Until my Last Breath

78

Baku, Azerbaijan

The phone buzzes again, for the third time in five minutes.
I roll over in bed, squinting at the screen.
Gavi.

His name fills the screen, bright and insistent.
My heart softens automatically.

I answer. "Hey."

"Hey," he replies immediately, voice warm, a little breathless, like he's been waiting for me to pick up. "I miss you."

"I miss you too," I say, smiling despite myself.

It's been barely four days since the airport goodbye, but already it feels like forever.

He's been texting me nonstop-little good morning messages, random emojis, pictures of his breakfast, selfies with that stupid grin I love but that's way too bright at 6 a.m. He calls whenever he can, always ending the call with some silly, "I love you" or "Be safe."

I should be concerned, right?

But I'm not.

I love it.

His love and attention wrap around me like a warm blanket, keeping the loneliness at bay.

I'm the first to admit I'm enjoying it more than I thought I would.

When I text him back, telling him it's only one more week until we're together again, he changes the subject fast.

I don't notice the shift.

I want to believe it's normal. That it's just the nervousness of being apart after ten months of practically never being separated.

But sometimes, I catch a flicker in his words, a hesitation, a quickness that doesn't match his usual confident tone.

I push the thought away. Not now. Not when I need to focus.

Because this week, I'm buried deep in work.

The Baku Grand Prix is already buzzing around me like a swarm of bees, sticky with tension.

I'm supposed to be calm, collected, the cool-headed Red Bull reserve driver who knows the plan.

But I don't feel it.

The strategy meetings feel like a battle I'm not winning.

Every time I raise concerns about the tire wear predictions or the timing of the pit stops, I'm brushed off like I'm a rookie who doesn't understand the bigger picture.

Red Bull listens to Max's input like it's gospel.

Max, with his smirks and last-lap heroics, his endless track record of wins.

Me? I'm the voice nobody really wants to hear.

It stings.

But I don't say it out loud.

I bury it deep.

Instead, I focus on the track, the car, the rhythm of the weekend.

Gavi's texts pop up between team messages and strategy calls:

"Don't forget to drink water."
"How's your day? Did you see that sunset?"

They make me smile.

They remind me there's something real waiting for me outside this relentless world of racing politics and pressure.

After every call, I feel a little less alone, a little more grounded.

But then the strategy questions start gnawing at me again.