national treasures| Charles Leclerc

twenty-five

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The buzz of the crowd still echoed in my ears as I walked out of the event, my mind far from the flashing cameras and the scripted answers. 

The night had been a whirlwind, another PR appearance, another round of rehearsed questions, but all I could think about was Camille.

She had been there, of course, present in the same room, a constant presence in the periphery of my mind. 

But as the event wore on, the more I realized how little we had actually talked. 

The more I felt the distance between us stretching further.

I thought we'd gotten somewhere, or at least I hoped we had. 

We had shared moments, even conversations that felt like progress. 

She had let me in, just a little, and I thought, hoped, that maybe we were on the verge of something. 

But tonight, that hope felt fragile. 

Like glass on the verge of shattering.

I hadn't wanted to push her, but every time I saw her with that guarded look in her eyes, it felt like a challenge I couldn't ignore. 

She was closed off, distant in a way I didn't fully understand. 

And I wasn't sure if it was because she didn't trust me or because she was afraid of what we might become if we let ourselves be too close again.

The silence between us after the event weighed on me. 

The kind of silence that had never been there before, not even when things had been difficult between us. 

Now, it was like we were tiptoeing around something unspoken, and I couldn't tell if I was pushing too hard or if she was just waiting for me to say something more.

I thought back to the night we talked in private when she had been vulnerable, letting me see a crack in the armour she wore so carefully. 

I wanted to believe that there was hope for us, that we could rebuild something real, but tonight made me wonder if I was reading everything wrong.

Should I keep pressing for an honest conversation? 

Or was it better to give her space, and let her come to me when she was ready? 

I hated that I didn't have the answer. 

The uncertainty gnawed at me, the fear of pushing her away hanging like a heavy weight on my chest.

I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. 

I could feel the tension between us like an invisible rope, pulled too tight. 

Too fragile. 

I just wanted to fix it, but I couldn't even figure out how to start.

Maybe I was too eager.

Maybe I was rushing things.

But the thought of losing her again, of never getting the chance to make things right, scared me more than I wanted to admit.

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The air between Charles and me felt different lately, heavier in a way I couldn't quite shake off. 

I kept replaying the little moments—the glances we exchanged, the half-finished conversations, the silence that seemed to grow louder with each passing day. 

It was like we were both walking on eggshells, afraid to say the wrong thing, but also desperate to say something that would bridge the gap between us.

I could feel it in the way he looked at me sometimes, like he wanted to say something, but he wasn't sure if he should. 

It was the same look he gave me when we were younger, before everything fell apart, before he left for F1 and left me behind. 

I hated how familiar it felt, but it also made me wonder if there was still a part of him that regretted how things ended.

But even as that thought lingered in my mind, I couldn't ignore the weight of everything that had come before. 

The years of hurt and confusion. 

The words we never said, the ones that still haunted me. 

Could I ever truly forgive him for how he left? 

For breaking my heart in the most painful way possible?

I loved him. 

I knew that much. 

I still did, despite the anger, the betrayal, the years apart. 

There was a part of me that wanted to believe things could be different, that we could find our way back to what we once had, but I wasn't sure if I was ready to open myself up to him again. 

To the vulnerability, the risk, the possibility of getting hurt once more.

Every time we spoke, every time he looked at me with that same intensity, I felt the pull between us. It was undeniable, but so was the fear. 

The fear that maybe I was holding on to a version of him that no longer existed, or worse, maybe I was holding on to a version of us that could never come back. 

I wasn't sure if I could do that again.

But I couldn't keep avoiding it. 

The tension between us wasn't something we could keep dancing around forever. 

We had to face it, confront the past, and figure out if there was a future worth fighting for.

I closed my eyes, exhaling a slow breath. 

I knew the hard conversation was coming. 

I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, like something I couldn't outrun. 

But the question lingered in the back of my mind—was I ready to forgive him? 

Was I ready to open my heart to him again, knowing how much it could hurt?

I wasn't sure. 

Not yet. 

But I did know one thing—no matter how much I tried to fight it, part of me would always love him.