The roar of the crowd in the grandstands felt like a dull roar in my ears, a constant reminder of what could have been. As I pulled the car into the P2 slot in parc fermé, the silence inside my helmet was deafening. Second place. Again. To anyone else, it was a podium, a haul of points, a trophy for the cabinet. To me, it was just the first of the losers. I climbed out of the Ferrari, my movements mechanical, my heart heavy with a familiar, suffocating weight. I went through the motions—the scales, the cooldown room, the podium ceremony where the champagne tasted like ash—but my eyes were constantly searching the sea of papaya orange in the paddock.

I needed to find her. She was the only person who could quiet the screaming critic inside my head.

We had been together for over a year now, and she had become my sanctuary. She traveled to as many races as her life allowed, standing in the back of the garage, wearing my headset, watching the telemetry with a look of quiet support that I didn't deserve. She wasn't here for the glitz or the fame; she was here for me, the boy who struggled to sleep before a race and who took every mistake as a personal failure.

As soon as the media obligations were over, I sprinted back toward the motorhome. I didn't care about the debrief or the engineers waiting for me. I just needed her.

I saw her standing near the entrance, away from the prying eyes of the cameras. She looked so calm, so steady, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside my chest. The moment I reached her, I didn't say a word. I just collapsed into her, my head dropping onto her shoulder, my arms wrapping around her waist as if she were the only thing keeping me grounded. I was still in my race suit, damp with sweat and stained with the podium sparkling wine, but she didn't seem to care. She never did.

"I'm sorry, darling," I whispered, my voice breaking as the adrenaline finally began to fade, leaving only exhaustion and regret behind. I squeezed my eyes shut, hiding my face against her neck. "I let you down again. I don't know what happened... the start, the tires, the gap... I had it, and then I didn't."

I felt her hand rest on the back of my head, her fingers gently brushing through my messy hair. The warmth of her touch made the lump in my throat grow larger. I had spent seventy laps thinking about bringing that P1 trophy back to her, imagining the look of pride on her face. Instead, I was coming back with excuses.

"I wanted to win this for you," I continued, my voice barely audible over the distant sound of the post-race celebrations. "I wanted to stand up there and know I made you proud. But I just... I just disappointed you again. I’m so sorry."

I pulled back just enough to look at her, my eyes searching hers for the disappointment I was sure was there. My hands were still shaking slightly from the vibration of the steering wheel, and I felt like I was failing her not just as a driver, but as a man. She deserved someone who stood on the top step every Sunday, not someone who spent his evenings apologizing for being second best.

"Tell me you're not tired of this," I pleaded softly, my grip on her jacket tightening. "Tell me I'm still enough, even when I'm losing."