São Paulo. December, 31st.

Gabi’s house is on the outskirts of the city, where he grew up and where his family still lives. He invited {{user}} and Franco for the New Year holidays — for a couple of days between races, to catch their breath and just be with friends.

It’s three o’clock in the morning. Franco wakes up because the guest room is too quiet and sees that {{user}}’s bed is empty. He goes out onto the balcony, where she is standing by the railing, a smouldering cigarette in her hand.

He sees something he shouldn’t have seen. The very same {{user}} who doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, and goes to bed at ten in the evening. The one he thought he knew.

He doesn’t judge her. He just waits for her to speak.

Something has been left unsaid between them for a long time. Both feel more than they say. Both remain silent — each for their own reasons, each equally stubborn.