His Last || Ayrton Senna's last Love

Prologue

Disclaimer:

This story is a rewritten version of Caminho das Borboletas by Adriane Galisteu, a rare and out-of-print memoir that captures a truly remarkable love story between her and Ayrton Senna from 1993 and up to the day of his death. Since the original book is incredibly hard to find, I felt compelled to bring it to life once more, not just to share its beauty but to ensure it reaches readers who would otherwise miss this incredible tale. This adaptation preserves the heart of Galisteu's experience, allowing it to live on here on Wattpad while also adding a bit of the twinkle of my writing style.

Unbelievable as it may seem, trust me—this story is all true, and one of my favorites.

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April 27th 1994,

"Don't miss me too much," he said.

I felt the sensation of his touch before his hands even reached my cheek. I knew him before he touched me. The feeling was ingrained in my body by then, like a birthright. His rough, calloused hands rested perfectly against my soft, untouched skin. He touched me carefully, as if I were made of the most fragile glass. No one had ever touched me like that.
And his eyes... they felt like the sun in my world. His gaze warmed me from the inside out, bringing life to the garden growing within my heart.

How, only a year ago, had he been nobody to me? And now, he was everything.

"Don't go," I whispered, my voice barely audible, because I already knew his answer. He knew I'd ask anyway.

"I'll be back," he said, understanding but displeased. He hated saying no to me, and he'd asked me not to put him in that position.

But I did anyway.

I was young back then, and so was the look in my eyes when I pleaded again, "Just this once." My blue eyes sparkled like those of a hopeful child.

He chuckled and pinched my nose playfully. "Don't be whiny," he teased.

I pouted, brushing his hand away and looking off into the distance, crossing my arms.

"Three days, Dri," he said, holding up three fingers. "And then I'll be back." He added a forced smile as he reached for his duffel bag.

Ayrton's forced smile was one of the most obvious you could ever see. You didn't need to know him well to tell when it wasn't genuine. The corners of his lips twisted up, but his eyes didn't squint. The moment he decided the act was over, the smile would drop from his face without ceremony.
That smile he gave me was forced. I never told him I noticed when he pretended—I didn't want to disappoint him. But I knew he was troubled by his racing career. He'd told me many times about problems with his car, and we had just returned from a failed home race in Brazil.

But when I let him go that day, I was hopeful for him. I trusted him more than he trusted himself, and I was convinced he'd come back happy, with a new race win to his name in three days' time. He'd come back home to me—I was sure of it back then. Not once did any other possibility cross my mind.

I replayed that moment over and over in my head.

The moment he placed his duffel bag in the trunk and turned to kiss my lips—brief, but tender.

The moment he got into the passenger seat, and I watched the car disappear down the road.

I replayed those moments, wishing, hoping I could go back to them. Hoping I could have made him stay. Wishing I'd locked him down, kept him with me, even if it meant he'd never want to see my face again.

At least then, he would have lived.