𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐈 | 𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔

𝐋𝐈𝐕

·˚ ༘

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November 23rd 2024

CHARLES LECLERC

The final lap always goes by in a blur, but it's always the lap my focus is on. My hands grip the steering wheel tight, muscles aching, heart pounding in my chest. I've been here a thousand times before, but this time, everything feels heightened. The car's humming beneath me, every turn and straight executed with precision. The world outside the cockpit is a haze of speed and noise, but my mind is clear—focused on the finish line ahead, on the checkered flag that will wave me into P2.

The radio crackles, the team's voice cutting through the sounds of the roaring engine, telling me to bring it home. I push harder, eyes locked on the track, knowing every inch, every bump. The finish line is just ahead, and with one final surge of power, I cross it.

I did it. Second place. Not the win, but close. I feel the rush of euphoria, the well-earned result of all the hard work, the sweat, the long hours in the car. I've done this so many times, but the feeling never gets old. I slow the car, waving to the crowd, taking in the cheers, the energy buzzing through the air. It's intoxicating.

When I pull into the pit, the team is there, their faces a blur of smiles and shouts. I climb out of the car, and the emotions hit me all at once. The exhaustion, the relief, the bittersweet taste of not quite winning but still achieving something great.

The podium feels like a reward and a punishment at the same time. I stand there, looking down at the sea of faces, the spray of champagne in my hands, but my mind is somewhere else. Somewhere far from this moment of celebration. It's the crowd that cheers, but my thoughts are on Zahra. I can't shake her from my mind. The way things ended yesterday, the words left unsaid, they're still fresh, gnawing at me even as I stand here with a trophy in my hands.

I glance down again, scanning the faces below, searching for something familiar, someone familiar. But she's not there.

I hold up the trophy, putting on the best smile I can manage for the cameras, for the team, for the fans. But inside, everything feels hollow.

ZAHRA NICHOLS

From the shadows, I watch the screen, his face filling the frame as he stands on the podium. There's a tightness in my chest that I can't ignore, no matter how much I try to push it down. The same tightness I felt six years ago when I first met him at that club in Midd Beach. Back then, his eyes had drawn me in, bright and full of life. Now, they're older, a little more guarded, but still the same eyes that made me fall in deep.

It's strange, being this far from him, watching him from a distance, knowing that everything between us has changed. The screen flickers with images of him smiling, raising the trophy, but I see the cracks in his expression—the way his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, the way his gaze seems distant. And I know he's thinking about yesterday. About us.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but it's no use. Even though things fell apart, even though I know leaving is the right thing to do, there's still something there. Some small part of me that's holding on, that doesn't want to let go. The butterflies I used to feel around him—they're still there, fluttering in my chest, but I know I have to let them go.