national treasures| Charles Leclerc

twenty-three

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

She was unstoppable out there.

The way Camille navigated that corner—smooth, precise, fearless—left me speechless. 

The entire grid had struggled with this track's tricky conditions all weekend, yet she made it look effortless, like she'd been racing here for years.

I stood off to the side of the Ferrari garage, watching her final sector light up purple on the timing board. 

Fastest lap. 

Again. 

A part of me wanted to walk over and congratulate her the moment she stepped out of the car, to tell her how incredible she was, but I stayed rooted to the spot, torn between pride and something else I couldn't quite shake.

Jealousy.

Not of her performance—I'd always known how talented she was, even back when we were kids racing in karts. 

No, this jealousy was something deeper, more personal. 

She was thriving, building her legacy on this stage, while I was still trying to figure out where I stood with her.

I hated how much it consumed me. 

Watching her succeed should've been easy, natural. 

I should've felt nothing but happiness for her. 

And I did. 

God.

I did, but it was mixed with this aching reminder of how distant we'd become. 

We used to celebrate each other's victories together. 

Now, I was just a bystander, unsure if I even had the right to tell her how proud I was.

But it wasn't just about racing. 

It was about her. 

About us. 

About the space between us that felt both too vast and too fragile. 

She was making strides, finding her place in the sport, while I felt stuck in a loop of hesitation and regret. 

I kept telling myself to give her time, to let her come to me, but watching her out there, I realized I couldn't keep doing that.

I couldn't keep waiting for something to change. 

I had to be the one to change.

As the session ended, I found myself lingering near the media zone, hoping for a moment to speak with her. 

When she stepped out of her car, her smile wide and radiant, I felt that familiar pull in my chest. It was the same feeling I'd had all those years ago—the one that made me realize she wasn't just another competitor. She was everything.

I was still watching her when Carlos appeared beside me, nudging my arm. "You're staring," he said, smirking.

I shot him a look. "Am not."

Carlos raised an eyebrow. "Right. And I'm not a Formula 1 driver."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "It's not like that."

"Sure, mate," he said, crossing his arms. "But if it's not like that, why are you standing here looking like a lost puppy every time she's around?"

I didn't have an answer for him. 

Or rather, I didn't have one I was ready to say out loud.

Because the truth was, I was like a lost puppy around her.