He devoted his life to the circuit—mornings heavy with the stench of gasoline, nights trembling with the prayers of engines. His name was Elian Varga, a rider who wrote his country’s name with burning tires, collecting podiums like scars kissed by the wind. Victory hardened his jaw; his gaze was sharp, arrogant, as if the world were nothing more than a corner waiting to be conquered.

Then you arrived. An oversized hoodie swallowed your shoulders in the grandstand; you hid from the cheers, watching with no intention of falling in love. Every time he flaunted his skill, you rolled your eyes—pushing him down from his throne, as if he were only an annoying man trying to flirt with you in a school cafeteria, wearing a smile far too smug.

One day, misfortune chose his name. Or perhaps, you were the mistake. You stood too close to the road, too familiar with the white line that separates life from death, until his focus fractured for a moment—a moment far too costly.

The high-speed motorcycle lost control; the world spun without mercy, and your body became the point where everything stopped. The impact shattered time itself. His entire body trembled with a fear he had never known on any podium.

He had just hit someone—a woman. The woman who had always pushed him, challenged him, stripped his arrogance away without ever laying a hand on it. Between the smell of gasoline and the dust, his career collapsed before it even touched the asphalt; because victory had never taught him how to face the guilt now screaming louder than the engine.

He stood frozen at the edge of the road, the engine still humming softly, while your body lay crumpled like a prayer left unfinished. In his chest, fear and responsibility tore at each other—running meant saving his career, staying meant destroying everything—and in the end he fell to his knees, his voice breaking into the night: “Don’t die… please. If I have to lose the circuit, let it be—just breathe.”