Into the Apex

The Longest Wait

It was a blur. The whole day had become a blur in Alya Kujou's mind. She had been sitting in the Williams garage, a small distance away from the action as always, her eyes on the monitors, fingers nervously tapping against her thigh. Masachika, her boyfriend, had just completed another daring lap at the famous Eau Rouge, the corner he loved to conquer. He had always pushed the limits of the track—always aiming for perfection. But this time... this time something had gone horribly wrong.

Alya's hand froze as she stared at the screen. The commentator's voice had shifted from the usual monotone to frantic, the words "crash at Eau Rouge" stabbing through her thoughts. Her heart had stopped as the medical team's alarmed voice rang through the paddock.

"Williams driver Masachika Kuze and Torro Rosso driver Pierre Gasly have been involved in a major crash at Eau Rouge. We need immediate medical assistance on the track. Stay clear, please."

Alya's breath caught. No. No, not Masachika.

Before she could even process the magnitude of the situation, the medics arrived. The room, usually filled with the clatter of tire changes and the hum of fast-paced race work, became eerily quiet. A doctor approached her swiftly, his face serious but controlled.

"Miss Kujou," he said, his voice low, "we need you to come with us. Masachika's injuries are severe so he's being transferred to a hospital in Liège immediately. Please, come with us."

Her knees buckled for a second, but her father's strong grip on her arm steadied her. He had barely said a word throughout the race, but his silence now spoke volumes. Though he had never been thrilled about her relationship with a Formula 1 driver, a grudging respect had grown for Masachika over the years. He had seen how devoted Masachika was—not just to his racing, but to Alya. And now, seeing the look in her eyes, he could no longer deny how important Masachika had become to his daughter. He stepped forward without a word, following the medics as Alya was led toward the waiting helicopter.

Alya was numb. Her mind could barely process the words. He's in the hospital and It's not good. The helicopter ride to Liège was a blur of flashing lights, the soft, mechanical hum of the rotor blades, and the distant rumble of the thunderstorm forming above the horizon. She tried to breathe, but every inhale felt shallow, every exhale a bit more desperate. Her father, still as stoic as ever, had not left her side. His hand on her shoulder was his way of telling her he was there, but it wasn't enough. She needed something more. She needed him.

She needed Masachika.

The medical team had been clear about one thing: he was stable, but his condition was critical. The doctors' calm reassurances were cold comfort. He had fallen into a coma, his body battered and bruised from the violent crash at Eau Rouge. Alya didn't know if she was supposed to be grateful for his stability or terrified that it could be the last time she saw him alive.

When they arrived at the hospital, Alya barely took in the details of the building. The cool stone walls, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the hurried staff that passed by in a blur—all of it felt like a dream. A nightmare.

She was led through long, echoing corridors, each step dragging her closer to an unknown fate. Her father walked with her, their footsteps silent, the weight of the situation pressing down on them. Alya's thoughts whirled in endless circles, each one darker than the last. Was he going to make it? She had seen the crash on the monitor—the car spinning, flipping, crashing into the barriers. He had been unconscious even before the collision with Pierre Gasly. How could anyone survive that?

Finally, they arrived at Masachika's room. The sight that greeted them was nothing like she had expected. The sound of machines whirring, the faint beep of the heart monitor—each beep too slow for comfort, too quiet. His face was pale, bruised, a thin tube running to his nose to help him breathe. His once proud, confident demeanor was gone, replaced by an almost fragile stillness.

Alya stepped forward slowly, her hand shaking as she reached for his. She whispered to him, her voice soft but breaking at the edges. "Masachika, please... come back. I need you."

Her father stood silently by the door, his arms crossed over his chest, his face unreadable. But even in his silence, she could feel the unspoken worry, the fear that gripped him as much as it did her.

The following day, the hospital room was filled with more visitors than Alya had anticipated. Many of the drivers had gathered—some of them who had raced with Masachika, others who had come simply to offer their support. The first to arrive was Lando Norris, (a friend of Masachika's who had known him during his 2 years in F3) his usual bright grin replaced with an expression that reflected the weight of the situation.

"Don't worry, Alya. He's a fighter," Lando said quietly, sitting down next to her. "You know Masachika, right? He's not someone to back down from a challenge. He'll pull through."

Alya couldn't help but give him a small smile, even though the ache in her chest didn't ease. She nodded, but the words were stuck in her throat. What could she say?

Sebastian Vettel was the next to visit. He entered the room quietly, offering her a soft smile.

"We all saw it. The crash, it was—" he faltered for a moment. "It was awful, but he's strong. Masachika's strong. He'll come back from this, I'm sure of it."

Alya appreciated the sentiment, even if it didn't quite reach her heart. Still, she managed a small, grateful nod.

After Sebastian, Pierre Gasly arrived. He walked into the room slowly, almost hesitantly, and Alya could tell that something was off. His eyes were bloodshot, the guilt written clearly on his face. He had been the one to hit Masachika, even if it wasn't his fault. But in Pierre's mind, the weight of the collision seemed unbearable.

"I—I don't know what to say," Pierre began, his voice tight. "I never wanted this. You know that, right?" His eyes glistened as he sat beside her, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. "It was just so fast. He came out of nowhere, and I couldn't react in time. I just... I never wanted to hurt him."

Alya watched Pierre closely, the raw emotion in his voice affecting her more than she expected. She could see how torn he was. Pierre was a driver, just like Masachika—he understood the risks they all faced on the track. But even knowing that, Alya could see how deeply Pierre was affected by the crash.

"Pierre, I know you didn't mean for it to happen," Alya said softly, placing her hand on his. "Accidents happen. I know you never would have wanted to hurt him."

Pierre's eyes flickered with relief, but it didn't erase the pain he felt. He leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply.

"I wish I could have done more. I wish I could have avoided it. But now, all I can do is hope he wakes up," Pierre murmured, his voice barely audible.

Alya nodded, her heart aching for both of them. In the end, they were all in this together—racing on the edge of life and death, in more ways than one.

The room fell into a silence as they both sat there, the only sound the steady beep of the machines and the occasional shuffle of footsteps outside the room. There was nothing more to say. They could only wait. Wait for Masachika to wake up, to show them all that he was still there.

Two weeks passed with little change. Masachika remained in the coma, and Alya spent every moment at his side. Her father had returned to the hotel for brief rest, but he visited her every day. The hospital had become a second home for Alya, each day feeling like an eternity.

The drivers continued to visit—each one coming in, offering their support, telling her to hang on.

But it was the quiet moments that affected her the most. When she would sit by his side in silence, the world outside the room fading away, and all she could focus on was the faint rise and fall of his chest.

"Come back, Masachika. Please," she would whisper, her voice soft but pleading. "I need you here. We all need you."

The days bled into one another. There was no sign of him waking up. But she wouldn't give up. She couldn't. Because as long as he was alive, there was hope. And that was all she needed.