national treasures| Charles Leclerc

twenty-two

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

I didn't expect it to happen like this, not now, not when everything still felt so fragile between us.

But there it was, a small crack in the wall she'd built around herself—an opening.

Camille, the same Camille I'd known for years, was sharing a little piece of herself with me.

It was such a small thing, but I couldn't ignore the significance of it.

We were sitting in the paddock, waiting for the next session, just talking about racing, about the upcoming weekend.

The usual, harmless chatter.

But then, out of nowhere, she told me about something from her childhood—an anecdote about her first karting race.

I could tell she didn't think much of it, just a passing story.

But to me, it was more.

It was a window into a side of her I hadn't seen in so long.

And it wasn't just the story—it was the way she said it.

There was no guard in her voice, no hesitation.

She was letting me in, just a little bit.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself feel hopeful.

She didn't need to say it out loud, but I understood.

She was starting to trust me again, even if just a fraction.

That was all I needed—this small, almost imperceptible shift.

It told me that maybe, just maybe, we could rebuild what we once had.

As we continued to talk, I found myself remembering why I had fallen for her in the first place.

It wasn't just the way she smiled or how her laugh made everything feel lighter.

It wasn't even her quick wit or the way she could always keep me on my toes.

It was her strength—her sheer, unwavering drive.

It was her passion for racing, for life.

How she could push through any obstacle, how nothing seemed to ever break her, even when it should've.

She had this fire in her, this quiet intensity that both intimidated and inspired me.

She was never just another driver; she was a force.

I'd always admired that about her.

How, despite everything, she stayed true to herself.

How, even after all that had happened between us, she was still here, still going, still fighting for her place in this world.

And maybe that was why I couldn't let go of her, no matter how much I tried.

It was because I knew—I always knew—that she was the one person who could make me feel alive in ways no one else could.

When she spoke again, I noticed a change in her voice.

It was softer now, more open, and I realized I was listening to her for more than just the words.

I was hearing her, really hearing her, like I hadn't in so long.

"Thanks for listening," she said, looking at me for the first time in a while, her eyes not guarded but real. "It's been a long time since I talked about that."