Beautiful Mess.

I woke with the weight of last night's storm. 

My forehead pressed hard against the satin pillow; every breath felt ragged and raw.

I closed my eyes again, but the memory won't stop replaying, his lips tasting like power and regret, the way i clung to him like i was drowning.

I clutched the sheets and tried to find a calm rhythm.

My head felt like it was in a vice.

My lungs burned when i inhaled.

My stomach churned with questions i didn't want to answer: What was that? Why did i let it happen again? And the most shameful one: What if i want it again?

I dragged myself off the bed, sweat-caked and trembling.

The digital clock read 10:04 AM.

Training began at one.

I should've skipped it.

I should've stayed in bed.

But i couldn't. I'd already let him think he won.

-

I slipped into his gray jacket., smelled like him, still and stole out of my room without hesitation.

The house smelled of antiseptic and quiet.

Step after step, my stomach flipped.

Every stop, another hesitant breath.

When i got behind the wheel, I started the engine with trembling fingers.

The drive was nothing but silence and regret.

Streetlights slid past like memories i didn't want.

-

When i reached the circuit gates, I parked and stayed in the car for five minutes.

Let myself remember the heat of liquor, the shocking thrill of kissing him.

The pull i didn't know he'd south.

Then i walked inside like i owned my place there.

The air smelled like rubber and ambition.

Staff eyes flicked across me, curious.

I gave them nothing.

I walked into the briefing room.

Staff hustled.

Clipboard whispers echoed.

But i centered myself, hands clasped lightly, heart hammering.

He was already waiting.

Lorenzo.., buttoned white shirt, designer slacks, arms crossed.

No greeting.

Just arms like barricade.

Only the tip of his cold distance hinted that last night existed.

I sat, air catching in my chest as anticipation heightened into tension.

He said nothing.

No sideways glance.

No flicker.

Just a silent assessment that almost shattered me.

When he finally spoke, it was clipped. "On time."

I nodded, voice small. "Yes."

That wound tighter than a punch.

We walked onto the asphalt like gladiators.

The sun was merciless, the humidity suffocating.

I swallowed nausea, knuckles white on the wheel.

"Throttle smoother," he hissed into the headset green tape; no spark of emotion.

"Brake earlier, not harder. You're driving blind."

I didn't argue.

I listened.

I shifted weight.

My back burned.

My eyes watered.

He paced.

When i exited the car after the first lap, they brought me a bottle.

Should've helped.

It didn't.

He marched up, silent.

So intense it felt like a gust of cold.

"You're still half‑here," he said. "Your mind's stuck in last night."

I met his eyes hard. "I'm driving just fine."

He looked for another moment, expression impossible.

Finally he pulled something from his pocket: a packet of effervescent tablets. "Take these."

My heart pounded.

I didn't want them.

But i swallowed.

He's always been precise—even in medication.

We resumed.

Under the midday sun, laps bled into each other.

He spoke only when the throttle stuttered, the curve betrayed me, the RPMs lagged.

And i answered with everything i was made of.

Like survival.

-

By the afternoon, every bone in my body screamed: You'll regret this. 

But i stifled the pain.

Just one more lap.

Then i clipped the apex wrong.

The car swerved.

Tires squealed.

He shouted—louder than i've heard him. "Stop!"

I pulled off, heat slapping my face.

He pushed through sweaty hair, the circuits had silenced earlier whispers.

He ripped off my visor. "This isn't driving," he said quietly—but his voice cracked like a whip. "You're punishing yourself."

My limbs shook.

I opened my mouth—but he didn't wait.

"You need to figure out what part of you actually wants this. Not because someone told you to show up. Because you chose to."

With that he turned and walked away.

Everything inside me shattered.

I sank into the asphalt and started crying—hot, tremulous sobs no one could cage.

I didn't try to hide them.

People stepped back.

The track bloomed wide and empty.

I didn't leave the asphalt until someone politely approached: "Ms. Gutierrez?"

I shook my head.

Then I left.

By dusk, the circuit was empty.

I drove home with headlights flickering past.

I pulled into a fenced lot.

Got out.

Stared at the vast empty fields.

Every grain of sand under my sneaker pulses with failure and possibility.

I paced.

I opened my phone.

And after a long, painful moment, typed to Mara: I almost quit. Again.

She came through fast: Good.

You'll do something worthwhile someday.

I stared at his jacket again, folded carefully but smelling like regret.

I locked it away.

I watched lights across the fields dim with night.

The world keeps spinning.

Araneta empire dinners kept happening. Hotels launched.

Races got announced.

They slept.

But i didn't.

I practiced what i would say tomorrow, if he asked: Yes, I want this. Yes, I'm here. And no, I'm not half‑here.

I sighed.

Because i will go back.

He'll see.

Even if they all tried to ignore me—

I would stand.