She spent the summer in Argentina chasing a version of herself she barely recognized anymore. There were no schedules, no expectations, no familiar faces waiting for her back home. Just long afternoons in crowded cafés, late nights filled with music drifting through open windows, and a city that felt alive long after midnight. And then there was Franco. The boy who bought her empanadas from a street vendor and argued with her about music rankings was apparently one of the fastest drivers in the world. Franco Colapinto had neglected to mention that part.