ʟօʋɛ ʏօʊ ȶɛռɖɛʀʟʏ

BREATHE. (no ship)

Carlos looks through the window of his hotel room, glancing over at the stars shining in the sky.

He sighs.

He sighs again.

He looks back at the cars driving around on the road in front of the hotel. He admits he is excited for the Grand Prix, but his anxiety is getting out of control lately.

He gets nervous when getting in the car, makes stupid mistakes that cost a lot, and that hits him in the guts. Since few Grand Prix, Carlos lost quite a lot of confidence.

The strategy sucked as well. It seemed like everyone wanted for Charles to win, to do better, and it costed him quite a lot. They gave him his strategy idea, but Carlos said nothing because obviously, he doesn't want to be a burden, to bring more problems to the team.

He has always been like this, everyone say he's a whiner, everyone seems to hate when he does better than Charles. He feels wrong in Italy, next to Ferrari's golden boy.

Charles Leclerc is Ferrari, but what is Carlos ?

He sighs again.

He opens up the window, feeling a weight in his chest too heavy to let him breathe. He coughs. Fuck.

He can't have a panic attack now, not when he's got the Grand Prix the next day. He needs to calm down and to focus.

He takes a deep breath. But he is suffocating, in this quiet and empty room, all that the Spanish guy can hear is his own shattered breath.

– Fuck

He mutters and touches his own face, rubbing his eyes before sighing again. « calm the fuck down Carlos you don't wanna do this » He says to himself, even tho it has no effect on the growing panic attack.

He leans on the balcony, shivering. The cold air makes him feel calmer, at least that's what he thinks. He looks at the time on his phone.

1:03

He needs to go to sleep or else he'll be tired for the Grand Prix. What if his reflexes suck, what if he gets a pretty bad crash. Ain't no way, Carlos isn't dying in Mexico.

He thinks about the qualifying, but his thoughts burn quickly into a mess. He winces. It's coming and he can feel it burning inside his throat.

He is now panting, struggling to breathe.
Oh God he is gonna die.

Carlos leans against the wall, knowing he isn't gonna die. He already went through this. He knows how to handle it.

« This has happened before, Carlos »

He closes his eyes, imagining a calm beach.
His therapist told him to always think about the waves, the sand, concentrate on the smell, the sounds...

He takes a new deep breath, feeling his muscles relax and his own mind calming down.

After managing his own panic attack, he takes a look at his phone, seeing a text from his bodyguard and coach, Pierluigi. He is saying « good night toro ».

Few weeks before, Carlos would've smiled and went to bed, but now, he feels bad, realizing he not the toro Pierluigi says he is anymore.
He fucked up.

And even though he is starting on pole, Carlos has a bad feeling about the race tomorrow. He feels that something is up. He'll probably fail, like he always does.

He has bad luck.

*

Carlos fell asleep around 2am. His phone rings at 8am, like always, but he feels so exhausted that he snooze it.