Ice and asphalt [Charles Leclerc]

54

2023

I pull back the curtains of my bedroom window, the soft morning light spilling into the room and illuminating the city of Bergamo. For the past two years, this has been my home—a place that feels both foreign and familiar. The rolling hills and cobblestone streets below are a stark contrast to the life I once had.

Living here with Angelina has been... grounding, in its way. My parents practically shackled me to her the moment I agreed to the hip surgery, afraid I'd spiral again. I couldn't blame them. We all know the truth by now—I was a walking disaster, and my last manic episode nearly destroyed everything.

This time was worse than the first. I didn't just hurt myself. This time, I lost the most important person to me.

Charles.

Even now, the thought of him feels like a punch to the gut. Losing him wasn't just losing a boyfriend. It was losing my anchor, my future, my home. And no matter how much time passes, no matter how much therapy I've had, the sting of his absence hasn't dulled.

And it wasn't just Charles I pushed away.

My friends, my family—no matter how hard they try to deny it, our relationships aren't the same. They've forgiven me, or at least they say they have, but there's a distance now, a quiet hesitance in their love. I feel it every time I visit home, every time I see Arthur or Pierre or Vic. They're kind, supportive, but careful, as though I might shatter if they say the wrong thing.

And maybe they're right.

I grip the window frame, letting the cool breeze brush against my face. Bergamo has been good for me. It's a small world here, one where I can focus on myself without the weight of everyone's expectations. Angelina's been my rock—her tough love keeping me in check, her belief in my recovery unwavering.

And then there's the ice.

I glance at my skates resting by the door. Skating is the one thing that still feels like mine, the one thing that lets me breathe when everything else feels too heavy. My hip isn't perfect—it never will be—but I'm on the ice again, moving, spinning, gliding. I'll never compete at the level I once dreamed of, but that's okay. For now, it's enough.

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath.

Two years. Two years since I almost drowned, since I tore my life apart piece by piece. Some days, it feels like a lifetime ago. Other days, it feels like yesterday.

And no matter how much I've healed, some wounds remain open.

Because I know that Charles is out there, living his life without me.

I've learned to let it go—or at least, that's what I tell myself. Charles has moved on, and so have I.

At first, it hurt like hell. Those first few months were unbearable, and I let myself spiral—calling him every day, replaying his interviews, dissecting every word he said in post-race conferences as if he might slip up and say something about me. But that version of me is gone now, tucked away with everything else that I've buried.

I don't call him anymore. I don't watch the races. I don't scroll through his Instagram to see what he's up to. Or her. His new girlfriend.

Arthur mentioned her once, carefully, like he was afraid the words might break me. He didn't need to worry, though. I just nodded, acted like it didn't matter, and moved on. That's what I do now—I move on.

I barely blinked when the photos started popping up, her in the places I used to be, her hand in his where mine used to fit. I even double-tapped a few of them. She seems nice. Pretty, too, in that effortlessly classic way. The kind of girl his family probably loves.