national treasures| Charles Leclerc

thirty-four

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The quiet of the hotel room feels heavier than it should, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions running through me. 

The hum of the city outside is distant, barely audible, but in here, it's just us. 

Just the weight of everything we've been through, the moments that led to this—together, alone, after everything. 

It presses down on me, more than any race ever could. 

The pressure of it all—the races, the eyes always on us, the constant pull of the media—it has a way of making everything feel suffocating. 

But when I look at Camille, when I see her sitting there beside me, it's like everything else falls away.

I've spent so much time trying to navigate the chaos, trying to protect her, protect us from all the outside noise, that I think I almost forgot to just be with her. 

Just us. 

For a moment, the world feels small again. 

Like we're just two people, sitting in this room, trying to figure it all out. 

The past, the present—it's all tangled together, and yet, it's clear. 

There's no more running, no more uncertainty. 

Not for me.

Not with her.

I turn to her, my eyes soft but steady. 

I know what I'm about to say isn't just a confession. 

It's everything. 

Every moment we've shared. 

Every feeling I've hidden or been too afraid to voice. 

The years apart, the pain, the mistakes—it's all led to this. 

She's here, and so am I. 

And for the first time, I feel like I can breathe with her again.

I take a deep breath, steady myself for a moment, and let the words slip out. 

It feels both terrifying and freeing. "I love you. I always have."

There's a rawness to it, an honesty that feels like it's been building forever, and I know she can feel it, too. 

Every part of me aches to make her understand just how true those words are, how much of my heart belongs to her.

The connection we share—it's never been something I could put into simple terms.

But right now, in this moment, I don't need to explain. 

She knows me. 

She knows us.

The vulnerability in saying it out loud makes my heart race, but it also feels right. 

Like the weight of all our shared moments has finally found its place. 

In her eyes, I can see that she's hearing me—really hearing me. 

And for the first time, I know that I'm not just saying these words to fill a space. 

I'm saying them because it's true. 

And because it's time.

I love her. 

I always have. 

And I'm not letting her go again.

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His words hit me like a wave, unexpected and overwhelming. 

My heart stumbles in my chest as the weight of them sinks in. 

I love you. I always have.

I didn't realize how much I needed to hear them—how much I've longed for them—until they're out in the open, hanging between us like a bridge connecting the past and the present. 

The rush of emotion catches me off guard, and I feel a shift inside, like all the walls I've built around my heart start to crack open. 

For so long, I've been so caught up in the noise—the media, the pressure, the fear of failure—that I never fully stopped to acknowledge the space he still occupies in my heart.

I look at him, really look at him, and for the first time in so long, the tension in my chest starts to loosen. 

I've carried so much weight for so long, trying to protect myself from the fear of what might happen if we got too close again. 

But now, in this room, with him here, those fears feel a little less sharp. 

The past doesn't feel as heavy as it once did. 

Instead, it feels like a thread that ties us together—not something that drags us down, but something that can hold us up.

His eyes are full of sincerity, full of hope, and I feel it in my bones. 

I'm not running anymore. 

And I'm not letting the past dictate what we could be, what we can rebuild. 

I take a deep breath, allowing myself to let go, to be vulnerable in a way I never thought I could again.

"I love you, too," I whisper, my voice trembling, but I don't pull away. 

Instead, I allow myself to feel the truth of it. 

It's not just a reply; it's everything I've been carrying all this time, finally finding its voice. 

The weight of the years we've spent apart, the struggles we've faced, all of it suddenly feels like it can be rebuilt.

This isn't just a confession.

It's a promise. 

A promise that we're not done yet. 

That we can find our way back, not just to who we were, but to something new. 

Something stronger. 

Something worth fighting for. 

And I believe it now. 

I believe in us.

In this moment, the past feels less like a burden and more like the foundation for everything we can still become. 

Together.