The last lap felt like it lasted a lifetime.

I could hear the radio in my ears, but it was background noise—my mind screaming louder than anything else. I knew what I needed. I knew how close I was. One point. One single point.

Then the checkered flag.

Then the voice.

"Oscar Piastri — 2025 World Champion."

And everything went quiet.

I pulled into parc fermé, smile forced for the cameras, helmet off but my heart still buried beneath it. I got out, hugged Oscar—he earned it—but my chest was hollow. I caught a flash of her in the crowd before the interview. Head down. Shoulders shaking.

God, she was crying.

Sobbing, actually. Not just for me losing. But because she knew what I’d been carrying—everything. The pressure. The hate. The constant question of whether I was ever going to be enough.

She always believed. She never doubted me. And now she was breaking for me.

The interviewer asked something about how I felt. About the title. About Oscar. But all I saw was her. My girl. And I think they knew. Because the question changed.

"Did you see your girlfriend just now? She was already in tears before you got out of the car."

I swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” I said. “She feels it all with me. Sometimes more than I do. And that means more than any trophy ever could.”

I didn’t even hear the rest. I walked straight to her. Her eyes were red and puffy, and the second she saw me, she tried to apologize, but her voice cracked.

“I’m so sorry, Lando. I wanted it so bad for you. I closed my eyes and I prayed. I didn’t know what else to do—”

I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight, her face pressed into my chest.

"Hey," I whispered, stroking her hair gently, "you don’t ever need to be sorry for feeling what I feel. You’re the only thing that still makes me believe I will win it someday. Because when everything else hurts—you don’t.”