Hate to race

China

Charles sat quietly in his seat as the plane descended, his headphones in but no music playing. Pierre was next to him, chatting animatedly about something, probably gossip from the paddock or some funny story from his travels. But Charles barely registered it. He was there, in the moment, but his mind felt far away. Numb. Empty.

China stretched out below them, and it felt like just another place. Another race. Another week where he had to push everything aside, bury all the feelings he didn't have the strength to deal with.

He had done a good job of it so far—keeping his focus sharp, his mind clear. Max wasn't a part of it.

He had managed to block out every reminder of him. Pierre had asked a few times, poking at the edges of what Charles had buried, but he always brushed it off with a shrug, a careless comment, something light and dismissive.

"Man, you good?" Pierre asked suddenly, leaning forward to get a better look at Charles.

Charles pulled out his headphones and turned to him, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, all good," he replied. "Just tired."

Pierre didn't look convinced, but he didn't push either. He just nodded and went back to his story.

As the plane landed and they made their way to the terminal, Charles felt a heaviness settle into his chest. It wasn't new; it had been there for weeks, maybe months, building up inside him. The weight of everything—the losses, the pressure, the constant struggle to keep himself together—it all hit him harder than usual.

But he managed. He always managed.

They arrived in China early Thursday morning, the crisp, cool air biting at Charles's skin as they stepped out of the airport. The sun was barely up, but the media was already there, waiting.

Cameras flashing, microphones shoved in their faces, questions being asked faster than they could answer.

Pierre handled most of it, cracking jokes, keeping things light. Charles answered what he had to, but he kept his responses short. It was media day, after all. He was expected to perform, to smile, to be the Charles Leclerc everyone wanted to see. And he would.

But there was a cloud hanging over him, a darkness he couldn't shake. The losses he had faced this season—on and off the track—were piling up, suffocating him.

He buried it all deep down, like he always did. There was no time to dwell on things, no time to let it consume him. The only thing that mattered was the race. The next challenge. Everything else? It was gone. He had burned it away.

But even as he walked through the paddock, smiling at the cameras, waving at fans, he felt it creeping in at the edges. That hollow, empty feeling that he couldn't quite escape.

The feeling that something was missing, something he couldn't bury no matter how hard he tried.

It didn't matter.

He was here to race. Nothing else. No distractions. No thoughts of the past.

-

Friday dawned with a palpable tension in the air. Charles woke early, the sunlight filtering through the curtains of his hotel room, illuminating the chaos of his thoughts. The memories of the race in Japan flashed through his mind—flashes of fear, anger, and guilt. He shook his head, trying to dislodge them like cobwebs clinging to his consciousness.

Today was the first practice session, and there was no room for distraction.

He met Pierre in the lobby, where the chatter of fellow drivers and team personnel filled the air. Charles tried to engage in small talk, but his mind was elsewhere, drifting in a haze of focus. Pierre noticed his lack of enthusiasm, his half-hearted responses, but he didn't press him. They both knew Charles needed to work through his feelings, however buried they might be.