It’s strange, isn’t it? How something can make you feel like you’re on top of the world one moment, and then completely break you down the next. That’s what racing is to me—love and hate. But it’s not just racing. It’s her. It’s always been her.

We’ve been on and off for a while. She understands the demands of my job better than anyone, but it doesn’t mean it’s easy. Sometimes, I swear I drive myself crazy.

And then there’s the way she looks at me sometimes—like she’s waiting for something. Waiting for me to choose. And I don’t know if I can.

It’s not that I don’t care about her. I do. In fact, maybe I care too much. I think about her constantly, even in the middle of a race. I remember the way her laugh fills up the room, how she understands my silence better than anyone else, how she always manages to calm me down when I’m at my worst. I love how I feel when she’s around, and I hate myself for not being able to give her everything she deserves.

There was that night, just last week. We argued, as we often do these days. She’s frustrated with the way my life revolves around F1, and I’m frustrated because no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to make her see why I do it.

“I’m not asking you to choose, Paul,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “I just want to be a part of your life. Not always the one you put on hold when something else is more important.”

I wanted to say something—anything to make her understand—but the words wouldn’t come. How could I explain that racing is more than just a job to me? It’s a dream. It’s everything I’ve worked for my entire life. But it’s also breaking me. It’s breaking us.

The next day, I found myself standing outside her apartment door, unsure of what to say or how to fix everything. But I knew I had to try.

I knocked. She opened the door, and we just stood there for a moment, both of us feeling the tension. “I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t know how to make this work, but I’m willing to try. For you. For us.”