Right Where You Left Me- OP81

38. Time To Go

Daisy's POV

The flight from Austin to Mexico City was short, but Daisy felt every minute drag. She spent most of it staring at the back of the seat in front of her, headphones in, music low, trying not to replay the look on Oscar's face when he'd snapped at her in the media pen.

She'd told herself, over and over, that she wouldn't let him touch her anymore. That she could stand tall, stay professional, keep her career separate. But one barbed comment and she was right back where she'd started—heart raw, hands shaking as though he'd found a way under her skin all over again.

Maddie's voice came back to her. Don't let him swallow you up again.

But wasn't that what she was doing? Letting him chew her up and spit her out, week after week, race after race? He didn't even know he was doing it, that was the worst part.

In Mexico, the air was thin, thinner than she remembered from her last trip, the altitude pressing down like invisible hands. The paddock was bright and colourful, fans waving flags with relentless energy, mariachi music spilling from the stands. It should've been enough to lift her, to remind her of why she loved this sport. But Daisy only felt weary.

The weekend blurred. Oscar struggled with the car, snapping on the radio, body language sharp and closed whenever she saw him. She stayed at a distance, asked questions only when she had to, words clipped and neutral. Every time she did, she felt him flinch.

On Sunday, when his engine failed and he climbed from the car mid-race, helmet still on as if to hide his face, Daisy sat in the press room and stared at the live feed until the screen blurred. She wanted to go to him. Instinct burned in her chest, the way it always did when he hurt—an urge to comfort, to tell him it wasn't the end of the world. That she knew he could do it, he'd come back stronger next week.

But she didn't move. Because it wasn't her job anymore. Because it wasn't her place.

That night, back in her hotel, she opened her laptop and started to write. Not just the race report. Something else. A draft of an email that had been growing in her chest since Austin:

To whom it may concern,

Thank you for the opportunities. But after this season, I'll be stepping away from Formula 1 coverage.

Her fingers hovered. She didn't send it. Not yet. But it sat there, waiting, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat.

🌼

Oscar's POV

Brazil should have been better. He loved Interlagos, the history, the sheer weight of the place. But nothing went right from the moment he landed.

The car felt wrong all weekend, balance off, tyres refusing to bite. Lando seemed to glide over the issues, finding pace where Oscar couldn't. The way the team kept telling to try to do things more like Lando only served to wind Oscar up even more. By the time qualifying was over, Lando was on the front row and Oscar was buried in the midfield.

He told himself it didn't matter. The race was what counted. But when a first-lap collision spun him into the gravel, race over before it had begun, Oscar sat in the cockpit longer than he should have, helmet hiding the storm in his eyes.

Later, in the motorhome, he slammed a water bottle onto the table hard enough to split the plastic. Mark didn't say anything. Zak didn't say anything. No one did.

But Oscar knew. He could feel the narrative shifting, the world's eyes tilting toward Lando, the whispers building: He's not ready. He's cracking under pressure. He can't handle the fight.

And then there was Daisy.

She'd asked him one question all weekend. Just one. "Oscar, how difficult is it to reset after a DNF like that?"

Her voice had been calm, professional. Detached. Like he was just another driver, not the boy she used to love.

He'd given her the blandest answer he could. But inside, it cut deep. Because maybe that's all he was to her now: another driver.

That night, lying in the hotel bed, ceiling fan spinning above, Oscar typed her name into his phone again. He wrote out the same message he always did—I'm sorry. I miss you. Please let's talk.

And just like always, he deleted it.

🌼

Daisy's POV

Brazil was the breaking point.

She sat in the media centre on Sunday evening, lights flickering above, reporters packing away laptops around her. Her own report sat half-finished on the screen. She couldn't bring herself to finish it.

Because what was the point?

She was exhausted. Not from the travel, not from the deadlines, but from him. From living her life in the shadow of his moods, his victories, his defeats. From letting her heart lurch every time his name was said over the commentary. From convincing herself she could stand in the same space as him and not fall apart.

She couldn't do it anymore.

Her phone buzzed. Lando.

You at the hotel bar?

She wasn't, but she found herself there ten minutes later anyway.

Lando was already waiting, an energy in hand, eyes warm when he saw her. "You look wrecked," he said gently.

"I feel wrecked," Daisy admitted, sliding onto the stool beside him.

They sat in silence for a moment, the noise of the bar humming around them.

Finally, Daisy spoke. "I don't think I can keep doing this."

Lando didn't ask what she meant. He knew.

"I thought I could," she continued, voice low. "I thought I could just... separate it. My work. Him. But every time I see him, every time he looks at me like that, I..." Her throat closed. "I can't breathe, Lando. And I don't even know who he is anymore. The boy I loved... he's gone. And I can't keep chasing a ghost."

Lando was quiet for a long time. Then he reached out, covering her hand with his. "Then stop," he said softly. "Stop chasing. Stop hurting yourself for him. You're worth more than that. He really doesn't deserve you. No one should make you feel like that."

Tears blurred her vision. She blinked them back.

"I can't stay in this world," she whispered. "Not if it means seeing him every week. Not if it means watching him destroy himself and letting him take me with him."

Lando squeezed her hand. "Then don't."

She looked up at him. His eyes were steady, kind, something unspoken flickering there. Affection. Maybe more.

But Daisy shook her head. "I can't," she said, voice breaking. "Not with you. Not with anyone. Not until I figure out how to put myself back together."

Lando nodded, slow and understanding. He didn't push. He didn't need to.

Instead, he lifted his drink. "To moving on," he said.

Daisy lifted her glass of water, clinked it against his. "To moving on."

For the first time in months, the words didn't feel like a lie.

🌼

Oscar's POV

From his hotel window, Oscar could see the lights of São Paulo stretching into the night. The city was alive, pulsing, indifferent to his failures.

He'd lost again. Not just the race. Not just the points. Something bigger. Something he couldn't name.

He scrolled through his phone one more time. No message from her. Not even her name lighting up the screen.

And in the silence, Oscar realised he was more alone than he had ever been.