national treasures| Charles Leclerc

sixteen

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The event is buzzing with energy, with fans lining up to meet the drivers, get autographs,  and snap photos. 

I'm trying to focus on the task at hand, smiling at the people who approach, signing posters and memorabilia, and answering questions with practiced ease. 

But then it happens.

A fan holds out a photo, and my heart drops when I see it. 

It's a picture from our karting days—Charles and me, both in our racing suits, grinning with the kind of carefree joy only youth and racing could give us. 

The background is blurry, but in that moment, we're so focused on each other that nothing else in the world matters. 

It feels like another lifetime, and yet, the nostalgia hits me all at once, sharp and unexpected.

For a split second, I'm caught in the past. 

I think of the countless hours we spent on the track, pushing each other to be better, to chase dreams we weren't even sure could be reached. 

I think of the late-night talks, the promises we made to each other, how everything seemed so simple back then. 

How we were both just kids, figuring things out, believing that we had forever to chase those dreams together.

But forever wasn't meant to be, was it?

I take the photo, trying to steady my hand as I sign it, but my mind is elsewhere. 

The connection we had—it feels like a different version of myself now, someone who believed in things that maybe weren't real. 

And yet, as I sign my name on the photo, a part of me wishes that the girl in that picture could still exist, free from the complications and heartache that have followed since then.

I hand the photo back to the fan, plastering on a smile, but it doesn't quite reach my eyes. 

I feel... distant, like I'm drifting away from the moment, even as I'm physically here, at this event, in the present.

As I look up, I catch Lewis watching me. 

He's been busy with his fans, but there's something in the way his gaze lingers on me now. 

He knows when something's off, and he's always been quick to notice when I'm not quite myself.

He approaches after finishing his last signature, a knowing look on his face. "You good, Camille?" he asks, his voice soft but steady, like he's not trying to pry, but simply offering a safe space if I need it.

I hesitate for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, just... one of those moments, I guess," I say, my voice quieter than I intended. "I just signed a photo from when Charles and I were racing in karting... It's hard to look at sometimes, you know?"

Lewis' expression softens, and he rests a hand on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I get it," he says. "But you've got to remember something. The past, no matter how great or how painful, it's just that—the past. You're here now. You've made it, and you're only going to keep getting better."

His words are simple, but they hit me in a way I wasn't expecting. 

They remind me that I'm not just the girl from the karting days anymore. 

I'm Camille Thomas, a driver in Formula 1, with a future that's still unfolding.

"You're right," I admit, taking a deep breath. "It's just... sometimes it feels like the past follows me around, you know? Like it never really leaves."