national treasures| Charles Leclerc

two

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P7.

Not a podium, but for my first race in Formula 1, it was better than I'd even dreamed.

I could still feel the thrill of the final lap buzzing through me, the roar of the crowd, and the sight of the checkered flag as I crossed the line.

Finishing in the points wasn't just a win for me; it was validation, proof that I deserved this seat at Mercedes.

The media swarmed, their questions flowing in, asking how debuting in the top ten felt.

I gave them the answers they wanted—about pushing hard, about how the car handled, and about proving myself in a male-dominated world.

But as I made my way out of the press area, my mind kept circling back to Charles.

We'd crossed paths just minutes after the race.

He looked at me, those familiar eyes giving away nothing.

"Good race, Camille," his tone polite, and professional.

And just like that, he was gone, already focused on the next thing, his face set with that intensity I once knew so well.

I stood there for a moment, caught off guard by how quickly he'd moved on.

My heart clenched as I watched him disappear into the crowd as if I were just another competitor, no more significant than anyone else on the track.

It wasn't like I'd expected us to jump back to the way things were, but this distance?

This cool, distant professionalism?

It stung more than I could admit.

I remembered the late nights we spent racing on empty karting tracks, the way he used to look at me like I was his whole world.

But now, standing here, it was like that time didn't even exist for him.

P7 was a great start.

But somehow, the victory felt hollow, clouded by this lingering tension, by the weight of unspoken words.

I couldn't help wondering if I'd been wrong all along—if the person I'd once loved was nothing more than a chapter he'd already closed.

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Seeing Camille in the paddock again felt strange, like looking at a familiar place from a different angle.

She'd changed—more confident, sharper, her Mercedes gear suiting her in a way that was hard to ignore.

She'd earned her place here, and finishing P7 in her first race only proved it.

When I saw her after the race, I kept things brief. "Good race, Camille."

She gave me a quick nod and a small smile.

I could tell she was reading into it, searching for something I couldn't give her at that moment.

We'd left so much behind, and maybe it was better that way.

I had my own goals, and my own battles to focus on, and she had hers.

But even as I walked away, I couldn't help but feel that shift—the reminder of all those years ago, when racing wasn't just about the track but about the person standing next to me.

I couldn't let myself get distracted now. Not by her, not by the past.

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