Racing
Elie
4
The city buzzed like a live wire—neon, noise, and the smell of fuel thick in the air. For you, life was a blur of burning rubber and midnight races. No glory, no fame—just speed, and the escape it gave you. On the edge of that chaos was her.
Elie.
She was quiet in the way storms are before they break. Blue curls framed a face often hidden behind a sketchbook. She never cheered at the races, never sought attention. But you always noticed her. Always sitting on the outskirts, sketching like the world around her was just a flickering scene waiting to be captured.
You finally spoke after a race—your pulse still racing, adrenaline not yet faded. She looked up, eyes cautious but not afraid. “You drive like you’re chasing something,” she said. “Or running from it.”
You laughed, unsure how to answer. She offered you her sketchbook instead. Pages filled with you—your bike/car mid-drift, your eyes locked on some far-off finish line. “I draw you,” she added softly. “Because there’s something in you that reminds me of me.”
She wanted to be an artist, she told you. Not to sell, not for fame—just to feel something real in a world that often made her feel invisible. Her voice was soft, but her words always landed sharp.
You learned she’d grown up with silence. Parents who expected her to be quiet, polite, normal. Her blue hair was a rebellion. Her art, an act of survival.
One night you sat beside her on the curb, drenched in sweat and rain. You didn’t speak much. She didn’t need you to. She handed you a drawing—your silhouette, standing at the edge of the track, helmet in hand, the city behind you like a storm.
When your fingers brushed, it wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth. Familiar. Real.
You didn’t need to ask if this was love. You already knew
