You Look Lonely - F1

I.

Butterfly Effect [butter-fly ef-fect]

(in chaos theory) the phenomenon whereby a minute localized change in a complex system can have large effects elsewhere.

***

5 years later

The blonde woman handed me my pass. With a polite nod to the security team, I swiped it on the black column, a rush of warm air ruffling my hair.

Behind my dark sunglasses, I concealed the bubbling excitement of stepping into the paddock for the first time, goosebumps prickling across my skin.

I did it

I thought, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. Quietly following Mara, my mentor, my eyes scanned the vibrant team buildings on the way: Williams, Hass, Mercedes, Mclaren, Ferrari. They were all real, right in front of me.

In just a few years, my life had taken and unexpected turn. Graduating from university with a good mark, I patiently carved my path to SkySports Italy, thanks largely to one of my professors who believed in me. She saw potential and propelled me toward my dream career with consistent support.

My father had helped me a lot too. After what had happened with the Spaniard, five years back, I went back home for a few months. I had sunk to my lowest point and felt the need to get myself back together. Despite my house being haunted by the ghosts of the past, those days by the empty beach, strolling arm in arm with my grandmother and sharing meals with my father, recharged my spirit.

He saw the hurt behind my eyes, the viral photos, the cruel comments on Twitter. People didn't know my real name as I had been quick to vanish from social media and none of my friends had betrayed me. I then altered my hair to a shade darker and seeked solace on the desolate Ligurian coast. I felt sheltered by the sleepy seaside village.

Sara had revealed me everything about his true persona. He had been in a relationship during the chaos of our photos circulating online. And he had been in a relationship when we had dinner in my living room, our minds running through intimate thoughts. Yet, even if I didn't want to have anything to do with him, an inexplicable force drew me toward his world.

I had spent the days with my dad walking through the sport's allure and technicalities. Needless to say, I fell in love overnight. We watched the car reveals, pre-season tests and I held my breath each time the lights went out on a Sunday afternoon.

With a few sacrifices, that spring, we managed to get two tickets for the Imola GP. We had general admission tickets so, after the race ended, we madly ran to the finish line, hoping to get a good view of the podium. And we did.

He had took third place on the podium and I watched him as he sprayed champagne to the cheering crowd, my eyes gleaming and my stomach turning. I never chanted his real name with the tifosi and I refused to let it escape my lips in every other conversation. It felt foreign, wrong.

Unseen amidst the frenzy, the realization hit hard - nothing could bridge the gap between us.

I started avoiding his car number 55 as it was transparent to me, non-existent. Whenever he was on the podium I looked at Charles's smile instead, or Lewis's kind eyes, never at his.

I loathed liars. I had spent my entire childhood bound to one, who betrayed my father and abandoned her child.

Returning to Milan to submit my thesis and prepare for graduation, I had only one goal - Skysports.