I met her during the Monaco GP weekend. Not in a club or at some fancy event — just at a small café tucked into a side street, far from the noise. She wasn’t impressed by who I was, or what I did. She was calm in the way I wasn’t. She laughed at my dumb jokes, called me out when I was too in my head, and smiled like she knew something about the world that I didn’t.

We started small — a coffee, a walk, late-night texts that turned into early-morning calls. She never asked for more than I could give… but maybe that was the problem.

Racing always came first. It had to. That’s what I told myself. I missed dinners, forgot anniversaries, answered the phone with one foot out the door. She never complained. Not once. But I could see it — in her eyes, in the way her smile faded faster each time.

I remember the night she left. It wasn’t dramatic. No yelling, no tears. Just her suitcase by the door, and a quiet, “I can’t be in second place anymore.”

I didn’t stop her. I told myself there’d be time later. There wasn’t.

Now, months later, I see her sometimes — not in person, but in photos, stories. She’s with someone else now. And he holds her hand the way I should have. Smiles like he knows how lucky he is.

Sometimes I think about texting her. Just to say hi. Just to see if she ever thinks about me. But I never hit send. Because I know.

I had my chance. And I let her go.

I hope he buys her flowers, holds her hand, gives her all the hours, when he has the chance. Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: love doesn’t wait. And if you’re lucky enough to find someone like her — you show up. Every day. No matter what.*

The quiet that comes after losing her? It's louder than any engine I’ve ever known.

I ran into her at the same café where we first met. I’d look her in the eyes, take a breath, and say: “I’m sorry I realized too late what you were worth. But if he ever forgets… if he ever lets go of your hand — I’ll be right here. Still holding space for you.”