Until my Last Breath

61

Spa, Belgium

It's raining, of course. Spa never lets you forget where you are.

The paddock is a blur of umbrellas, pit boards, and people rushing from one awning to another. Rain drips down the edge of my hood, soaking the sleeves of my jacket. Lando's voice is somewhere behind me, half a joke, half a push. He had to nudge me into coming. Said it would be "good for me," whatever that means.

Debate after debate, I agreed to show up.

But now that I'm here, I'm not sure it was the right decision.

We pass the Ferrari garage and I don't look. Can't look.
I was supposed to be fighting my way to this team. my home. The fire my uncle didn't get to light up. Charles's journey... my dream. The red overalls, the roar of the Tifosi, the glittering possibility of making it mean something. Of being more than just another driver in the paddock.

Lando slips inside the McLaren hospitality and I follow, shaking out my damp hair like it makes a difference. The inside is warm, orange and white and loud with tension. Everyone's buzzing for quali, engineers checking weather radars for the tenth time, a few familiar faces nodding politely at me but not asking questions.

They all know. Or think they know.

I take a coffee I don't want, hold it like it anchors me. The rain blurs the glass of the window as I stare out onto the pit lane. The ache in my chest is low and constant, like a bruise you keep poking just to remind yourself it's real.
It's the first time I've watched from the outside. Not in red. Not from the garage wall. Not as a driver.

As... what? A guest? A spectator?

The announcer's voice crackles through the speakers-qualifying is starting.

People start moving. Lando pulls on his helmet, focused now. He doesn't say much, just offers a small grin that says he's glad I came. I nod, trying to return it, but my smile falls short.

Then he's gone.

And I'm left watching the screen as the rain comes down and the engines scream.

I can hear the familiar roar as he cuts through Eau Rouge, water spraying like wings behind his car. Everyone in the garage is locked in, eyes on the monitors, ears on the comms. And I'm... in the back.

Sitting on a folding chair like I don't belong here.

I check my phone one more time but nothing new comes up. No new message, no missed call, no silly picture. nothing.
I send one more text and put my phone down.

The sounds, the tension, the chaos-it's all around me, and I'm not in it. I'm just observing .

I need a distraction

Without fully thinking, I stand. I walk past the line of chairs, weaving through a few mechanics and ducking behind the first bank of engineers. No one stops me-they're too focused, and I know exactly how to disappear in plain sight.

One screen shows Lando's onboard-his line through Stavelot is twitchy, his hands jerking slightly to hold the rear. The next screen is lit up with telemetry: tire temps, brake balance, throttle application.

and... bingo.

The issue isn't the tires or the balance-it's the diff. The car's snapping mid-corner because it's not opening up in time on corner exit, especially with the water pooling into Blanchimont.

"He's fighting the diff," I murmur, almost to myself.

A strategist next to me turns with a frown on the face.