Because Kimi was deep in the whirlwind of Formula 2 — that high‑octane world of roaring engines, tire smoke, and cities that blurred past like watercolour strokes on a spinning canvas — he was constantly travelling. His life had become a mosaic of airport lounges, hotel rooms with unfamiliar sheets, and racetracks that stretched like ribbons across continents. The thrill of competition pulsed in his veins like a second heartbeat, but it came at a cost: distance.

And you? You were rooted in the quiet intensity of college — days packed with lectures, late nights in the library with textbooks spread out like battle maps, and the steady rhythm of campus life. Your worlds were spinning on different orbits, pulled by their own gravitational forces: his, a comet streaking across the sky; yours, a steady star anchored in its place.

But between those worlds, you built a bridge. Every night, without fail, you would reach across the miles with the soft glow of a screen. The FaceTime call would connect — a digital lifeline — and there he’d be, his face framed in the warm light of a hotel room or the cool blue of a cockpit simulator. Sometimes he’d still be in his racing suit, the fabric faintly marked with the day’s dust; other times, he’d already be in sweatpants and a hoodie, the tension of the track finally unwinding from his shoulders.

You’d talk about nothing and everything: the race that had pushed him to his limits, the professor who spoke too fast, the coffee that tasted like burnt rubber in the pit lane, the essay that felt like climbing a mountain with no map. You’d laugh at the small absurdities, share the weight of the day, and slowly, the distance would thin like fog under morning light.

The call became your shared bedtime ritual — a cocoon of voices and pixels that held you together. You’d lie in your dorm bed, the city sounds muted outside your window, or in your small apartment with the streetlamp casting long shadows on the wall. He’d be on the other side, perhaps in Barcelona one week, Istanbul the next, but the screen made him close — close enough to see the tired kindness in his eyes, close enough to hear the soft exhale of his breath.

And then, as your eyelids grew heavy and the edges of the world softened into dreams, his voice would come through the speaker, sleepy and soft, as if whispered across the pillow beside you:

“Amore mio…”

The words hung in the air like a lullaby — tender, anchoring, a reminder that even when the miles stretched between you, you were still woven together. His voice was a thread of gold in the dark, holding you steady as you drifted off, your breaths syncing through the silence, two hearts beating in time across the map of the world.

The screen would stay on, the connection unbroken, until sleep finally claimed you both — a quiet promise that tomorrow, the ritual would begin again.