𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 ~ | 𝘔𝘢𝘹 𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯

Oil and Water

~'~

Every love story starts the same way.

Eyes meet, worlds collide, hearts beat a little faster. But where do they end? I've never gotten that far. All my stories end halfway through, pages torn, the ink smudged with things better left unsaid.

That's not romance.

That's erosion.

The heart is funny in its own awful way.

A fist-sized lump of muscle that demands all your attention without asking your permission. We hold it up like it's sacred, like it's magic, when really, it's just...fragile. Stupidly fragile. And yet, we hand it to people like they won't drop it.

So, basically what that means is, I can't keep a man to save my life. But who cares, really? When someone tells me this I just snap my fingers and, in a terrible accent, tell them that I don't need no man.

So there.

I've been told many times I'm too sarcastic, too petty, too much. But in my defense, if you think about it, being petty is just a form of self-care. Someone bumps you in line at a coffee shop? Order the longest, most complicated drink so they have to wait longer. It's called emotional regulation, and I have it perfected. So jokes on them.

Now, I'm a normal person, with normal struggles. But here is the thing about rich people, they do not walk the same earth as us mortals. Although now I am on the verge of becoming one, tiny flex, and in this process I have discovered that struggles are relative.

My struggles are usually how one shoelace is always a little too short, the second eye I doodle is never as good as the first one, and so on. I also had no real true proper 'enemies' except for stairs, zippers, and that one nosy lady next door that always stuck her nose in my business.

Powerful people always had powerful enemies.

So, to complete my transformation, I decided I was going to get me one of those.

Okay, maybe it wasn't a decision. It happened. And I wasn't exactly thrilled it did. In fact it was a disaster. For reference let me explain the hierarchy of disasters:

Lipstick on teeth in public: forgivable.

Toppling a three tier cake: survivable.

My first encounter with Max Verstappen: irredeemable.

A cover your ears, squeeze our eyes shut and brace yourself until it's over disaster. But again in my defense, I was perfectly polite. He was the one who decided to be a prick. All I did was match energy.

So, here I was.

Who would have thought that a 23-year-old mess with a short temper and a quick tongue would sign a contract with one of the biggest teams in Formula One?

I did.

Because I have.

I've been in F2 for a year now, and it's beginning to get boring. I was well on my way to winning the championship. In fact, I could come fith in every remaining race this season and still win it. But I don't care about that now. All I care about is the race I'm about to do.

My very first race.

No pressure.

Even though I had been testing the car and building a strategy for weeks with the team, I still felt nervous. I sat in my driver's room, my leg bouncing and my head spinning. Any second, they would call me. Any second. I hoped that I wouldn't always have this gut twisting anxiety before a race. Actually, I just hoped there would be more races to come. After all, this was only a trial run. And being a woman made it even more doubtful they would give me a proper chance. Red Bull needed to be careful, because who would want to take the first step toward equality in motorsport without a backup plan if it all went to shit? Such faith.