Dear Lando

𝟸𝟺 ♡ Fine Line

Fine Line By Harry Styles

~LANDO POV~

The aftermath of the crash plunged the garage into silence. The echo of screeching tires and the deafening impact lingered in the air. I stood there, my race suit still bearing the tension of the competition, now a mere spectator to the unfolding drama.

The team huddled around monitors, dissecting the incident frame by frame. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen, seeking any sign that Max was okay. The gravity of the moment overshadowed the intense competition that had defined our relationship on the track. We were both up there, fighting for second place, until Max was a mere blur in my mirrors. 

Azalea's figure appeared on the screen, running to the harshness of the crash scene. Even from a distance, the raw emotion etched across her silhouette was unmistakable. 

As Azalea knelt beside him, I felt an ache deep within me. The closeness we once shared, the unspoken connection, seemed to pale in comparison to the intensity of their bond. Her hand reached out to him, a gesture of comfort. 

In that moment, a harsh realization settled over me. It wasn't me. It had never been me. They were entwined in a cosmic dance, the moon and the sun, their gravitational pull too strong to resist. And in the dimly lit shadows, I stood as a simple star—burning, unseen, and unacknowledged.

All day, he shone for her, and all night, she glowed for him. I was left to linger in the darkness, casting a feeble glow beside her. A silent guardian, a support in the obscurity while she pined for him. The moon craved the sun, and the sun craved the moon.

~~~~~~~~~

"Azalea?"

Her head snapped up, tear-streaked eyes meeting mine as she sat in the quiet hallway of the hospital. The intensity of her gaze conveyed a mix of relief and sorrow. I had rushed straight here after finishing the race, instinctively knowing this was where I would find her.

Tears still streamed down her face, her skin red and puffy from the emotional day she'd endured. "Lando," she whispered, her voice barely more than a cracked murmur. She attempted to stand, to come over to me.

"No, no. Sit. I'll come to you," I said, closing the distance between us and taking the seat next to hers.

"I'm sorry," she uttered, her words weighed down by the heaviness of the situation. Her gaze remained fixed on her knees, unable to meet mine.

In that moment, as those two words hung in the air, a mutual understanding enveloped the silence between us. We both knew the complexity of emotions that this apology carried and the uncertain path that lay ahead.

"I know," I responded gently, ensuring she understood that my feelings weren't rooted in anger. "I understand, Az."

When she didn't offer any further words, I inquired, "How is he?"

"I haven't heard anything yet," she finally met my eyes. "He was in really rough shape coming in."

I shook my head in disbelief, my gaze dropping to the floor.

Another minute of shared silence passed.

"Are either of you with Mr. Verstappen?" A nurse approached, standing in front of us.

I glanced at Azalea and then gestured toward the nurse, a soft smile on my face.

"We both are. How is he?" Azalea asked, genuine concern etched across her face.

"He's stable and out of surgery now. Would you like to see him?"

"You should go," I urged her, offering another small smile.

"Thank you, Lan," she said, genuine warmth in her smile as she wrapped me in a tight hug.

I embraced the moment, feeling the weight of the hug and understanding that it held the echoes of a goodbye. 

~~~~~~~~~

~AZALEA POV~

The room was small and stuffy, the air thick with the antiseptic scent of a hospital. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The weight of the day, the echoes of the crash, pressed heavily on my shoulders as I entered, finding Max's prone figure on the narrow bed.

Max lay there, eyes closed, the rise and fall of his chest a testament to the fragile peace that had settled over him. The beeping of the monitors provided a rhythmic backdrop, a reminder of the life tethered to the machines that surrounded him.

Taking a seat beside the bed, I reached for Max's hand, the warmth and solidity of his grip grounding me in the stark reality of the hospital room. His eyes blinked open at the touch, the exhaustion and pain etched across his features. His gaze drifted down to our intertwined hands, a silent acknowledgment that transcended words, before returning to meet my eyes.

There was a moment, suspended in the hushed ambiance, where our unspoken connection resonated. A shared understanding lingered in the air—a need to reassure ourselves that this was real, that he was alive and on the path to recovery.

"You came," he rasped out, his voice carrying a blend of surprise and gratitude, squeezing my hand ever so slightly.

"Of course, I came. Couldn't let you die on my watch," I softly joked, attempting to infuse a lightness into the heavy atmosphere.

A low, tired laugh escaped him, a momentary diversion from the weight of the situation, before he winced and clutched his side in pain.

"I'm sorry," I hastily apologized, concern lining my features. "No more laughing."

He nodded in agreement before patting the space on the bed beside him. Responding to the silent invitation, I climbed up beside him, the narrow bed accommodating our shared presence. We sat there, two souls navigating the aftermath of a harrowing day, finding solace in the quiet companionship that transcended the need for words.