WHAT THE F**K IS AN APEX? … an INTRODUCTION (or something).
A | eighteen, october baby | GMT time zone | sana lover | j-hope fan.
Your friendly, fanfiction loving, writer! I write for many drivers (and their bosses) with my favourite songs as titles!
Formula One has been a passion of mine before I could even walk and writing is the only thing currently bringing me peace as I battle a disorder!
I don’t accept requests as I try to write with whatever weird idea comes to mind. Nor do i have a tag list.
I do happen to be a very girly person, and very much so feminine, so a lot of that does rub off into my work (is a comfort of mine). If this makes you uncomfortable, please block me for your comfort!
18+, minors do not interact.
this blog produces Formula 1 RPF — Real People Fiction — and creates taboo content (including, but not limited to, large age gaps, predator & prey, dom & sub dynamics).
idk who needs to hear this but if you need oscar piastri, sully from monsters inc or jack abbott in your head telling you you’re doing great, then you’re doing fucking great. mental health hurts us all in different ways, comfort characters are comforting for a reason. i love all yall.
lovies, i’m so sorry for the quiet from me as of late! i recently had a “spiral” that mentally drained me. but im happy to say i do have some new things planned and they are finally (but slowly) being written.
— “Have you ever got everything you ever wanted?” — “No, but I once got very close.”
Summary: Accidents in Formula One were something that seemed to happen too frequently for anybody’s liking. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, with you so close to being a champion. With you being so close to reaching your dreams. Once you had soared a little too close to the sun.
Once, Kimi had known heaven. Once, Kimi had known salvation. Once, Kimi got very close to getting everything he ever wanted.
Warnings. Major Character Death. Blood. Graphic description of scars and wounds, injuries. Grief. Depression. Age gap that isn’t mentioned or implied. Marriage.
Kimi had always been the quiet one. The iceman they called him, but even the quiet ones—the cold ones—could melt for the right people. He’d gone from shouting over radios, drinking on his yacht to sitting in a quiet house.
A too quiet house.
He still sees the way your eyes glossed over in the hospital room, bandages wrapped tightly around your legs and arms— how half of your face seemed to be unable to react correctly.
He remembers, as he closes his eyes before bed, the way you’d struggled to rest your hand over his. Even in your worst moments you comforted him. A selfless woman, but you were his woman.
His wife. His missing rib. The only one he’d let know him so well.
He still hears the wedding music. That song you walked in to—something stupidly sweet and smile worthy—as you looked up at him like he’d held the stars in his palms.
Kimi had become a shell of himself over time, from his debut in Formula One up to meeting you, he was the iceman. The one who didn’t budge, who didn’t hold a grudge but didn’t look at anybody twice.
But with you— with you, he was so full of life. So warm to hear, so kind to look at. Kimi Raikkonen once got very close to having everything he ever wanted. The way you did too.
The rookie on the block who over the years would make people laugh and argue over which era was the better. Which team were you best in— none of it mattered that night in Spa.
Your car had snapped in half, the way it was supposed to, but had gone up in flames in the process. Kimi remembers driving past it in what could only be slow motion, as stewards tried to put the flickering lights out as soon as they could.
They were too late. The damage had already been done.
You never raced again, as it was too painful. Never went in public again. Covered in burns, scars and injuries that would stay there for a lifetime. Kimi tried to reassure you, that they only made you more beautiful.
You had lived through something not many believed was possible. That alone made you the most beautiful woman in the world to him.
You smiled, it didn’t reach your eyes—too painful, and let him prop up the pillows around you more comfortably as you were discharged.
They told you in private that you’d be going home to die. You begged they didn’t tell Kimi as you worried he’d be unable to handle it. They agreed.
So for one final night, you were husband and wife laying in bed together. As blood bled through bandages and stained the pillowcase you slept on, you turned—with gritted teeth and a groan—to look up at him one last time.
“I love you.” He whispered, fingers trailing against your cheek achingly gentle. You smiled like you had all those years ago.
As you took in the final look of him, that one last time you’d be stood before heaven before arguably falling to hell— “I love you most.”
His held rested over yours as you turned onto your back, both of you stared up at the ceiling. Kimi’s eyes closed after a few moments, the weight of the world too hard on his shoulders.
You told him you loved him, again in a whisper, just before he settled off in his breathless dreams. His hand tightened around yours.
He called for the funeral director a few hours later when he heard that last spluttering cough slip through your lips. It’d startled him awake— that sound of your inhaling breath. A breathless prayer, a wordless cry.
Between that hour, as your body went through each stage and he had to endure the grief, he laid there with his hand over yours. Your wedding ring a blatant reminder that you were his wife. Even in death. No matter.
Kimi, who had once been called a cold man, now slept in a colder bed dreaming of a distant lover. It’d be a long time until the sun would shine, until he’d ever go out of his house. No amount of lilies or white roses sitting at his doorstep I’m pretty vases could shift him from that bed— your bed.
Pairing: Sebastian Vettel x Dead Wife/Female!Reader
Summary: His wife has been dead for a handful of years but every now and then Sebastian goes walking in his sleep. Sometimes he walks into the kitchen and sits down at that same spot you’d spent your mornings sipping coffee at. Sometimes he’d even sleepwalk into your old office and sit in your chair. His therapist said it’s as healthy as anything, that grief had its own way of expressing itself.
Until that night he dreams of you with him— except, unlike times before, it feels very, very, real.
Warnings: Major Character (is) Dead/Death. Hurt. No comfort. Majority of Plot is in the summary and that’s all. Who proof reads? Hallucinations. Grief. Rituals. Spirituality. Obsession. Extreme Dark themes. Kissing. 18+ content. I cannot stress how uncomfortable and unsettling this is. PLEASE Do not read if uncomfortable.
A/N: basically Seb hallucinated his wife being with him. More of a comfort fic than anything else. Hi guys! Please let me know if you liked / didn’t like this! It came to me, weirdly and ironically enough, in a dream I had during an afternoon nap. I also very much so felt inspired to continue to go through with this idea by the Billy Joel song. As always, your comments, reblogs and likes are appreciated beyond words! Have a blessed week! - A.
Sebastian hadn’t listened to Billy Joel since that final night you two were together.
You were more spiritual than him, and with glossy eyes and a wine-filled smile you’d make him dance with you to The River of Dreams claiming there was something religious in the song with the way it spoke to you. He swore he hated the song, but really he didn’t.
Now, as he hides away all his social media posts and deletes nearly everybody’s contacts, as his house—your house—remains eternally silent he’s reminded of those days you’d giggle at him and coo at his greying stubble.
He’d admit, under thin sheets and away from a prying sun, that he was scared to get older. You’d kiss him and tell him that he didn’t need to be, that you two were destined to grow older together because there was the hope you’d be together for every life.
He believed you then. He didn’t really believe you now.
So like a sadistic routine, as he gets up with a groan when his back cracks, he begins to turn off the porch lights. Locking the doors and the windows—not before making sure the bees are tucked away nicely, you’d kill him if he didn’t—he made his way slowly up to bed.
The record player you’d brought with you when you moved in was still freshly sat there, taunting him almost. That same Billy Joel single was waiting to be played, a mocking look on its face as he moved to get ready for bed.
Brushing his teeth, stood in the bathroom, picking at the patches of grey in his beard, at his hairline that seemed to be aching a little more away from him with each day—
In the middle of the night.
He shook, like a dog being scared, as he suddenly heard that man’s voice playing from the bedroom. He rolled his blue eyes, huffed out your name and told you to stop playing around. He was too tired.
Sebastian did that often, speaking to your spirit as if you could hear him from the other side, it brought him comfort. His therapist had told him it probably wasn’t the best idea he’d had, but she could let it pass for a while.
One year turned into two, and then four. And then six.
He counted each day without you like a kid counting down for Christmas. As the vinyl stopped its crooning, with a satisfaction he hadn’t felt in a while blooming inside of it, and he turned off the bathroom lights, he found himself a little more hopeful than usually.
As always the man had yearned for sleep more days than not. If he was lucky then he’d come face to face with you again— sitting on those hills under the sun, giggling over his racing days. You’d coo, he’d roll his eyes. You’d kiss. You’d be alive.
But before he could settle, he turned to your photograph on his bedside—smiling wide and sat on a familiar park bench with an ice cream cone in your hand—and pressed his fingertips to your face softly.
Usually, like he did now, he’d spray your perfume and body spray on the pillow, your pillow, next to him. He’d stocked up enough time to last him a lifetime.
A promise of being together soon on his lips before setting the photo frame down and turning the lamp off.
It started slow, like always, him drifting off.
He hadn’t been out of his pyjamas for a few days, too tired and exhausted mentally to get dressed just to stay in the house. He heard your voice in his head, “Seb— you’ve gotta change!”
And he feared for the day he’d stopped seeing your eyes and hearing your voices. For the days he’d forget he was even married once. But his wedding band remained an anchor, you’d never be forgotten. Not until Sebastian’s time came, which arguably wasn’t something he wanted to wait for.
As his eyes closed, a smile on his face at that familiar feeling settling inside of his stomach. That one he got whenever he was just on the brink of falling asleep—like when he dreamt of falling off a building a few times—which he usually hoped would end up with a dream of you.
“Seb?”
His eyes fluttered open when he first heard it. A soft whisper, one full of smiles. One that made his own grin stretch—
“Seb?”
A little louder as he blinked himself awake, a frown flickering on his face—
“Sebastian!”
You.
He knew it was you, who else could it have been? That same voice, that same giggle. And as he turned his head, there you were in your usual nightwear with a big grin on your face.
He looked at you liked he’d never seen you before, like that first time, blue eyes wide and mouth a little open.
And then, before you could slip away, his mouth was on yours. Hands on your jaw, cupping both sides as if you’d slip away at any moment.
You smiled against his lips, kissing him back as equally as passionate. He blinked back whatever lump was forming in his throat—
“Where did you go?” You muttered against his mouth, fingers brushing against that familiar stubble you’d loved for so long.
“What do you mean?” He frowned, fingers grasping your jaw tighter. Stay here. Don’t go.
You smiled at him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek again— and then his jaw, and then his lips. Over and over. He fluttered his eyes closed, and when they opened he was right back there.
That same vinyl, the same one he’d ignored for those six years, playing in the corner.
In the middle of the night,
I go walking in my sleep.
Then your voice, as clear as day—even as night was snuggly settled in outside—whispered from above him.
guys i’m SO sorry for having nothing out, my michael fic is currently sitting at 6.4k words and there’s a lot of gaps in the plot i need to fix before i can post!
i’ll try to get a little something out before the weekend…!
Ditto: Oscar reminisces on the ‘one that got away.’ from his high-school days, after he sees her for the first time in a long, long, time.
Warnings: A very small age gap (one year), a lot of unresolved tension. Flashbacks, sort of, pining, reminiscing etc. Not a happy ending, swearing. Mention of reader having a “privileged” upbringing. Grief. Talk of cancer, side character death. Reader isn't Australian (?) Hints towards cheating but nothing does happen.
-
📂… GEORGE RUSSELL
-
📂… TOTO WOLFF
-
📂… CHARLES LECLERC
-
📂… LEWIS HAMILTON
-
📂… MAX VERSTAPPEN
-
📂… VALTTERI BOTTAS
Retired Drivers:
📂… MICHAEL SCHUMACHER
threads between us (coming soon).
📂… JENSON BUTTON
📂… SEBASTIAN VETTEL
The River of Dreams: His wife has been dead for a handful of years but every now and then Sebastian goes walking in his sleep. Sometimes he walks into the kitchen and sits down at that same spot you’d spent your mornings sipping coffee at. Sometimes he’d even sleepwalk into your old office and sit in your chair. His therapist said it’s as healthy as anything, that grief had its own way of expressing itself.
Warnings: Major Character (is) Dead/Death. Hurt. No comfort. Majority of Plot is in the summary and that’s all. Who proof reads? Hallucinations. Grief. Rituals. Spirituality. Obsession. Extreme Dark themes. Kissing. 18+ content. I cannot stress how uncomfortable and unsettling this is. PLEASE Do not read if uncomfortable.
Ditto: Oscar reminisces on the ‘one that got away.’ from his high-school days, after he sees her for the first time in a long, long, time.
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Female!Reader
Warnings:
A very small age gap (one year), a lot of unresolved tension.
Flashbacks, sort of, pining, reminiscing etc.
Not a happy ending, swearing. Mention of reader having a “privileged” upbringing.
Grief. Talk of cancer, side character death.
Reader isn't Australian (?) Hints towards cheating but nothing does happen.
Based on the songs: Ditto by NJZ (never dies!). Thirsty by aespa.
Word Count: 3k.
A/N: First time posting on this account, kind of nervous! Please give me feedback, comments, etc if you think it’s good (or bad! I accept criticism that doesn’t make me want to cry, lol). No part twos here partner! Also please appreciate my header, I love Sana so much.
Oscar was twenty four when it happened, when he realised he’d lost the love of his life.
—
His mum had called her, you, the ‘one that got away’ without realising the pain it’d cause her son many years down the line. Even after he’d told himself he was over you, over what happened- over the summers you spent together, but then again when has Oscar Piastri ever been a good liar?
For a handful of years you were both inseparable.
From giggling over shared icecreams, groaning into study notes in the library and dancing on the grass in Albert Park, she hadn't seen the day coming when you two would lose contact, and to be honest neither had Oscar. He thought your friendship was written in the stars, true love didn’t exist before you two met.
To him, he’d always been close with you because you knew the struggles of travelling around so much due to your parents being investors in numerous things– your home was a plane seat.
But to Oscar you were so much more than a rich girl, you were his sun that kept his days bright and full of tropical breezes– you reminded him of summer because whenever you smiled at him he suddenly felt warm. Over time you both bonded over loss, over love and fears. Both had hopes and dreams.
He wasn’t sure when he fell in love with you, maybe it was when he took you to the school dance that one winter, you looked at him in a way he’d never seen before. His hand was in yours as you all but dragged him through a sandy shore– you kissed him, as he kept his word of always caring about you, with a tearful gaze.
You’d hold hands on sidewalks, he’d dedicate his karting wins to you with a grin as you claimed to be his number one fan, and discuss the dreams you both had. You’d claim your hopes for being a tennis player, and he’d come with you whenever he could to tennis practice. He’d kiss the scrapes on your knees, you’d pout and say you were jealous. He’d laugh, quiet and sincere.
It was a high-school, teenage, picturesque love story between two people who never really did feel like they belonged anywhere. His mum would coo and say how cute you both were, in secret she’d thank you for being so kind to him during the times when his father necessarily wasn't. You’d hug her tight, later on she told him to marry you in the future, one morning, when he was twenty one and you were twenty.
Sure he hadn't really thought of marrying you, what eighteen year old had marriage on their mind when trying to chase a childhood dream of becoming a Formula One driver? But of course, as did many others, he liked to dream of a pretty house and you as his wife, his lover- his equal.
His everything, where he’d win races and bring home the trophies just so you'd look at him like that again.
He remembered first seeing you, shy and a little afraid of the school you’d just transferred to. Nobody knew you, nor why you’d come over from so many miles away. But unlike what you’d thought, nobody judged the sixteen year old who'd be spending two years studying and making friends as her father continued dying.
He was seventeen, awkward and a little too shy to really introduce himself. You stumbled up to him and asked for help during an English class, he shook his head - showed you his own work - to when you’d laugh and say “we’re both doomed.”
He smiled hard enough that it hurt his face.
Oscar remembers the night his mum told him your dad died, his cancer taking him, he’d just come home from karting, a soft grin, sweat sticking to his brow, as he’d expected you and your mother round for dinner like so many times before. He went to bed hungry, lost and a little helpless.
He tried to call, fingers hovering over the little device in his palm, but never found the courage. He’d never really called you his girlfriend, but you weren’t friends. Friends didn’t look at each other the way you two did.
He remembers that look in your eye when you’d come into school for a few hours a week to pick up schoolwork. Teachers would sympathise with you and you’d flinch whenever they asked how you were truly doing. You look haunted, even when you smiled - and it didn't reach your eyes, but it never truly did - at him, shoulders bumping past each other in the hallway, as if to soothe whatever fear he had.
He’d sent over cookies a few days prior, a soft smile on his face as he explained that he’d helped bake them this time (he didn’t lie).
You cried over the first bite, both of you sat at the island with a glass of milk to share, he scratched the back of his head and said he was sorry, "I know they’re not that good.”
For the first time in a while, you laughed, and then hugged him. He promised everything would be alright with a smile and you stopped yourself from kissing him again.
“The cookies are awful.”
“Hey! You could've lied!”
He didn’t go to your dad’s funeral, his mum went instead for him and his sisters, but instead shared a cone of chocolate ice cream with you as you both sat before a never ending ocean. His mum had called yours, saying she thought it’d be a good idea for both of them to get out of the house. Your mum had agreed, sending you away with a few dollars in your pocket and a sympathetic smile.
When Oscar saw you, really saw you for the first time in nearly three weeks, he felt the air get punched out of his stomach. Your hair was a lighter shade due to an unforgiving sun, your skin a little sunburnt but tanned nonetheless - something he’d joked about being jealous of, claiming he found it unfair that he got sunburnt the most - and he’d never seen grief look so beautiful.
He couldn’t stop looking at you, you seemed so far away from the world. Like your soul disappeared off the face of the earth entirely, but your body as its vessel still remained. He still has nightmares, where you’re crying and he’s helplessly trying to soothe you in whatever way he can.
Oscar doesn't really remember a time, even now, when he felt as helpless as he did then.
You moved away to New York four weeks after your father’s funeral, a heavy heart and tears in your eyes as you hugged him goodbye, to start college. You promised to call whenever you could, whenever he had the time and whenever the time zones wouldn’t be too bad.
You still sent birthday cards, even though they arrived a few weeks late and he told you, just before you left, he loved you for the first time before you got into the car.
Oscar would later on call that the worst summer of his life.
His mum would make him a hot chocolate and let her son cry in her arms when the pain got too much.
—
The sun in Monaco was a killer, and no amount of stupidly expensive sunglasses would ever dim it.
Which was something he'd grown to hate during his ongoing Formula One career, his girlfriend - Lily, both of them meeting one weekend at a Grand Prix. She swooned at him, called him a dork and he shrugged, looking for any reason to get you out of his head. - would tease and call him Dracula to which he’d agreed with a playful eyeroll and a grin, just like many other things.
He knew how lucky he really was to be in this position, where many children would plaster ‘F1 Driver’ under ‘childhood dreams’ but he was an awkward person through and through. An introvert who preferred to be away from the cameras and in his own little world.
He hated the grid walks the most, though, even if he was fond of Martin Brundle who always gave him a pat on the back and a sentence full of encouraging words. He found the people there too arrogant, too ignorant to the hard work the teams put in to be able to make this sport real. He’d roll his eyes whenever his PR manager would advise him to talk beforehand, to tell the “fans” that he’d give them a show.
This wasn't a show, not to him, this was his life.
There were times he didn't mind, though, when his sisters would giggle over their favourite singers or actors, or when his mum would point and say “Oh my God! They're from the telly!”
But that didn’t make Monaco, a circuit where if you didn't qualify on pole then your chances of a win were nearly zero, any easier for him. The sun added to the pressure, and he cringed at the smell of sunscreen for the umpteenth time that weekend, as he made his way down the grid lane.
P3 in Monaco, the track that never slept, made him want to burn a little quicker under the sun so he could get out of the Grand Prix with a ‘I’m sick’ card and then go back to his hotel room to sleep off this awful anxiety.
He saw somebody peering over the roped off area by his car, hair pulled back with an orange bow in their hair, as his engineers discussed something around the car and he expected another spoilt superstar to say his name. He expected, rather arrogantly of him, that they’d be another star struck fool who paid too much money to see his car upclose,
And there, as the stranger turned and saw him, you were.
Your hair was still that beautiful colour under the sun, skin still beautifully glossed under the blaze and you looked just like you did five years ago.
He stood still, feet suddenly paralysed, and felt his heart get caught in his throat.
“I didn't think it was you,” Your voice was the same and you hadn't believed it would actually be him. No matter how many videos you saw. A little more relaxed than it had been the last time you spoke over the phone, four years ago.
“Who else would it be?” His reply was soft, he sounded the same except he looked different. More mature, more lively, and older.
He felt sick, not from the heat - even the iced bottle in his hand wasn't helping him - but from the realisation he felt dawn upon him. There you were, the love of his life, close enough to touch but too out of reach to feel.
He stepped closer, watched as the world around him disappeared. He went to speak, saying something silly like “I miss you,” or "I love you.” seemed like the right idea at that moment, But again, he didn't find the courage to.
You watched as he opened his mouth and closed it again, perhaps the sun made you insane, maybe it made you anxious that this would be another summer day like back in Australia– you hugged him tight.
Arms wrapped snuggly around his waist like many moons before, breath catching in your throat as you breathed him in, that same vanilla, tropical scent, and he felt himself shatter. His eyes suddenly felt as heavy as his heart did– he pulled back to look at you.
“Where did you go? Why did you stop calling? I would’ve come to you, anywhere. Anytime.”
You imagined death hurting less than those questions slipping through his mouth and you felt your hands shake against the fabrics of his vest. You knew he was right, Oscar would've gone through hell if it meant even seeing a glance of you again. No amount of endless Facebook stalking and guest list checking satisfied him.
“I wasn't sure if you wanted to have seen me again.”
Oscar was certain then, that this was a cruel joke. You even entertaining the idea that he didn’t want to see you again made him nauseous with confusion and denial. What do you mean? He thought you never wanted to see him again.
He wanted to speak again, wanted to say lets catch up and grab a coffee, or an ice cream. Or to even leave together– who knew nostalgia could make a man like Oscar Piastri go stupid? But it was anything to keep you in arms reach. Where he could see you again after what felt like forever.
Yet, he knew that you - beautifully strong you - couldn't stay single, and he couldn't blame you. These nights got lonely. Fatte was a cruel mistress who dangled his hopes and dreams in front of him, taunting him with a sadistic grin, you looked at him like you had all those years ago and then–
“Baby?” A voice called out from behind you and Oscar felt his world still. “What are you– Holy shit, Oscar Piastri?”
There your once lover stood, watching as the man you called a boyfriend was dressed head to toe in papaya orange with his number slapped on a cap, and perhaps this was a dream only the devil could’ve made.
Oscar Piastri was not a selfish man, nor was he a greedy one but by God he had never felt as hopeless as he had then. Watching as the woman he believed he only ever truly loved, stood before him just to get taken away again.
“Wait–” His words fell on deaf ears as you pulled away from him, flustered with embarrassment, and he felt hollow.
“Please can you sign my cap? I’m a huge fan–” It all was a blur.
Even as the sharpie shook in his hand, he couldn’t stop looking at you. Double glancing as if to make sure it was really you after all of this time. You looked back at him with glossy eyes and hands that couldn't stop fiddling with the ends of your cardigan.
There you were, the one that got away.
—
The podium felt empty, and the champagne that was poured over his neck and head felt too hot– like he’d been burned all over again. The shock of seeing you again kept replaying in his mind and it didn’t take that much to see he was distracted. Even Lando hadn’t teased him like usual with fear of pushing the Australian too far.
Long after the champagne had dried, he had begun the walk back to his hotel room - with the premise of giving back his fireproofs tomorrow, claiming he felt too unwell to get changed in his driver’s room - which really wasn’t far at all. He smiled at fans, waved and thanked them quietly for their support but all he could do was feel hopeless.
Even the hotel room felt too big, as he slid off his gear in the bathroom, and the shower too small as he washed his victorious P3 away. He suddenly felt a wave of melancholia drench him– a sudden understanding that this wasn’t just a lovers tiff but something worse; heartbreak.
He asked for time alone, claiming he felt too unwell to go out any earlier, before meeting his girlfriend and family for dinner. Lily had smiled sympathetically at him, understanding how hard he must’ve taken the race, and said she’d meet him at the restaurant with his mum instead.
He promised Lily dinner out, and she deserved that. No matter how blue her boyfriend felt, he couldn't just let the world, his world, go to shit because he was still caught up over a childhood friend.
But, as he had previously become conscious of, destiny was a bitch.
Even as he had gotten ready after his twenty minute shower, with his black button up that hugged his chest in all the right ways– There you were, under the soft lights with a gentle smile on your face as you cradled the wine glass in your hand. Your boyfriend telling you how beautiful you looked.
The chef personally congratulated Oscar on his podium, he lost his appetite not that long after watching the scene next to him. He tried to pay attention to his girlfriend– hell, even his mother. But he couldn’t.
You looked at him during dessert.
He looked at you before he left.
His mother, of course, saw it and she felt equally as discombobulated when she finally saw you. It’d been a very long time, to her you were still that quiet girl who wanted to make her Oscar happy.
The dinner went by quickly, full of laughter and tight smiles, his mum nudging her foot against his with a sympathetic smile when he didn't talk as much.
She remembers all those nights he cried in her arms and begged for her to do something, anything for him to see you again. She promised him a trip to New York when the divorce between her and his father settled down. She never got to keep that promise, the divorce was nasty– and you and your mother had soon become a mystery to the world.
Oscar felt like he was in another universe, trapped between the parallels of time as he watched the life he wanted get pulled away from him again, and again.
You didn’t look at him again, didn't even spare him a glance, as you and your boyfriend made your way out of the restaurant. However, Oscar was hellbent you felt the same pull he did instead of getting up and saying something, anything, he gulped down the ache with the red wine in his glass.
He dreamt of something, a cipher of a world where you and him existed in the same room.
That night, as his girlfriend slept soundlessly beside him, he booked a return flight to New York, with a message from his mum telling him not to do anything stupid as he left the restaurant, hoping that he’d see you again because after all these years, he's only ever belonged to you.
—
Like our memories together
My heart looking at you,
Before you know it, summer has passed and it’s fall,
