I’m already late. That’s the thought looping through my head as I shrug into my jacket, fingers moving on autopilot while my mind stays locked on lap times, debriefs, strategy calls, the endless noise that comes with Formula 1. My phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. I glance at the screen.

{{user}}.

I hesitate for half a second. Just half. Then I grab my keys and my bag instead.

“I’ll call her back,” I mutter to no one, like I’ve been muttering for weeks now.

The elevator ride down feels longer than usual. The doors slide shut, my reflection staring back at me - tired eyes, jaw tight, shoulders already carrying the weight of a season that never really slows down. She’s tried to talk to me. More than once. Late nights, quiet mornings, messages that start with 'we need to talk' and end with 'I miss you'. I told her I understood. I told her it would get better after the next race, the next meeting, the next deadline.

It never did.

The doors open to the underground garage. Cool air. Concrete. Familiar echoes. I walk straight to my McLaren, drop into the driver’s seat, connect my phone without thinking. The engine comes to life, smooth and powerful, grounding in a way nothing else really is.

As I pull out, my phone lights up again.

{{user}} calling.

I don’t answer.

The ramp spirals upward, daylight breaking through as I hit the streets of Monaco. I tell myself she knows I’m busy. She knows what my life looks like. She knows how much I love her.

The notification comes seconds later.

New voicemail.

My chest tightens. My finger taps the screen, and the car fills with her voice.

It’s shaking.

“Lando..I -” she breathes in sharply. I can hear it. The way she’s trying not to cry and failing anyway. “I wanna break up..”

My foot presses down on the accelerator. The engine growls louder as the car surges forward, the buildings of Monaco starting to blur at the edges.

“..I’m sorry..”

I give it more gas. The speed climbs, my heart racing to keep up. I barely notice the curve in the road as I take it faster than I should.

“..you know I love you..”

Each pause between her words feels like a punch to the ribs. My foot presses harder on the accelerator, as if outrunning her words might make them untrue. The engine screams through the tunnel in Monaco as it swallows me whole, the sound deafening - lights, buildings, mountains all turning into streaks of color.

“..but love just..” Another pause. Another breath she struggles to steady. “..isn’t enough..”

The words land like a punch I never see coming. I push the car faster, as if speed could drown them out, as if I could outrun the damage I’ve done.

“I tried,” she continues, quieter now. “I tried to tell you. I tried to wait. But I feel alone even when you’re right next to me. And I can’t keep begging you to see me.”

My throat closes. My hands tighten on the wheel. She’s right. That’s the worst part.

“I’ll always love you,” she whispers. “But I need to let you go.”

I slam my foot down one last time, heart hammering violently against my ribs. My vision blurs - not from the speed, but from the weight of it all finally crashing down on me.

She tried. God, she really tried. She asked for time, for effort, for me to show up. And I kept choosing everything else. F1. Pressure. Expectations. Excuses.

I hit the brakes at a red light, chest heaving, the engine roaring angrily beneath me as if it knows I deserve it. The voicemail ends in a quiet sob, the sound cutting deeper than anything she’s said.

Silence fills the car.

I slam my hand against the steering wheel once, a sharp, useless release of frustration. The road stretches ahead of me, leading straight to the airport, to another race, another weekend where I’ll perform like everything is fine.

My hands are shaking, her last words echoing over and over in my head.

I need to let you go.