national treasures| Charles Leclerc

thirty

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

I knew it was only a matter of time before the media caught on. 

In a world like ours, secrets don't stay hidden for long, and the chemistry between Camille and me is anything but subtle. 

The stolen glances, the brief touches—we might've thought we were being careful, but apparently, not careful enough. 

Now, it's everywhere: headlines dissecting our every interaction, journalists asking thinly veiled questions during press conferences, and social media filled with endless speculation.

It's not just about us, though. 

They're relentless with Camille. 

They bring up her every move on and off the track, questioning whether she's "too distracted" to perform at the level expected of her. 

And of course, they can't resist dredging up the past—our past. 

Every mistake, every rumour, every detail of our breakup is suddenly back in the spotlight. 

It's exhausting, and if it's this overwhelming for me, I can only imagine how she's feeling.

She doesn't let it show, though. 

Camille has always been strong—stronger than most people I've ever known. 

She faces the press with her chin up, and answers their questions with the kind of poise that leaves them with no ammunition to use against her. 

But I know her too well. 

I can see the cracks, the weight she's carrying, even if she refuses to acknowledge it.

And that's what scares me the most.

I know what this world is like. 

It chews you up and spits you out if you let it, and being the first female driver in F1 means she's already under a microscope. 

The scrutiny she faces every day is unlike anything I've ever dealt with. 

And now, with the added pressure of us—whatever we are—it's only getting worse.

I hate that I might be part of the problem. 

I hate that our connection, something that feels so real and right when we're alone, is being twisted into a spectacle for the world to pick apart. 

It makes me question whether this is fair to her, and whether being with me will only make things harder for her.

But then I think about how she looks at me when it's just the two of us. 

The softness in her eyes, the way her guard comes down—those moments remind me why I can't let fear dictate what we have. 

She makes me feel like I can be more than just the guy in the car, more than the driver everyone expects me to be. 

She makes me feel human, and vulnerable in a way that scares me but also grounds me.

Still, the media's relentless attention stirs up old insecurities I thought I'd buried. 

What if I'm not enough for her? 

What if I'm just another distraction, another obstacle she has to overcome? 

I want to protect her, to shield her from the noise, but I also know I can't fight this battle for her. 

Camille doesn't need saving—she never has.