Vague | MV1 x (fem)OC

Chapter 7: Lacrimosa Dies Illah

'Full of tears will be that day'

- Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Franz Xaver Sussmyer

"I need to be excused for the weekend." Irish received a look from Pit Beirer and a glare from Marcus Farah as she placed her demand forth. "Please Pit, it's three days. I'll be in Doha Monday morning." a certain kind of desperation showcased itself in her voice no matter how hard she tried to hide it. Her veil of confidence had been lifted, but what lay under was not weakness, rather the plain absence of her credence. A certain angst reflected in her glassed eyes, an emotion she herself couldn't comprehend. 

"Look, I-I'll be in Moscow. Send Marcus along with me if you must, but please I-" 

"Alright." 

The team principal answered, understanding the desperation and urgency as she spoke. 

"Two days, Irish. Be in Doha by Sunday evening."

Irish left the very same day, without her manager.

Max Verstappen

Sunday | 1735 hours

"Hey Max." I turned to find Miguel walking towards me. we exchanged greetings and began walking alongside. "Stoked yet?" He asked with a raised brow.

The 2024 season was starting in four days. My team and I had been relentless. Practicing incessantly, going over every little detail which could effect our performance. We had to be perfect. No room for errors, no mistakes, no do-overs. This was the real deal, starting in barely a week and distractions couldn't be afforded. Yet, my response to his question was; "Uh-huh, where's Irish?" 

Distracted. Lost. Vague. 

Miguel hesitated for a moment, presumably conflicted if I was supposed to know the girl's whereabouts. Resolving to answer with a filter, he replied soon enough. 

"She had to fly down to Moscow last week." 

"Moscow?" 

I asked, perplexed. She had no relations in Moscow, not one I knew of anyway. 

"Yeah, she didn't say why, just that it was urgent. She'd be here soon though, her flight was at ten today so she must've landed already." 

It felt strange. I was constantly around her, around thoughts of her and still, I was completely clueless about what went on with her, how she went about in her day. I was in the dark. Irish and I were history. I though I accepted it long ago, but now that I was having such a hard time being around her, pretending like the past never happened, that we never existed, I guessed that may not be the case after all. 

By the time we reached the elevator, I dug my hands in my pockets only to realize that my key card wasn't with me. 

"Hey you should go ahead. I think I dropped my key card somewhere." Miguel gave me a curt nod before I went along the way I came for, resolving to go to the reception rather than searching the whole place down. And there she was, Irish. Clad in a pair of trousers, a white shirt over her shoulders, creased over her journey across the continents. Her hair was put up in a bun, and although it was disheveled, she looked prettier than ever. But as I walked closer, I realized that something was wrong. It looked as if she hadn't slept in days, skin pale and parched, eyes red and smeared with run down mascara. She had been crying. 

I felt something tighten in my chest as I sudden urge to be by her side developed within me. 

"Irish? Are you-" "Not now Max." she cut me off before I could begin. I couldn't bear to ignore the quiver in her voice.