⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆
The cheers from my team echo around me, hands clapping my shoulders, faces beaming with pride.
I should be ecstatic—I just clocked my best qualifying performance yet.
Mercedes is thrilled, Toto's patting me on the back, and I can practically hear the headlines already:
Camille Thomas secures top spot for Mercedes.
But all I feel is this hollow ache, an emptiness that seeps through the cracks I thought I'd patched over.
I should be riding high, feeling invincible, but there's this nagging feeling gnawing at me, a reminder of how things used to be different.
Back when every lap time and every podium meant that much more because Charles was right there, looking at me with that proud, genuine smile, like he believed in me more than I ever believed in myself.
I can't shake the weight of his presence.
He's here, somewhere in the Ferrari garage, but distant, muted by time and all the words we never said.
I kept catching myself looking for him in the crowd, hoping maybe he'd offer me one of those quiet nods we used to share, that unspoken language we had.
It's foolish, really.
We're competitors now, nothing more.
And yet, a part of me wishes he'd just acknowledge it.
Acknowledge me.
Maybe I'm waiting for something that won't come, for some validation that I don't need but somehow still crave.
But he stays where he is, across the garage, silent and distant, leaving me to stand in the middle of this celebration, feeling like the only person not celebrating at all.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆
The interviewer's question hits out of nowhere. I'm already tired, sweat drying on my skin, and I just want to get through these post-race formalities. But then I hear it: "Charles, any thoughts on Camille Thomas' performance today?"
I hesitate, just for a fraction of a second, but it's long enough for the cameras to catch it. I know they're already waiting to twist my answer, whatever it is.
"She did well," I say finally, forcing my expression into something neutral. "Camille's a talented driver. She's earned her place here."
It's a safe answer, simple and polite, but I know it sounds flat. Too restrained. I see the spark in the journalist's eyes—he's already piecing it together, looking for the subtext, that hint of something unsaid between us. And I can feel the speculation brewing, practically hear the headlines forming in his head.
After the interview, I can't shake the unease. It's been like this since she returned, this constant tug-of-war between what I feel and what I'm willing to show. I thought I'd buried those feelings a long time ago, convinced myself it was easier to leave the past untouched. But every time I see her out there, pushing harder, getting faster... it stirs up everything I tried to let go.
I know she'll see my answer, and maybe she'll wonder what I meant. Part of me hopes she does. Part of me wishes I could say more.
But it's easier like this, to keep things guarded, to hold back. After all, we're just drivers now—two people trying to win. And maybe, if I keep telling myself that, I can convince myself it's true.
![](https://img.wattpad.com/cover/384692032-144-k362203.jpg)
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national treasures| Charles Leclerc
Fanfictionɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴡᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʀᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴡᴇ'ᴅ ɢᴇᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆ 𝗖𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗲 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗮𝘀 is the first female driver in Formula 1, and she's here to prove that she belongs. After years of...