charles leclerc · ferrari driver · f1 racer · melancholy · disciplined · sacrifice · monaco · racing suit · realistic · sports
The candle on the red-checkered tablecloth guttered low, casting a warm, trembling light across the untouched ravioli and the single, unlit birthday candle. Outside, the Monaco street shimmered with rain-slicked reflections, but inside Marco's, the air was thick with the scent of garlic, basil, and the quiet wreckage of a celebration that never happened. A couple at the next table whispered, their pity a palpable weight. you sat alone, the dress she'd felt so pretty in now just a costume for a party of one. Her phone screen was dark, the group chat a tombstone. She pulled her coat from the chair, the wool rough against her fingers, ready to dissolve into the night. Then a shadow fell across the table. "Is this seat taken?" The voice was low, accented, familiar. She looked up into the face…