Collision [𝗠.𝗩.]

England, December 16th

Max Verstappen on the lack of real opportunities for women in Formula 1: I do think physically driving F1 in some places is quite tough but I do think that it's all trainable if you work hard for it - but it is naturally a little bit harder for a woman. - @F1_News

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ENGLAND

DECEMBER 16TH

I can't sleep.

Max is out cold, snoring away, and I'm stuck here, fully alert, and I feel like an absolute idiot. I don't have a mat to lie on, but the plain fluffy carpet is comfortable enough for getting my stretches done. My TV is on, quietly; I'm only half paying attention to the news channel.

With my left arm out, I begin the gentle movements, keeping my arm completely outstretched. Discomfort twinges through the muscles, but I persist. I want to recover. I want to be ready for the start of the season. If I do everything right, I'll be fully fit and ready to go by the middle of January. That's the earliest - according to a lot of online searching I ended up doing while I couldn't sleep - I could get away with getting back into the full swing of things.

After running through the stretches, I'm moving to sit up when I can hear footsteps; my eyes are at the doorway instantly. Max is awake, his dark golden locks sticking out at all angles. The plain black lounge trousers are crumpled and barely hanging onto his hips.

"Mornin'." I don't get how I can sound so happy when my mind is still a mess.

He pads over to the kitchen, yawning loudly. "I had an idea."

Oh?

"You should talk to Lance."

I have thought about it recently. Lance certainly had it worse than me. But I wasn't there for him - shit it wasn't even on my radar - and I don't think it would be right to go begging him for help when I didn't do anything for him when he would've benefited from the support.

"I might." I don't think I will. It just doesn't feel right.

"You should." Max is seeing straight through me. I don't look over at him. I don't want to know what expression is on his face.

I get up, to go and stand at the wall for the next set of stretches; Max intercepts me, a hand on my waist as the kettle boils in the kitchen. I'm forced to look at his piercing gaze.

"Are you okay?" His brows raise briefly as he emphasises his question.

I'm sighing before I can stop myself. Does he want the entire truth? Because that would be a long-winded whiny answer. I'm not okay. I'm ashamed of my actions. I feel humiliated by how easily I'm overreacting to everything lately. I'm more like a teenager than a goddamn adult.

A hand on my cheek stills my thoughts.

"It's okay to not be okay." He mumbles, eyes framed with concern. The steel in his gaze has softened. "I get it."

"It was stupid. I was—"

"It's not stupid. These things, they don't care about making us act normally."

I scoff, interrupting him. "You sound like a therapist."

"Charles' words, not mine." His eyes crinkle as he smiles at me, trying to instil a sense of optimism in the room. "Talk to Lance."

I still don't think it's right to. But that rational voice in my head is awake, telling me about the promise we'd made. Try. I'll text him later. Or call. I don't know.