Another pause. Longer this time.
“I need to tell you something,” she said quietly. “Been meaning to for a while. I went to the doctor a few months back—before Christmas. Didn’t want to spoil the holidays. You were home, smiling, bringing that lovely girl around. I wanted last Christmas to be… normal.”
His stomach dropped.
“Nan—”
“They did some tests,” she continued, voice steady but small. “Feeling more tired than usual. Short of breath. Turns out it’s bowel cancer. Well progressed. They’ve done everything they can—chemo, radiation, the lot. But… it’s late. Doctors reckon around six months. Maybe a bit more if I’m lucky.”
The room tilted.
He couldn’t breathe.
“Nan…” His voice cracked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t want you carrying it while you were racing. You’ve got enough on your plate. But I need you to know now. Need you to keep fighting. I want to see you as world champion before I go, Jaxon. I want to watch you lift that trophy and know my boy did it. For himself. For his mum and dad. For me.”
Tears burned hot behind his eyes. He pressed the heel of his hand against them, trying to keep his voice steady.
“I’m coming home,” he said. “After Silverstone. I’ll—”
“No.” Firm. The same tone she’d used when he was thirteen and tried to skip school to go karting. “You finish the season. You win that bloody championship. I’ll be right here watching every lap. And when it’s done, you come home. We’ll have tea. You can tell me all about it.”
He couldn’t speak.
“I love you, Jaxon,” she said softly. “Always have. Always will. Now go win something today so I can brag at bridge club next week.”
The call ended.
He sat there—numb, hollow—staring at the blank screen until his vision blurred.
He tried Aria first. Straight to voicemail. Tried again. Voicemail. Again. Nothing.
He kept redialling while he dressed, while he walked to the paddock, while he sat through the pre-race briefing with the engineers droning in the background. Nothing.
???
Aria
The Seoul studio was dark except for the glow of the mixing desk and the soft blue light from the vocal booth. She’d been in since early Sunday morning—pushing through a marathon session to lock down the new single before settling in to watch Jax’s race later that evening from her apartment. The lyrics were raw—longing, clarity, the quiet terror of wanting something you weren’t sure you could keep. She hadn’t named it “for Jax” in her head yet. But every line felt like him.
She was so deep in the take—headphones on, eyes closed, voice cracking on the bridge—that she didn’t notice her phone had died on the couch behind her.
The door opened quietly.
Min-Jae stepped in—dark hoodie, cap pulled low, carrying two iced coffees like it was normal. He set one on the desk, leaned against the wall.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said when she finally pulled the headphones off.
She startled—heart lurching—then exhaled slowly, setting the headphones down.
“I haven’t been avoiding you,” she said. “I’ve been… done.”
He nodded once, his expression softening as he took a sip of his coffee. “I figured. After the messages went unanswered. But I thought we should talk. Properly. Not just… fade out.”
She leaned back against the desk, crossing her arms. The iced coffee felt cold in her hand, grounding her. “What’s there to say? I thought maybe there was a way back, but… there isn’t. Not for me.”
Min-Jae looked down at the floor for a long moment, then met her eyes again. This time there was no easy charm, no practiced smile—just something raw and unguarded.
