national treasures| Charles Leclerc

eight

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Working with the Mercedes team is everything I've dreamed of. 

Being on the grid with legends like Lewis Hamilton—it's surreal. 

I'm slowly finding my place here, even forming a friendship with Lewis, who's always ready with advice and encouragement. 

He's been through it all, and somehow, it makes me feel like maybe I belong here too.

But no matter how well I start fitting in with the team, there's this tension hanging in the air. 

Every time I cross paths with Charles, it's there, pressing in on both of us. 

It doesn't help that the media can't resist stirring things up. 

The headlines have a field day with us, speculating about our "ex-relationship" and throwing around old photos like they're bait, trying to get a reaction. 

Every time I scroll through social media or check the news, there it is—a reminder of the past I thought I'd left behind.

And now, with each race, it feels like the pressure keeps building. 

I'm here to race, to prove myself, but I can't ignore the way Charles's presence affects me. 

It's frustrating, maddening even. 

One moment I feel confident, and focused on my goals and the team, and then the next, I'll catch a glimpse of him in the paddock, or hear his name over the speakers, and all my emotions go haywire.

I try to block it out, to keep my head in the game, but some things are harder to leave behind than I thought.

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Seeing Camille out there with Mercedes, right where she belongs, is like watching someone else live the dream I once thought we'd share. 

She's different now, more polished, more confident—but there's this part of her that's the same, still hungry to prove herself, still fighting like she always did. 

And hearing her talk about her team, the pride in her voice, her bond with Lewis... I know it's everything she's ever wanted.

It's strange how I feel both proud and uneasy, like I'm on the outside looking in, just another spectator in her life. 

The headlines, the endless speculation, it only makes it worse. 

Old photos keep surfacing, memories that used to mean something to us, twisted now by people looking for a story, who don't understand what any of it meant. 

Every article, every comment, it's like they're pulling back layers of what we had, trying to get a reaction. 

They don't realize how much it stings to see our past reduced to clickbait.

And every time I run into her in the paddock, it's like the air thickens, charged with all the things we left unsaid. 

I keep telling myself to let it go, to leave things where we left them, but it's like the more I try to hold back, the more I feel the weight of it all pressing down. 

I catch glimpses of her talking to Lewis, smiling, or focused in the garage, and it hits me—she's happy, she's moving on, and yet here I am, stuck in this endless loop of regret.

I want to say something to her, break through this wall we've both built, but I'm not sure I even know how anymore. 

It's maddening, watching her find her place while I'm still wrestling with where I stand with her, wondering if I'll ever have a chance to make things right, or if this is all we'll ever be—strangers on the same grid, shadows of what we used to be.