for you.

Pascale: And then when we had the chance to give you back what you lost… we didn’t even think to.

Pascale: Isabelle, please. Say something.

Pascale: Ma fille, I know I don’t deserve an answer right now.

Pascale: I love you. So, so much. ***

Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Charles Leclerc

Sebastian: Charles. Saw Belle’s post. Wanted to check in.

Charles: I’m fine.

Sebastian: You’re not. And that’s okay. But pretending doesn’t help.

Charles: It’s just— She has a horse, Seb. A whole horse. And she never told any of us.

Sebastian: Maybe you weren’t listening.

Charles: I WOULD HAVE REMEMBERED A HORSE.

Sebastian: Would you? You didn’t remember her birthday. You didn’t notice she moved out. You didn’t notice she left her job. What makes you think you would have noticed a horse?

Charles: It’s a HORSE, Seb! Not a haircut!

Sebastian: It’s not about the horse. It’s about what the horse represents. Freedom. Love. A piece of herself you never asked about. Or thought to give back.

Charles: It feels like she lied to us.

Sebastian: She didn’t lie. She protected herself. There’s a difference.

Charles: She didn’t even give us a chance to fix it.

Sebastian: Charles. You don't get to demand trust from someone you ignored. Trust is built. It’s not owed.

Charles: I just— I thought she was okay.

Sebastian: Because it was easier to think that than to ask.

Charles: She posted a horse, Seb. A HORSE. HOW LONG HAS SHE BEEN HIDING A HORSE??

Sebastian: (typing) (long pause) Charles. Focus. It’s not about the horse.

Charles: IT’S A LITTLE ABOUT THE HORSE.

Sebastian: Focus.

Charles: I’m trying.

Sebastian: Try harder. She deserves better.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1TeaSpiller: Okay, so if you’re confused about why Isabelle Leclerc’s new horse is causing a meltdown, buckle up, because this is some Shakespearean family drama.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Basically, years ago, when Charles was climbing the motorsport ranks, the Leclerc family didn’t have the money to support all three kids in racing. Arthur had to stop karting, and Isabelle—who was really into horseback riding—had her horse sold to fund Charles’ career.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Yes. You read that correctly. They sold her childhood horse to support Charles.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Now, obviously, funding a motorsport career is insanely expensive, and a lot of families make sacrifices. But imagine being a teenager, loving your horse, and then one day—boom. Gone.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: What makes it worse? Unlike Arthur, who eventually got the chance to restart his racing career, Isabelle never got that opportunity with riding. The family focused on Charles and never revisited her dreams.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Fast forward to now, and Isabelle just casually drops on Instagram that she owns a horse again—and it looks eerily similar to the one they sold.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Her brothers (Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo) all freaked out in the comments because they clearly had no idea she was even riding again, let alone that she had bought a horse.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: And this is where it gets messy. Because it means:

They never asked about her interests.

They had no clue she had started riding again.

They didn’t even know where she was living.

She never told them about any of this—which, like… speaks volumes.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Anyway, people are connecting the dots and realizing Isabelle has probably been pulling away from her family for a while, and they just… didn’t notice.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Because let’s be real—how do you forget your sister’s birthday, AND not know she got back into the thing she loved most as a kid??

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: TL;DR: The Leclerc brothers are in big trouble right now.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Oh, and the final kicker? Isabelle agreed in the comments that the horse was a gift. The way Isabelle phrased her post—“some things will always come back to you”—makes it sound like this horse is directly connected to the one she lost. Apparently it was her childhood’s horse last foal.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: If that’s true? Then someone—who is not her family—went out of their way to find a descendant of her old horse and give her back a piece of what she lost.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: And I have questions.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Because if her own family didn’t do this… who did?

***

The restaurant buzzed with quiet conversation and clinking silverware, candlelight glinting off polished glasses. It should have been relaxing — a rare, normal night in Monaco, tucked into a corner booth with Alexandra, sipping wine and trying to pretend that everything wasn’t on fire.

It wasn’t working.

Charles could barely focus on anything she was saying. His mind kept looping back to Belle’s Instagram post.

A horse. A goddamn horse.

Captioned cryptically, like some kind of soft dagger straight into his already-shredded guilt.

He hadn’t even known she still rode. He hadn’t known she had a horse.

What else didn’t he know? What else had he missed while he was busy pretending everything was fine?

He stabbed his fork into his salad with unnecessary violence.

Alexandra reached across the table, covering his hand. “Eat. You’re spiraling.”

Charles muttered something about not being hungry, but then — movement over Alexandra’s shoulder caught his eye.

He straightened immediately.

Across the room, near the outdoor terrace, sat two very familiar figures.

Emilie Abadie. And Lando Norris?!

Together. Laughing.

Leaning in too close over a shared plate of something fried.

It didn’t look like a casual meeting.

It looked like a date.

Charles’s blood pressure spiked instantly.

Because if Emilie was here — and laughing — that meant Belle wasn’t spiraling alone somewhere. Or worse — she wasn’t telling Emilie to tell him anything.

He shot up from his seat before Alexandra could stop him.

"Charles," she hissed, trying to grab his sleeve. "Sit down!"

But he was already marching across the restaurant, half-blinded by panic, guilt, and the deep, bone-deep need to do something.

Emilie spotted him halfway across the room. Her smile dropped like a rock into the ocean.

"Emilie," he said, voice tight. "We need to talk. About Belle."

Emilie set her wineglass down with infuriating calm.

"I’m having dinner," she said coolly. "Sit down or leave."

Charles didn’t sit. He couldn’t. The panic was a living thing inside him.

“She posted a horse,” he said, almost accusingly. “A horse! She never said anything! She’s still not answering me. You’ve seen her. You know. Why won’t you just—just tell me what’s going on?!”

For a second, Emilie just stared at him.

Then — like a blade sliding out of a sheath — her smile disappeared.

"You think you're owed answers now?" she asked, voice so sharp Charles actually leaned back a fraction. "After months of ignoring every warning sign? After standing in the same garage with her and looking through her like she wasn’t even real?"

Charles’s throat worked, but no sound came out.

"You want to know why she’s not answering you?" Emilie went on, soft and lethal. "Because you only want her when it's convenient. When it fits your schedule. When it doesn't mess up the perfect story you tell yourself about your family."

“Emilie—”

"No," she cut across him, fierce and furious. "You don’t get to interrupt. You didn’t text her. You didn’t notice she moved. You didn’t notice she quit her job. You didn’t notice when she smiled through being forgotten on the day that should have been about her."

Charles flinched like she’d slapped him.

"You forgot her birthday," Emilie said, each word a scalpel slicing down to bone. "And you think a few panicked phone calls are enough to fix that?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

"You don't love Belle the way you should," Emilie said, voice low, devastating. "You love the idea of her. The safe, quiet little sister who never asks for anything. Who never demands too much. Who lets you shine without ever threatening your light."

Charles stared at her, feeling hollowed out, feeling cracked open.

"You didn't see her when she needed you," Emilie said. "And now you don't deserve to see her at all — not until she says you can."

Beside her, Lando sat perfectly still, wide-eyed — half in awe, half in something dangerously close to admiration.

Charles shook his head, trying to hold onto something, anything.

“I just want to make it right—”

"Then start by not making it about you," Emilie snapped. "Start by realizing that sometimes you don’t get to be the hero of the story you broke."

Charles felt like the floor had dropped out from under him.

For a long moment, the restaurant spun around him — laughter, silverware, clinking glasses — but all he could hear was Emilie’s voice, merciless and true.

And he knew, in some terrible, undeniable way, that she was right.

He wasn’t the center of Belle’s story anymore.

He wasn’t even a footnote.

He had made himself a ghost in her life, and now he was furious that he couldn’t haunt it.

Emilie leaned back in her chair, perfectly calm now, like she hadn’t just torn him apart at the seams.

"Now," she said, reaching for her wine again, "go back to your table. Apologize to Alexandra. And maybe — if you’re lucky — figure out how to be someone your sister actually wants to let back in."

Charles didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

He turned away on shaking legs, retreating across the restaurant under the weight of his own failure.

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. I get it. I’m still going to say this anyway.

Charles: I was fifteen when they sold Blanche. I knew how much she meant to you. I knew how much it would break your heart.

Charles: And I still let it happen. I told myself it wasn’t my decision. That it was out of my hands. That it was for the greater good.

Charles: But that’s not the truth. The truth is, I was selfish. I was scared. I was so focused on keeping my own dream alive that I let them take yours away.

Charles: I didn’t fight for you. I didn’t even try.

Charles: I keep thinking about that day. The way you looked at them. At me. Like you finally understood that nothing you said was ever going to change it. And still, I stayed quiet. I just let it happen.

Charles: You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just… disappeared inside yourself. And we all pretended it would get better on its own.

Charles: It didn’t.

Charles: When Arthur got his second chance years later, we celebrated. But we never once thought about giving you yours. We just assumed you had "moved on."

Charles: I see now how wrong that was. You didn’t move on. You just learned how to survive being left behind.

Charles: And then we forgot your birthday. You were standing right there. Wearing Ferrari red. Smiling at me. And I still didn’t see you.

Charles: I keep asking myself how many times we made you feel invisible without even realizing it.

Charles: I don’t blame you for shutting us out. I don’t blame you for walking away. You deserved better than what we gave you.

Charles: And I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.

Charles: I don’t know how to fix this. Maybe I can’t.

Charles: But I want to try. If you’ll let me.

Charles: If you need space, I’ll give you space. If you need time, I’ll wait. If you never want to speak to me again, I’ll understand.

Charles: But if there’s any chance at all—any way to rebuild even a fraction of what we broke— I’ll do whatever it takes.

Charles: No excuses. No conditions. No timeline.

Charles: I’ll wait as long as you need. I’ll listen as long as it takes.

Charles: You mattered then. You matter now. You always have. Even when we were too blind to see it.

Charles: I love you. I’m so sorry I ever made you doubt that.

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babydoll372 · 2 months ago

Text

Creeper

Pairings: stalker!wanda maximoff x reader

Word count: 1945

Warnings: wanda is really creepy, filming without permission, photo taking without permission, masturbation (r), nude videos, degradation, slight humiliation kink, stalking, obsessive behavior

Some may call Wanda a stalker, some may call her absurd and obsessive, but all she did was embrace her passions. She adored photography, she loved sketching too, but most importantly, she worshiped the very idea of you, and what better way to spend her days than to combine all three? You didn’t know her well, Wanda liked to believe you did but truthfully you barely even knew her first name. The two of you shared an art class at your college, but that was it. What did you know about Wanda? Nothing. What did she know about you? Everything from your name to your home layout.

While at a community college, you lived with your parents in the home that you grew up in, just like Wanda did. Except you two lived five towns away from each other, but she didn’t care, she drove out every single evening to ensure she caught sight of you. When you were sleeping, she’d either ascend into your bedroom and take photos, or she’d linger outside your window and do the same. She had a box beneath her bed at home complete with captivating love notes she wrote to you without ever sending. Photos, artwork, envisions for your future, and so on filled this box. There was no distrust in Wanda’s mind, she had to have you.

She planned her arrival to class that next day, following you from a distance so she could get to class at precisely the correct time to sit next to you. That way she could finally talk to you or simply look at you closer up. Today you were wearing jeans and a cardigan, she couldn’t blame you considering the more frigid fall weather. At one point you removed the cardigan to reveal a plain white t-shirt that was tucked into your pants, making her bite her lip as she obscured her phone by her leg to take a picture and then feigned to use the device to text someone when in reality she was staring shamelessly at you. She had to ask to use the restroom merely to get a breather, and once she returned she vowed to herself that in the next forty-three minutes left, she would muster up the courage to at least emit a word to you. And twelve minutes later, she did.

“That looks really good.” She shyly confessed, peeking at your artwork. If anyone else saw it they’d think it was mundane, but it came from you; it was a jewel to Wanda. You looked over and beamed at her, and the woman swore she nearly fell over in her stool at the way your teeth were just barely detectable, your lips flawlessly plump, and your eyes ostensibly gleaming in line with hers.

“Thank you! What are you making?” There was now a flow of dialogue, just what Wanda needed. She tinkered with her paintbrush as you leaned over a bit to look, and she could get the remotest whiff of your perfume. She didn’t know how to describe what she was making without sounding insane, without telling you the entangled bodies she was painting were meant to resemble what her mind pictured most periods out of the day with you.

“Oh, uh, it- it’s..it’s meant to be a symbol of love between two, uhm..two women..” She tested the waters, wanting to see how you reacted to that information.

“Wow, I would’ve never thought of something like that…can I take a photo once you’re done?” She blushed, quickly bobbing her head in a form of agreement as she truly presumed she saw you look her up and down out of the corner of her eye. You must have, she knew there was a connection between you two.

That night Wanda again left with her camera, setting up in the bushes near your bedroom very uncomfortably, but none of that matters when she witnesses your body via your window. Your room faced layers of woods, trees were the only things that could be found for miles, you thought you didn’t have anything to worry about besides possibly an animal seeing you, which you couldn’t care less about. Little did you know the girl you just spoke to for the first time today was what you had to look out for. She snapped hundreds - thousands of photos as you undressed and got into pajamas. She then watched as you reached into your drawer, grabbing an item you held close to your palm. She furrowed her brows in confusion, observing you set up your laptop as you lay comfortably on your bed and lowered your shorts, displaying a bullet vibrator to be the culprit. She quickly turned the camera on record and didn’t move for the next half an hour as she watched you grow frustrated from a lack of orgasm, and ultimately give up. She was a bit disappointed to not see you reach that stage, yet it only fueled her desire to assist you in getting there.

Her drive was full, all of these photos being transported into the printer for her to store in her secretive box, and the videotape for her to keep in an album in her computer software. She had an entire album dedicated to videos of you - photos too, nothing could be put past her.

On the coming Monday in her art class, she had never been more elated to see you. The prior week the Professor informed the class that the next project would be paired, involving a sketched design between two people, and she had been preparing herself to ask you. She went out and bought some of the perfumes she saw on your nightstand in hopes you’d identify the scent and be lured to her, and she brushed her teeth four times this morning to ensure you weren’t turned off by a foul breath.

“Hey, Y/N!” She internally cursed herself, remembering last class she didn’t ask for your name. She hoped you’d pass it off and, surprisingly, you did. “Do you have a partner yet for the assignment? T-the paired one?”

“Oh, no, I don’t. Do you want to be mine?” You asked with a lifted brow and a slight grin, and for a moment she felt like you could read her every thought; she felt skittish but yet thankful.

“I’d love to! Uhm, maybe we could work on it outside of school? You know, to make sure we don’t fall behind..” She heard a tiny chuckle from you and feared the worst, clasping her lips together as she was ready for rejection.

“Yeah, whatever you think will help us pass. Any day works for me, we’ll go to my place, okay?” She didn’t challenge you for one second, and that proved to be the right move when a few days later she was actually walking into your house in broad daylight for the first time. This time, you were awake, fully conscious, and aware of her presence. She met your parents briefly, ate the food they made, and even went into your room with you - the same room she watched you masturbate in a few nights ago. She couldn’t help but glance at the bed and wonder what else you had done before. Wanda rested her laptop on the soft mattress as she sat alongside you, the two of you pondering between different concepts for the design.

"Can we use your laptop? Mine's dead and charging it will take forever." You groaned at just the reminder alone of the lack of battery you had, and Wanda agreed, although uncertain as she opened the screen and quickly closed all tabs beside one. She held her tightening bladder while you sat next to her, simply just to feel your arm barely grazing against hers, long enough for you two to find the ideal reference. She finally asked to use your restroom and instructed you on how to save the photo. As she left the room you skimmed the 'recent' section of her files to find it, only to click on the wrong PDF. Your eyes widened as you found a photo of you taken from outside of your room, your breasts on display as you were stretching a shirt over your arms. You glanced up to ensure Wanda was still in the bathroom directly across from your bedroom before clicking to the next image, and the next, and the next. Then came a video. You remembered the exact moment recorded, it came from just the other night. When your project partner came back in, her small voice sounded out as she closed the door behind her.

"Did you figure out how to save it?" She sat back down with a small plop, glimpsing over to eye the screen only to quickly haul it away when she recognized what was on it. She was standing again, holding her laptop close to her as her pupils were blown in shock behind her glasses, her face reddened. "I- I can explain, I swear!" She proclaimed, yet nothing followed it. She heard your scoff and lowered her head, ready to be scolded and forced to leave, reasonably so.

"You dirty little perv...I would've never suspected such a sweet girl to be so nasty." She swallowed shakily, slowly peeking back up at you when she saw your body move to be mere inches away from her.

"I really am sorry, you were never meant to find this." She mewled, wiping one of her eyes quickly as you cooed mockingly.

"Oh, I know, I know. You just planned to get off while being a little creep, stalking me while I was naked- while I was fucking masturbating. Were you hoping I was thinking of you, hm?" She slowly nodded in mortification, biting her lip as her mind reeled with the reminder. She could visualize the day you'd lie in front of her, purposely and knowingly, reciting the acts as you moaned her name.

"I just want you to like me too, Y/N..." She couldn't justify her filming, her photography, her deep obsession - all she could do was beg for you to allow her to stay, to move past what she did.

"...You're lucky you're cute, Wanda."

That night she went home with a kiss on her cheek and a large, mindless grin on her face, your lipstick print just barely evident. She didn't dare erase it, even after her twin brother teasingly pointed it out so that her parents would ask hundreds of questions. She ignored them, going to her room and sighing happily as she tucked herself into bed - pausing when she received a notification from an unknown number.

'For your little collection ;)' The text read, and she opened the video attachment with furrowed brows, her volume button instantly being attacked so no one could hear the loud moaning from your end, the whimpers, the groans. She heard her name multiple times, and her eyes couldn't decide between focusing on your pulsing clit vibrating against your toy, your tight hole greedily accepting two fingers, or your plump breasts slightly squished together by your arms. Previously, you couldn't reach your needed orgasm. However, Wanda felt drool pooling around her bottom lip as your legs shook violently, your body twitching as a result of the overbearing pleasure you were feeling. You slowly eased your fingers away from your hole after the vibrator came to a stop, and the woman on the other end let out a small moan as you licked the digits clean, wishing her a goodnight in your raspy, cultivating voice.

She was going to have a good night indeed.

#wanda maximoff x gender neutral reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff #Wanda Maximoff x reader smut #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda x you #wanda x reader #wanda x y/n #wanda marvel #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch x you #scarlet witch smut #scarlet witch fluff

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sweetlyvibe · 7 months ago

Text

» 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗪𝗔𝗦, 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗜𝗦, 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗗 𝗕𝗘 «

PAIRING : Atsumu Miya / Suna Rintarou x Fem!Reader

GENRE : hurt / comfort

WORD COUNT : 4.8k

SUMMARY : Unspoken feelings break the bond between you and Atsumu. As you try to heal, Rintarou steps into your life in ways you never expected. But with lingering regrets and new emotions, what happens when the past tries to catch up?

CONTENT / WARNINGS : Angst, emotional hurt/comfort, unrequited feelings, heartbreak, romantic tension, use of [Y/N], mentions of past relationships, slow burn, and light references to jealousy.

You and Atsumu Miya had been inseparable for years. From the very first day you met, something clicked between you two. You knew each other’s quirks, your favorite foods, the stupid inside jokes that no one else would ever understand. Everyone around you always teased you both, constantly dropping hints that it was obvious to anyone that you liked each other. But you two? You pretended to ignore it.

Atsumu never said anything, and neither did you. There were moments, small gestures, like the way his eyes softened when you laughed, or the way you could tell he was thinking of you just from a quick glance. But every time the tension became too palpable, one of you would retreat. It was always safer to stay in the realm of friendship. But everyone could see it. And deep down, you could feel it too.

Then, everything changed. It wasn’t sudden—more like a gradual shift that you couldn’t quite pinpoint. It started when Atsumu began pulling away from you, and at first, you chalked it up to him just being busy with volleyball. But days turned into weeks, and the distance between you two grew too noticeable to ignore. He was still the same Atsumu—playful, loud, and always there for the people he cared about. But he wasn’t there for you. Not like before.

You’d come to expect him to show up at your favorite café, or to make his usual sarcastic remarks when you were hanging out with friends, but he stopped. You’d leave him text messages, but the replies were shorter, less frequent. He’d cancel plans, and when you saw him at school or during volleyball practice, there was a clear gap between you two—an invisible wall that you could never quite break.

It hurt.

You couldn’t understand why he was distancing himself. Every time you saw him, you fought the urge to confront him, to demand answers. But you knew him too well. Atsumu wasn’t the type to share his feelings easily, especially when it came to something like this.

It was a quiet afternoon when it all hit you. You had been sitting in the back corner of the café, sketching aimlessly in your notebook, trying not to notice how the seat across from you was empty.

Then Atsumu walked in. For a moment, your heart skipped a beat. His usual grin was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t even glance in your direction as he walked past you and sat with someone else—another teammate, someone you didn’t even know.

Your stomach twisted into knots, but you kept your cool. You told yourself it was nothing. But the longer he stayed, the more you felt the weight of the situation. He was avoiding you.

You were left with only your thoughts. Had you done something wrong? Did he find someone else? Was it possible that Atsumu had grown tired of your friendship?

—

A few days later, you found yourself standing in front of his house, your heart pounding against your chest. You hadn’t seen him in days, and you couldn’t take the silence any longer. You had to know why.

You knocked on the door, and when Atsumu answered, you were met with his usual teasing smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, well, look who decided to show up. What’s up?”

His voice was too casual, too distant. Something in his expression made you feel like a stranger, like he was seeing you through a veil.

“I need to talk to you,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

He blinked at you, clearly caught off guard by the question, but the smile stayed. “Avoiding you? C’mon, you’re overthinking it.”

But you weren’t. You could feel it. The distance, the silence, the coldness. It wasn’t like before.

“Atsumu, stop.” You stepped forward, your voice trembling. “You’ve been pulling away for weeks now, and I need to know why. What happened?”

For a moment, it seemed like he might actually say something. You saw the conflict flash in his eyes, but just as quickly as it came, it disappeared. He took a deep breath and sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s nothing, alright?” His tone was defensive, but there was something in his voice that made you pause. “I just need some space, okay? You… you won’t understand.”

You felt your heart drop into your stomach. You had no idea what was happening, but the feeling of rejection stung deeper than you’d ever imagined. You could tell this wasn’t a simple issue. But instead of pressing him further, you took a step back, feeling like the words you wanted to say were stuck in your throat.

“I’ll give you your space then,” you whispered. “But I don’t understand why you can’t just tell me what’s going on.”

Atsumu didn’t respond. He just watched you walk away, the door clicking shut behind you.

Days turned into weeks, and you fought every urge to reach out to him again. You tried, really tried, to keep yourself busy. You spent more time with friends, buried yourself in schoolwork, but everything reminded you of him. The silence between you two was unbearable.

—

It had been weeks since you last saw Atsumu properly—really saw him, like how it used to be. You were tired of the confusion, tired of overthinking, and most of all, tired of missing someone who was right there but felt a thousand miles away.

So when you caught him alone after practice one evening, you didn’t hesitate. He was leaning against the wall of the gym, scrolling on his phone, and when he noticed you approaching, his expression froze.

“We need to talk,” you said, your voice firm but not angry. You weren’t sure what you were feeling anymore—too many emotions swirling in your chest.

Atsumu sighed, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Alright. Let’s talk.”

You searched his face, looking for the boy you used to know, the one who made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. But all you saw now was a mask of discomfort, like he was bracing himself for a storm.

“Why?” you asked simply. “Why have you been avoiding me? What did I do wrong?”

He ran a hand through his hair, looking away from you. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why?” Your voice cracked, but you pressed on. “Why did you push me away? Why did you leave me out of your life like this?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to answer. Then he took a deep breath. “I’ve been seeing someone.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You felt the air leave your lungs, your heart dropping into your stomach. “You… what?”

“I’m dating someone,” he said again, his tone quieter this time. “That’s why I’ve been distant.”

You stared at him, trying to process the words. It wasn’t just that he had moved on—it was that he had chosen to leave you behind without a word, as if you were disposable.

“So that’s it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re leaving me—your best friend—for someone you’ve known for what, a few weeks?”

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly, but you could hear the guilt in his voice. “She’s… She’s uncomfortable with me having a girl best friend, okay? I didn’t have a choice.”

Your heart cracked further at the excuse, the way he tried to justify abandoning you. “You didn’t have a choice?” you repeated, bitterness creeping into your tone. “So instead of talking to me, you just decided to disappear? To act like I don’t matter anymore?”

“It wasn’t like that,” he insisted, though his voice wavered. “I just— I thought it’d be easier for both of us.”

“For both of us? Or just for you?”

Atsumu looked at you then, really looked at you, and for the first time, you saw the truth in his eyes. It wasn’t about the girl he was dating. It was about something deeper, something he wasn’t saying.

But you were too tired to push any further.

“Fine,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat. “If that’s what you want. If you really think it’s easier to just… cut me out of your life, then fine. I’ll do the same.”

“(Y/N)—”

“No, Atsumu,” you interrupted, your voice trembling. “You don’t get to leave and then act like you’re the one hurting. You made your choice. I hope it’s worth it.”

His face fell, but he didn’t stop you as you turned and walked away. You didn’t look back, even as your vision blurred with tears.

And Atsumu, standing alone outside the gym, let you go. Because even though every part of him wanted to stop you, he convinced himself that this was for the best.

Rintarou Suna wasn’t usually one to get involved in other people’s business. He observed things from a distance, took mental notes, and let the world unfold without interfering too much. But watching you these past few weeks made something in him stir.

You were a shadow of yourself—walking through the halls like you carried the weight of the world on your shoulders. The bright, cheerful person who used to light up every room was gone, replaced by someone quieter, someone hurting.

It was impossible not to notice.

And as much as he tried to convince himself it wasn’t his place to step in, he couldn’t ignore the pang in his chest every time he saw you. He knew what had happened with Atsumu. It was impossible not to know. Atsumu might’ve been his closest friend, but even he couldn’t understand why the setter had let you go like that.

So, one evening, Suna found himself staring at your name in his messages. He didn’t overthink it—just sent a simple text.

True to his word, Rintarou showed up at six the next evening. You weren’t sure what to expect—it wasn’t like the two of you had ever hung out one-on-one before. You were always part of a group, usually with the Miya twins.

He took you to a casual ramen shop, the kind of place you wouldn’t have picked yourself but immediately loved. It was quiet, tucked away from the busier streets, and the food was amazing.

You were nervous at first, unsure of how to act around him. But Rintarou had a way of making things feel easy. He wasn’t overly chatty, but he had this calm, steady presence that put you at ease.

After eating, the two of you wandered to a nearby park. The sun was just beginning to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink.

“I didn’t know you liked ramen so much,” you said as you both sat on a bench overlooking a small pond.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Rintarou replied, smirking slightly.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Like the fact that I’m ridiculously good at claw machines.”

You laughed, the sound surprising even yourself. It was the first time you’d genuinely laughed in weeks, and Rintarou noticed.

“See? Told you I was good for something,” he said, leaning back against the bench.

The conversation flowed easily after that. You talked about everything and nothing—your favorite shows, the places you wanted to travel, the things that made you happy. For the first time in weeks, you felt like yourself again.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, you glanced at Rintarou and realized how much you appreciated his company. He wasn’t trying to fix you or force you to talk about what happened with Atsumu. He was just… there. And that was enough.

—

A month passed, and your hangouts with Rintarou became more frequent. What started as casual conversations turned into late-night texts, impromptu coffee runs, and long walks through the park. You hadn’t felt this close to someone in a long time, and it scared you a little.

One evening, you were sitting on the swings at the same park, the stars shining brightly overhead. Rintarou had been quieter than usual, and you could tell something was on his mind.

“What’s up?” you asked, nudging him with your foot.

He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I like you,” he said, the words blunt but sincere.

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“I like you,” he repeated, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes. “And I know you’re still trying to move on from… everything. I’m not trying to rush you or make things harder for you. I just wanted you to know.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. You didn’t know what to say, and he seemed to notice your hesitation.

“I’ll wait,” he added quickly. “As long as it takes. I just… I think you deserve to be with someone who actually sees you. Someone who doesn’t walk away when things get hard.”

His words hit you harder than you expected. You thought about all the times he’d been there for you over the past month, the way he made you feel seen and understood.

You didn’t know if you were ready for something new, but one thing was clear: Rintarou wasn’t like anyone else.

“Rin,” you started, your voice soft. “I don’t know if I can—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “And that’s okay. I’m not asking you for anything right now. Just… think about it, alright?”

You nodded, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. For the first time in a long time, you felt a spark of hope.

The relationship with the girl Atsumu had chosen over you didn’t last long. At first, it felt like a distraction—a way to silence the feelings he was too scared to confront. But the more time he spent with her, the clearer it became: she wasn’t you.

Every laugh, every conversation, every small moment felt hollow. He’d catch himself comparing her to you—the way she didn’t understand his jokes the way you did, or how her presence didn’t bring him the same comfort.

By the time the relationship ended, Atsumu was left with an emptiness he couldn’t ignore. He had thought pushing you away would make things easier, but all it had done was make him realize how much he needed you.

And now, as he sat alone in his room, scrolling through old photos on his phone, the ache in his chest felt unbearable. One picture caught his attention—it was from last year, the two of you grinning at the camera with Osamu and Rintarou behind you, all mid-laugh.

He stared at the image for a long time before closing his eyes, his fists clenching. He couldn’t keep running from his feelings. He needed to tell you.

It had taken Atsumu days to work up the courage to confess. He had rehearsed what he would say over and over in his head, imagining every possible scenario. Would you forgive him? Would you hate him? Did you still care at all?

But before he could act, something stopped him in his tracks.

It was a Friday night, and he was scrolling aimlessly through Instagram when he saw it: your story.

The first slide was a picture of food—burgers and fries from one of the places Atsumu knew you loved. He almost swiped past it, but the next slide made his heart drop.

It was you, sitting across from someone at a dimly lit table. The photo was candid, your smile so wide and genuine it almost hurt to look at.

Then came the next slide: Rintarou, leaning back in his chair with a small smirk, his eyes focused on you like there was no one else in the world.

Atsumu’s chest tightened, his breathing shallow.

No.

His thumb hovered over the screen, his mind racing. He stared at the story until it looped back to the beginning, unable to process what he was seeing.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

He put his phone down, his hands trembling. All the confidence he’d built up, all the plans he’d made to confess—it shattered in an instant.

Because it was too late.

He spent the rest of the night lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts were a whirlwind, alternating between disbelief, regret, and a sharp, unrelenting pain.

Rintarou. Of all people, it had to be Rintarou.

They had been friends for years, practically brothers. Atsumu couldn’t even be angry at him—he knew Rintarou wasn’t the type to swoop in unless he was serious.

But knowing that didn’t make it any easier.

The memories flooded back: the way you used to laugh at his dumb jokes, the way you’d tease him when he got too full of himself, the way you always seemed to know when he needed someone to lean on.

He had taken it all for granted.

And now, someone else had stepped in to fill the void he had left.

The next time Atsumu saw Rintarou at practice, he couldn’t meet his eyes. The usual banter between them was gone, replaced by an awkward tension that neither of them addressed.

He wanted to say something, to confront him, to ask if it was true—but what right did he have? He had been the one to push you away. He had been the one to hurt you.

Later, when Osamu asked him what was wrong, Atsumu just shook his head. “Nothin’,” he mumbled, forcing a smile.

But Osamu wasn’t fooled.

“Yer terrible at hidin’ things, y’know,” Osamu said, crossing his arms. “This about her?”

Atsumu froze, his eyes widening. “What?”

Osamu sighed. “(Y/N). I ain’t stupid, Tsumu. I know how ya feel about her. And I know ya messed up.”

Atsumu looked away, shame creeping up his neck. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he muttered. “She’s with Rin now.”

Osamu raised an eyebrow. “And yer just gonna give up?”

“What else can I do?” Atsumu snapped, his voice cracking. “I already lost her.”

Osamu didn’t say anything for a long moment, just staring at his twin. Then he clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm.

“Then don’t screw up yer next chance.”

Atsumu didn’t respond, but Osamu’s words lingered long after he walked away.

Atsumu hadn’t planned to do this. He wasn’t sure why he thought talking to you would help, but the knot in his chest had grown unbearable. It wasn’t fair—not to you, not to Rintarou, and certainly not to himself. He needed to say something, to let it out, even if it meant facing the harsh reality that you were no longer his to have.

The opportunity came one quiet evening after practice. He saw you sitting on the bleachers, scrolling through your phone while waiting for Rintarou to finish up. You looked peaceful, content even, and it made his chest tighten.

“Hey,” he called out, his voice hesitant.

You looked up, surprised. “Atsumu? What’s up?”

He hesitated for a moment before sitting down beside you, leaving a noticeable gap between you. The silence stretched as he searched for the right words.

“Can we… talk?” he finally asked, his tone softer than you were used to.

You frowned slightly, concerned by his unusually serious demeanor. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

Atsumu exhaled shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinkin’ a lot lately… about us.”

Your eyes widened slightly, but you stayed quiet, giving him space to continue.

“I know I screwed up,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Pushin’ ya away, makin’ ya think I didn’t care… That was on me. I thought it’d be easier, y’know? If I just… buried how I felt.”

Your heart sank as his words sank in. “Atsumu…”

He finally looked up, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But it wasn’t easier. It just made everythin’ worse. And now… now I’m here, watchin’ ya with Rin, and I can’t stop thinkin’ about how it could’ve been me.”

You bit your lip, your chest tightening. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I need ya to know,” he said, his voice trembling. “I need ya to know that I loved ya—still do. But I know it’s too late. I can see it in how ya look at him. And I don’t wanna mess that up for ya.”

The weight of his confession hung heavily between you, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

“Atsumu,” you began carefully, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. “I’m not going to lie. When you pushed me away, it hurt. I didn’t understand why, and I hated that you wouldn’t tell me. I spent so long trying to figure out what I did wrong.”

He flinched at your words, guilt washing over him.

“But now I get it,” you continued, your tone softening. “And I appreciate you telling me this. I really do. But… things are different now.”

Atsumu nodded slowly, his throat tightening. “Ya really care about him, don’t ya?”

You smiled faintly, a warmth spreading across your face at the thought of Rintarou. “I do. He’s been there for me in ways I didn’t expect. And I don’t want to hurt him, Atsumu. He deserves better than that.”

He swallowed hard, forcing a small, bittersweet smile. “Yeah… he does.”

The two of you sat in silence for a while, the weight of unspoken feelings finally settling. It wasn’t the ending either of you had envisioned, but it was the one you both needed.

“I guess this is it, huh?” Atsumu said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned to him, your eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and gratitude. “It doesn’t have to be. You’re still important to me, Atsumu. Maybe not in the way you want, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

He gave a small nod, though the ache in his chest didn’t lessen. “I’ll always care about ya too.”

As you stood to leave, Rintarou approached, his gaze flickering between you and Atsumu. He didn’t say anything, but his presence alone made Atsumu realize it was time to step back.

“Take care of her,” Atsumu said quietly, meeting Rintarou’s eyes.

Rintarou nodded, understanding the weight behind the words. “I will.”

That night, Atsumu walked home alone, the cool breeze biting against his skin. For the first time in months, the knot in his chest felt looser, the weight on his shoulders lighter.

He knew the pain wouldn’t go away overnight, but he also knew that holding onto something that was no longer his would only hurt him more.

You were happy, and that was all that mattered.

As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, a single tear slipped down his cheek. He let it fall, letting himself feel the loss one last time before closing his eyes.

Tomorrow would be a new day, and Atsumu Miya would find a way to move forward.

Rintarou had never been one to act impulsively, but watching you over the past few months had tested his patience. He had seen you laugh, cry, and slowly stitch yourself back together after Atsumu broke your heart. He’d been there for the late-night texts, the casual hangouts that became something more, and the quiet moments when you thought no one noticed how much you were still hurting.

He noticed everything.

From the beginning, his feelings had been something he shoved to the side. You were Atsumu’s best friend, practically untouchable in his eyes. But now? Now, you weren’t just someone he admired from a distance. You were the person he wanted to see happy, even if it meant waiting until you were ready.

Rintarou was deliberate about everything. If he was going to confess, it had to be perfect—not flashy or overwhelming, but something that felt like you. Something thoughtful.

He remembered a conversation you’d had weeks ago about how you missed doing creative things, like drawing and painting. The way your face lit up when you talked about it stuck with him. That’s when he got the idea.

He spent the next week preparing: buying canvases, paint, brushes, and even scouting the perfect spot in the park where you’d have privacy. The confession itself was the tricky part. How could he say everything he felt in a way that wouldn’t scare you off?

That’s when he decided to let the moment speak for itself.

—

The day of the confession was perfect. The late afternoon sunlight bathed the park in warm hues, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves. Rintarou arrived early, setting up the picnic blanket under a tree with the canvases and paints neatly arranged to one side.

When you arrived, he felt his heart skip a beat. You looked happy, carefree even, and it made his nerves settle just a little.

“This is so sweet, Rin,” you said, sitting down beside him. “I didn’t know you liked picnics.”

“I don’t,” he teased, smirking. “But you do, so here we are.”

You laughed, nudging him lightly. “You’re not as lazy as you pretend to be, huh?”

He shrugged, pulling out the canvases. “I thought we could try somethin’ different. You said you missed drawing, so…”

Your eyes widened, a soft smile spreading across your face. “You remembered?”

“‘Course I did,” he said, avoiding your gaze as his ears turned pink.

The two of you spent the next hour painting and chatting, the conversation flowing effortlessly. You decided to draw each other, and while you tried your best to capture Rintarou’s sharp features, he seemed oddly focused on his own canvas.

“Are you even trying?” you teased, leaning over to peek at his work.

He quickly pulled the canvas away, his smirk widening. “Patience, (Y/N). You’ll see when it’s done.”

You rolled your eyes but went back to your own work, tongue poking out in concentration as you added the finishing touches. When you were finally done, you turned your canvas to him.

“Okay, don’t laugh,” you warned.

Rintarou’s eyes softened as he took in your painting. It wasn’t perfect, but it was undeniably him—the way you saw him, not just as a friend but as someone important.

“It’s great,” he said sincerely, his voice quieter than usual.

You blushed under his gaze. “Thanks. Now let me see yours.”

He hesitated for a moment, then handed you his canvas without a word.

Your breath caught as you looked at his painting—or rather, what wasn’t a painting at all. Instead of a portrait, Rintarou had written words in bold, neat letters across the blank canvas:

Will you be my girlfriend?

You stared at the canvas, your heart pounding in your chest. Slowly, you looked up to meet his gaze.

“Rin…”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “I know this might be bad timing, and I know you’re still—well, I just… I like ya, (Y/N). I’ve liked ya for a long time. And I get it if you’re not ready, but I just wanted ya to know how I feel.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten. You thought back to all the little moments with Rintarou—the way he had been there for you when you felt at your lowest, the quiet understanding he offered without expecting anything in return, the subtle warmth that had started to grow between you.

Tears pricked your eyes as you smiled. “You’re not bad at this romantic stuff, huh?”

He let out a breathy laugh, relief washing over him. “So… is that a yes?”

You nodded, setting the canvas down and leaning forward to wrap your arms around him. “It’s a yes.”

Rintarou froze for a moment before hugging you back, his usual smirk replaced with a genuine, almost shy smile.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice soft. “‘Cause I wasn’t gonna give up that easy.”

—

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, the two of you stayed close, the world around you fading into the background.

Rintarou couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, waiting had been worth it after all.

The next time Atsumu saw you, it was at school. You were sitting with Rintarou, your heads bent close together as you shared a laugh. He watched from a distance, his chest tight with emotions he couldn’t quite name.

It hurt, but it also gave him clarity. You were happy, and Rintarou was the reason why.

For once, Atsumu didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to make a joke to ease the tension or fight for your attention. He turned and walked away, knowing that this was the choice he had to make—not for you, but for himself.

He’d hold onto the memories of you, of what you’d been to him, but it was time to let go.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the first step toward his own new beginning.

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