national treasures| Charles Leclerc

eleven

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The conversation replays in my mind like a loop I can't turn off. 

Every word, every glance, every crack in Charles' voice feels burned into my memory. 

I told myself I didn't need this—that hearing him apologize wouldn't change anything. 

But now that it's happened, I feel... unsettled.

I don't know if I can forgive him.

I want to, I think. 

Somewhere deep down, there's a part of me that still cares about him. 

Maybe that's what makes this so hard—the feelings that have never really gone away. 

They've just been buried under layers of hurt and resentment.

But forgiving him? Letting go of the pain he caused me when he left? 

That feels like a mountain I'm not sure I can climb.

And yet, when he looked at me with those soft, regretful eyes, I felt a flicker of something I thought I'd lost.

Hope.

It terrifies me. 

Hope is dangerous. 

It's what got me hurt in the first place.

I told him we'd see where things go. 

It was all I could offer in the moment. 

Not a promise, not a commitment—just a small opening for something I'm not even sure I'm ready for.

The media would have a field day if they ever found out we'd talked. 

I can already see the headlines: "Ex-Lovers Reunite in the Paddock Drama of the Year!"

That's why we agreed to keep it private. 

Whatever this is—whatever it might become—it's ours. 

Not for the world to dissect or speculate about.

But even with that agreement, the shift between us feels undeniable. 

It's subtle, like a weight I didn't realize I was carrying has lifted just slightly. 

The tension hasn't disappeared, but it feels... different now.

I can't ignore the way he makes me feel—how just being near him stirs up memories of who we were, of what we had. 

But I also can't ignore the way he left me, the way he broke my heart without a second glance.

I don't know if we can move forward.

I don't know if I want to.

But I do know this: I'm tired of pretending I don't care, tired of acting like his presence doesn't still affect me.

Maybe it's time to stop running from it—whatever "it" is.

For now, I'll take things one step at a time. 

There's too much at stake, both on and off the track. 

And the last thing I can afford is letting my emotions derail everything I've worked for.

But as I fall asleep that night, his words echo in my mind.

"I don't expect forgiveness right away. I just wanted you to know that I never forgot you."

And I can't help but wonder: 

Could it ever be enough?

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Karting had always been a battlefield, even when we were kids. 

Every race felt like the most important moment of my life—a proving ground for the dreams I wasn't sure I'd ever reach. 

But the day I met Camille, everything shifted.

She had this fire about her, something you couldn't ignore. 

Camille wasn't just fast—she was fearless. 

Watching her race was like witnessing pure determination come to life. 

She didn't just want to win; she wanted to earn it. 

And it made me want to be better, not just for myself but because I couldn't stand the idea of being anything less than her equal.

I think it was our second season of karting together when it really clicked between us. 

We were competing in the regional finals, desperate to prove we belonged. 

The stakes felt impossibly high for two kids who barely understood the world outside of a racetrack.

The day started tense. 

Camille had been quiet in the lead-up, her usual quick-witted comebacks replaced by this laser-sharp focus. 

I didn't ask what was wrong; I didn't need to. 

I knew how much this race meant to her. 

To both of us.

When the green flag dropped, the track became a blur of noise and adrenaline. 

I don't remember much from the first few laps except the constant pressure of knowing she was right behind me. 

Camille was relentless, inching closer with every turn. 

By the halfway point, she'd caught up, her kart pulling alongside mine in a tight corner.

For a split second, our helmets turned, and I swear I could see the determination in her eyes through her visor. 

It wasn't just about beating me—it was about proving something to herself.

She overtook me on the next straight, and instead of frustration, I felt this strange surge of pride. 

Camille wasn't just a competitor; she was the competitor. 

The one who could push me harder than anyone else, who could make me better just by being on the track.

By the final lap, we were neck and neck, trading positions with every turn. 

It felt less like a race and more like a dance—two drivers completely in sync, testing each other's limits.

She crossed the finish line a fraction of a second ahead of me, and when we pulled into the paddock, I expected to feel crushed. 

Instead, I found myself grinning.

"That was amazing," I said, pulling off my helmet. 

My heart was still racing, but it wasn't from the loss.

Camille's face lit up with the kind of smile that made the whole world seem brighter. 

"You weren't so bad yourself, Leclerc," she teased, but there was no mistaking the pride in her voice.

That day, something changed between us. 

It wasn't just about racing anymore. 

Camille became my partner in a way I hadn't realized I needed. 

She understood the pressure, the sacrifices, the endless pursuit of perfection. 

And more than that, she believed in me—even when I didn't always believe in myself.

From that moment on, we pushed each other. 

Whether it was on the track or in the quiet moments between races, Camille had this way of making me want to be better—not just as a driver, but as a person.

Looking back now, I think that's what hurts the most. 

Losing her wasn't just about losing a friend or a first love. 

It was losing the one person who truly understood me, who saw the parts of me I didn't always show the world.

That race was the beginning of everything for us.

And maybe, in some ways, it was also the beginning of the end.

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