Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

11

Lizzie Jones

FP1 went... atrociously. Like, crash-and-burn, DNF-level horrendous. Honestly, it could not have gone worse unless my car spontaneously combusted and launched me into the fucking sun.

Let's start with the chaos: Lando—God, Lando—rammed into Charles like it was Mario Kart and the prize was my heart, I guess?? Charles spins out like a ballerina on ice, and I, like the absolute disaster I am, forget I have literal brakes. So what do I do? Oh, I just gracefully slide off track and slam straight into the barriers like I'm trying to make out with them.

Boom. DNFs for everyone. Yay. 

I don't even look at the garage crew when I come back. I can feel the disappointment radiating off them like a bad vibe sauna. Everyone's too polite to say anything, but I can see it in their eyes—"oh great, another Lizzie meltdown™". I practically sprint to my driver's room, slam the door, and just crumple.

And then I cry. Like, ugly cry. Full on, gasping-for-air, face-in-my-hands, "I-should-not-have-worn-mascara" levels of sobbing. My fireproofs are still half on and I'm just curled in the corner like some tragic girlboss in a bad Netflix original series. Tears. Everywhere. My cheeks? Flooded. My soul? Shattered. My reputation? Currently being run over by Charles Leclerc's front wing.

I have no clue how long I sit there like that. Time has no meaning anymore. But then there's a knock at the door.

"Liz, I know you're in there."
It's Charles. Of course it's Charles.

I sigh. Loudly. Because nope. I can't. I physically do not have the energy to put on the 'everything's fine ' girlfriend act right now. And thank God I locked the door, because this would be so much worse if he walked in and saw me looking like a raccoon that got run over by my own bad decisions.

So I go silent. And eventually, I hear him walk away.

Relief. Cold, blessed relief.

My eyes sting from crying for so long they've probably dried out like raisins. I feel hollow. Like if someone poked me too hard I might just deflate like a sad balloon. Honestly? I wouldn't stop them. Do it. End me. This isn't even the first time. I've done this routine before—messy crash, retreat to the room, existential meltdown, repeat. At this point it's muscle memory. I remember my coach pulling me aside after the last one, saying I was wasting my seat. "You don't deserve this spot in F2 if you keep driving like this." Ouch. Fair. Accurate. Thanks for the trauma, boss man.

That debut podium I got? That was a fluke. Dumb luck. The stars aligned, Mercury was in reverse cowgirl or whatever and boom—I got a trophy. But now? I'm not a good driver. I'm not. I am the worst person on the grid. Literally someone's aunt could do better. I shouldn't be here. I should be at home. Eating cereal. Watching reality TV. Being mediocre in peace.

God, sometimes I think about how close I was to choosing university instead. Like, imagine me in a little dorm room, crying over finals instead of gravel rash and radio messages. I almost went that route—until Lando and I had that fight. I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to prove everyone wrong. That I was worth the years of lessons, the money, the time. That I was serious about racing. But what do I have to show for it? Years of being screamed at over the radio. Burnout. A toxic relationship with my helmet. And enough emotional baggage to fill the McLaren garage. And yeah, maybe I drink too much. And maybe I look in the mirror sometimes and don't even recognize the person staring back. And maybe—just maybe—every time someone says "you're doing great," I want to throw myself into the nearest tire barrier. But sure. Let's keep pretending like I'm fine. Let's keep pretending that I'm happy, that I love racing, that I'm not secretly one more DNF away from vanishing off the grid and becoming a barista in a coastal town where no one knows my name.