Until my last breath

17

August 2022
Monaco

The golden Grand prix

The day dawns clear, light glinting off the pristine streets of Monaco, where cars purr to life, their engines warming up like restless animals. For most drivers, race day is simply routine, but for me, it's the day where every nerve feels as if it's fraying, pulling me apart from the inside. And today, in Monaco—the pressure is multiplied by a thousand.

I can hear the faint buzz of voices from outside the driver's room, where reporters, fans, and team members bustle about, all eager to catch a glimpse or an update. But the noise, the excitement—they only make me feel more isolated. I'm swamped by an odd combination of anticipation and dread, like I'm floating outside of myself, watching someone who looks like me go through the motions.

Breakfast was a quick affair, barely a few bites of toast and a mouthful of coffee that I couldn't stomach. My teammate Thomas sat across from me, his calm confidence radiating a stability I feel I'm missing. He chatted casually with some of the team staff, and I gave polite nods, murmured acknowledgments, but my mind wasn't in it. Charles texted me a "good luck" from the paddock, his usual easygoing encouragement laced with humor. I wish I could absorb that energy, hold onto it. But today, there's a void.

The streets are lined with fans waving flags, chanting, calling out names.

My name, too.

Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of posters plastered with my face or hear someone scream, "Go, Rita!" And yet, each cheer only tightens the knot in my stomach. It's ironic, the sheer contrast between the warmth and support around me and the numbness I feel on the inside,
the numbness i feel with the void left by my mom.

As I walk towards the paddock, Marina keeps close, offering her usual practical encouragements, listing the schedule for the day, mapping out every minute leading up to the race.

"Press, then warm-up, then the team meeting with Thomas and the engineers. Stay focused," she says, handing me a bottle of water. I take a sip, but my throat feels tight, as if there's a blockade. Nothing goes down easy today.

I'm scheduled for a press briefing, and the journalists' questions are relentless, all eyes on me. It's expected—after all, Monaco is legendary, and expectations run high. But their curiosity feels intrusive. They poke into every part of my life, questioning my strategy, my mindset, my personal life, as if I'm an open book for them to skim through. I offer mechanical answers, automatic responses that have been rehearsed and polished. Inside, I'm counting down, waiting for it to end, barely able to mask the rising tide of anxiety beneath a smile.

"Rita, this is your big day! The third title on the line!" a reporter's voice rings out above the others.

"Yes," I reply, nodding. But the words feel hollow. This title, this race—they're everything I've worked for, everything I've bled for. Yet, I feel a strange sense of detachment, like it's happening to someone else. The attention bears down like a physical weight, pressing on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

As I leave the press area, weaving through the crowd, a moment catches my eye. Thomas is standing by the garage, his mother beside him, holding his hand. It's a tender scene, one that's achingly familiar and so distant at the same time. She places a hand on his shoulder, her gaze filled with warmth and pride. It's a small, simple moment of affection, yet it tears something open inside me, something raw and painful that I thought I'd buried.

I can't tear my eyes away. Watching them, I feel a sense of longing so intense it's almost suffocating. It's the kind of moment my mother would've shared with me. The gentle encouragement, the unspoken understanding. A void pulses in my chest, widening, consuming. For a second, I feel as though I'm drowning in memories of her, memories I tried to push away. It's been weeks, but the wound feels fresh, ripping open with a vengeance, and I don't know how to contain it.

I turn away, quickening my steps toward my driver's room, where I can find some semblance of solitude, of quiet.

Marina calls out after me, but I barely register it, only managing a half-hearted wave as I reach the door, slip inside, and lock it. The silence feels heavy, almost suffocating. I lean against the wall, letting myself sink to the floor, pressing my palms against my knees to steady myself. The race is close, too close. I should be focused, mentally prepared, yet here I am, crumbling behind a locked door.

Outside, I hear Marina's voice, soft and insistent. "Rita? Are you alright?"

I want to answer, but my throat tightens, and all I manage is a barely audible "I'm fine."

"Let me in. You clearly are not, you don't have to be alone right now."

But I can't let her see me like this. I don't want anyone to see me like this. I need to pull myself together, to scrape together whatever fragments of strength I have left. "Just... give me a minute, Marina," I reply, trying to steady my voice.

The handle stops jiggling, and I hear her soft sigh on the other side. She's worried, I know, but there's nothing she can say or do to take away this ache. This is my battle to fight.

I close my eyes, breathing in and out, focusing on the rhythm, trying to let the memories pass. But they cling to me like shadows, memories of my mother's laughter, her soft encouragement, her hands brushing my hair out of my face. I hold onto those fragments, hoping they'll ground me, yet they only make the ache deeper, sharper.

Minutes pass, and the intensity fades just enough for me to stand. I brush myself off, adjust my racing suit, and smooth my hair, steeling myself as I step away from the wall. I've been through this before. I know how to face it.

One breath at a time,
one step at a time.

I approach the mirror, studying my reflection. My eyes are a little red, but that's nothing new. I take a steadying breath, reaching for my helmet. The weight of it is comforting, familiar. It reminds me of who I am, of the legacy I carry, of the countless hours of sweat and sacrifice I've poured into this sport.

There's a knock on the door. I assume it's Marina, coming to check on me again. "I'm alright, Marina," I call out, adjusting the strap on my helmet. The silence stretches, and I realize there's no response.

Curious, I open the door slowly, expecting her usual concerned gaze. But the person standing there isn't who I expected at all.