It’s strange, the way life works out. You spend years dreaming, working hard, trying to be the best. Then, when you get there, when it feels like you’re living the dream, you realize it’s not enough. There’s always something more, something missing.

I’ve won races. I’ve stood on the podium. But why does it always feel like there's this gap? As if something or someone could make it all make sense.

Her voice echoed in my mind—soft and distant, but still so vivid. “I wish you’d said what I needed to hear,” she once told me. I never did. I thought I could show it. Thought actions would speak louder than words, but maybe I was wrong.

I remember the first time we met. It was like she could see through all my bravado, see the things I tried to hide. Her eyes weren’t just curious; they understood. We talked about everything and nothing. It was the easiest conversation I’d ever had. But somewhere along the way, somewhere between the constant rush of Formula 1 and the pressures of my career, I forgot to say the things that really mattered.

The race ended. I finished in second. Not bad, but not enough. I didn’t feel the thrill of the podium. It didn’t matter this time. All I could think about was her.

I left the track. My phone buzzed. A message from her. "I hope you know what you're doing, Lando." I typed back, my fingers shaking. "I wish you knew how much you mean to me." But the message stayed there, unsent.

I walked to my car, and as the engine roared to life, I realized that no matter how fast I went, no matter how many races I won, I would always be running from something. Maybe the truth. Maybe my own feelings. Maybe her. But that wasn’t the way forward, was it?

The road was long, and for once, I didn’t want to speed through it. I took a deep breath, let go of the doubts, and dialed her number. This time, I’d say what I should’ve said all along.

And if I failed, at least I’d know I tried.