Until my Last Breath

80

Silverstone, The United Kingdom

"Wait-what do you mean you're not coming?"

I say it before I can stop myself. It's not accusatory, not exactly - but the sharpness is there, threaded through the fatigue in my voice. I've barely slept since Zandvoort. My head still rings with static.

Gavi's quiet on the other end of the line. I know he heard me. I can hear the faint background noise of his surroundings- something clinking, a glass maybe, the television low, Barcelona news playing in the distance.

"I... I just can't, Rita," he says finally, his voice soft, hesitant. "They need me here. It's a commitment I didn't see coming."

"But you said you'd be here," I whisper, already knowing this conversation is slipping somewhere I don't want it to go. "You promised. Silverstone is my home race Pablo."

He exhales heavily, like he's been holding it in. "I know. I hate this too."

I pull the phone tighter to my ear. I can't see his face, but I picture it anyway - jaw tense, eyes down, avoiding mine even through the screen.

My voice breaks. "I need this. I need you."

"I'm still here," he says too quickly. "I haven't gone anywhere."

"Except you have."

The silence crackles.

I hate the way I sound. Desperate. But I can't help it. We were supposed to have this weekend. To press pause. But now... he's far, and I'm exhausted. And the noise in my head is louder than ever.

"Can't you just come for one night?" I ask, almost begging. "Fly in after your thing, fly out the next morning? We barely even speak to each other anymore-"

"Rita," he cuts in, gentle but firm. "I can't."

A beat. Then another.

I blink up at the ceiling in my hotel room. It's cold and impersonal and still smells like the industrial cleaner from when they prepped it earlier. My racing suit is hanging in the corner. The British flag stitched on the back.
And I know he's not trying to hurt me. I know he wouldn't.

But it does.

It hurts anyway.

"Okay," I breathe, defeated. "Fine. I get it."

"Riri..."

"No," I say quickly, swallowing down the lump in my throat. "It's okay. We'll figure it out. We always do, right?"

There's a pause - long and quiet. And then, softly:
"I wish it were different."

"So do I," I say, trying not to sound like I'm breaking in two.

I hang up before either of us can say anything else.

Before I say something I can't take back.

Before I tell him that not seeing him this weekend means I probably won't see him for weeks - maybe even months - between race weekends, training, press, travel, and the never-ending spiral of this stupid sport.

Before I admit that I need to see him more than I need the podium.
That I miss him more than anything in my life.
That I really am struggling alone right now.

-
It's quiet.

The kind of quiet that presses in from the corners of the room. No music. No radio chatter. Not even the usual Red Bull engineers buzzing about with telemetry sheets or adjusting seat foam.