national treasures| Charles Leclerc

twenty-four

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The sun dipped below the horizon as I sat in the Ferrari motorhome, swirling a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. 

The paddock was quieting down, but my mind was anything but. 

Camille. 

She was always there, lingering at the edge of my thoughts, no matter how much I tried to focus on racing.

"You're overthinking again," Carlos said, sliding into the seat across from me. 

He'd always had a way of reading me too well.

"Am I that obvious?" I asked with a faint smirk, though the weight in my chest didn't lift.

Carlos leaned back, folding his arms. "When it comes to her? Yeah, mate, you are."

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face.

 "I don't know what to do anymore. I've apologized. I've tried to show her I've changed, but... it's like she doesn't believe me."

"She's guarded. Can you blame her?" Carlos said gently. 

"You left her, Charles. That kind of hurt doesn't just disappear because you've decided you want her back."

His words stung, but they were true. 

"I know. And I hate myself for it every day."

Carlos shook his head. 

"That's not the point. The question is, do you want to keep trying, even if it takes time? Even if it doesn't go the way you want?"

I stared at him, the weight of his question settling over me. 

Did I want to keep trying? 

The answer was obvious. 

I'd never stopped wanting her.

"She means everything to me," I said quietly, the admission feeling heavier than I expected. 

"But I'm afraid of pushing too hard and driving her further away. I don't know how to fix this."

Carlos leaned forward, his expression serious. 

"Maybe that's your problem. You're so focused on fixing things that you're not giving her the space to decide for herself. It would help if you let her come to you, Charles. She has to want this too."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, but they made sense.

I'd been so consumed by my guilt and my desire to make things right that I hadn't considered how she felt.

"Be patient," Carlos added. 

"If she's the Camille you've always described, she'll come around when she's ready. But you can't rush her. And you can't expect it to happen overnight."

I nodded slowly, the knot in my chest loosening just a little. 

Patience wasn't my strong suit, but if it were what she needed, I would give it to her.

"Thanks," I said, my voice low. "I needed to hear that."

Carlos grinned, leaning back again. "That's what I'm here for. Now stop brooding and start focusing on the race this weekend. You're not much use to anyone if your head's not in it."

I laughed softly, but his words stayed with me long after he left.

That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I made a decision. 

I would stop trying to force things. 

Camille knew how I felt. 

She knew I wanted to be in her life again, and it was up to her to decide if she wanted that too.

It wasn't easy, but there was a strange peace in letting go of control. 

For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe.

We weren't fully there yet, but we were closer than we'd been in years. 

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The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows of my apartment, casting a golden glow over the room. 

I sat curled up on the couch.

My mind was far away, trapped in memories I had spent years trying to bury. 

Memories of Charles.

I didn't want to admit it at first, even to myself, but he had been in my thoughts more than usual lately. 

Not just the fleeting memories of karting days or the awkwardness of seeing him around the paddock, but the good memories too. 

The way he used to make me laugh until my sides hurt. 

The quiet moments we shared between races, where it felt like the world was ours and no one else mattered.

He had hurt me. 

That was undeniable. 

The pain of his sudden departure and the silence that followed had left scars I wasn't sure would ever fade. 

But now, after all these years, I found myself wondering if I had been holding on to that pain for too long.

The conversation we had played over in my mind, his words lingering like an echo.

"I just wanted you to know that I never forgot you." he had said, his voice raw and unguarded. "And if there's ever a chance... if you can ever find it in you... I'd want to try."

There had been something in his eyes—regret, maybe, or hope—that I couldn't ignore. 

He wasn't the same boy who had walked away from me all those years ago. 

He had grown, and in some ways, so had I.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, my chest tightening with the weight of a realization I had been avoiding for weeks.

I was still in love with him.

It hit me like a punch to the gut, sudden and undeniable. 

The feelings I had buried so deeply had never truly disappeared. 

They had been there all along, hidden beneath layers of anger and hurt, waiting for a moment like this to resurface.

But what did that mean?

Could I let myself trust him again, knowing what he was capable of? 

Could I risk reopening old wounds for the chance of something real? 

The thought terrified me, but it also filled me with a strange sense of hope.

I stood and walked to the window, staring out at the city below. 

The world kept moving, indifferent to the storm of emotions swirling inside me.

Maybe there was room for us to try again.

It wouldn't be easy. 

There were still so many unanswered questions, so much hurt that hadn't been resolved. 

But if I was honest with myself, the idea of letting him back into my life—of seeing where this could go—didn't seem as impossible as it once had.

I pressed my palm against the glass, my heart pounding. 

Love was a risk, always had been. 

But maybe, just maybe, some risks were worth taking.