Until my Last Breath

48

"-I'm really sorry, Rita, but nothing's come in yet." Marina's voice carries through the phone, filled with hesitation, as if she's trying to find a gentle way to deliver the news.

"Nothing?" I push, even though the dread has been building in my chest for weeks. My breath quickens, not from my run but from the frustration bubbling up inside me. "How can that be? It's been months."

"I know, I've been keeping a close eye on everything," she reassures, but her tone lacks the conviction I need. "I promise. I just... I don't want you to think it's anything you did wrong. These things can be unpredictable."

Unpredictable. That word cuts deeper than I expect. It reminds me of everything I've sacrificed-my childhood, my relationships, my family. I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of all that hard work being for nothing.

"But the season is almost here, I don't have much time left nina." I insist, trying to hold on to the last thread of hope. "What if no one's interested? What if all this hard work... what if it was for nothing?"

"Rita," she says gently, "it's just a tough time. Something will come through, I'm sure of it."

Sure of it? I haven't felt that way for a while. "Yeah, well, what if it doesn't?" I snap, the words tumbling out before I can stop myself.

She pauses, probably weighing her words. "Look, I don't want you to stress about it. You've done everything you could-more than enough. These things just take time."

Time? I clench my jaw, my grip tightening around my phone as I push harder down the crowded street. "Fuck that. I don't have time, Marina. Many F1 drivers got their seats after winning one championship, Stroll, Verstappen.. you name it. I've won three in successive seasons . Why am I still waiting?"

"Rita, I understand, but-"

"No! I worked my whole life for this. I can't just sit here and wait while everything slips away. I can't let everyone down-Jules, my mom..."

I trail off, my voice breaking as I mention my family. The fear of failing them-the people who sacrificed so much for me-is overwhelming. I can't bear the thought of letting them down.

"I know, Rita." Her voice is soft, trying to soothe me, but I feel too raw for comfort. "I know how much this means to you. But you're not failing anyone. Please believe that."

I can't respond. I hang up the call quickly before the tears can spill over, my emotions spilling out of control. I shove my phone into my pocket, my heart pounding with the weight of disappointment and fear.

I push on, running harder, but the bustling streets around me become a blur. The Barca flags wave in every direction, a reminder that it's match day. And just like that, Pablo slips back into my thoughts. It's as if I can't escape him, no matter how far I run or how much I try to push him out of my mind.

I shake my head, trying to focus on anything else, but it's no use. Everything is unraveling-my career, whatever is happening with Pablo, my future. I'm terrified that none of it will pay off. I'm terrified I'll disappoint everyone who's ever believed in me, including myself.

The city hums with energy, the streets packed with people dressed in blaugrana colors, their excitement infectious. I weave through them, my pace picking up, my breaths shallow. My chest is still tight from the call with Marina, but I refuse to stop running. If I stop, the thoughts will consume me.

I don't realize how reckless I've become, dodging people without looking, until I hear a small, startled yelp. I barely manage to halt in time, my sneakers skidding against the pavement as I look down to see a little girl, no older than eight, staring up at me wide-eyed. She clutches a small Barcelona jersey in her tiny hands, her fingers curled around a marker.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," I blurt, bending down instinctively. "Are you okay?"

She nods quickly, her curls bouncing as she studies me with an expression I can't quite place. Then, hesitantly, she asks, "Are you Rita Bianchi?"

The words hit me like a gut punch. My first instinct is to look around, expecting someone to swoop in and correct her, to say that I'm not important enough to be recognized like this. But no one does. She's looking directly at me, her hopeful eyes shining under the late afternoon sun.

"I-yeah," I answer, still caught off guard. "That's me."

Her face breaks into the brightest smile, and for the first time today, something in my chest loosens.

"I knew it!" she beams, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I watch all your races with my papa! You're so cool. I wanna be like you one day."

I swallow hard, the words hitting me deeper than they should. My mind flashes back to my younger self, the little girl who once idolized the greats, who clung to every lap of Jules' races as if they were sacred. Now, here I am, standing in front of someone who sees me the way I once saw my heroes.

She holds out the jersey and marker, her tiny hands shaking slightly. "Can you sign this? Please?"

I take the jersey with careful hands, my fingers tightening around the fabric as I sign my name. It feels surreal. As if, for a brief moment, everything that has felt so out of reach is suddenly right in front of me.

"Thank you, thank you!" she grins, hugging the jersey to her chest before looking up at me again, her eyes full of sincerity. "You're gonna be in F1 soon. I know it."

Her words make my breath hitch.

"You think so?" I ask before I can stop myself.

She nods without hesitation. "Of course! Papa says it too. You're way too good not to be."

I force out a laugh, ruffling her curls. "Well, I hope you and your papa are right."

"You'll see!" she declares, completely confident. "One day, I'm gonna tell everyone that I met you before you became a world champion!"

I don't know why, but my throat tightens at that. I've spent so much time doubting myself lately, letting fear creep in, but this little girl believes in me without question. Like it's already set in stone.

She waves one last time before running back to her father, who gives me a nod of acknowledgment. I watch as she skips along, clutching the jersey like it's the most precious thing in the world.

For the first time in weeks, I allow myself to hope.

Maybe I'm not as lost as I think.