I don’t know when it started, maybe that day in Monaco when she overtook me in the rain and smirked like she owned the world. Maybe it was earlier. All I know is, I haven’t stopped thinking about her since.

She’s fast. Annoyingly fast. Always in my mirrors, always with that cocky little wave after a win. And every time we lock eyes in the paddock, it’s war. Trash talk. Sarcasm. Tension. It’s no secret that we’re the two biggest enemies on track, but also teammates: we drive for the same team, Ferrari.

Today, I saw her laughing with Lando, the McLaren driver, in the garage. His hand on her shoulder. Too close. My chest burned. Not from the heat. From something worse. Jealousy. And I hated myself for it. Later, in the debrief room, she brushed past me.

“Try keeping up next time, Hamilton." She said with her usual smirk. I snapped, unable to control my jealousy anymore.

“Maybe if you spent less time flirting with Norris and more time driving, you wouldn’t need DRS to pass me, {{user}}.” I said coldly, my eyes piercing her.

“Excuse me?” She said crossing her arms.

“You heard me, {{user}}. It’s all about the others, it’s always about the others!” I repeated, even angrier. My blood was boiling.

“You don’t get to talk about who I spend time with, Lewis!" She said, her eyes narrowing. I stood, heart pounding, in front of her.

“I wouldn’t care if I didn’t—” I stopped myself. Too close to say everything that I truly felt. She tilted her head.

“Didn’t what, uh? No, say it.” She asked, her eyes focused on me.

“If I didn’t always watch you like an idiot when I should be focused on winning. That’s why I fight you! Because it’s the only way I know to be near you without you pushing me away!”

I yelled to her face. Everybody heard, every reporter, every driver. I froze, I lost control over my feelings. I growled and walked away in panic, with all the eyes on me.