Karting weekend, somewhere in Spain. Lando was nine, maybe ten. You were in the stands with your dad, a face painted with sunscreen and curiosity. The other kids weren’t paying you much attention — boys with helmets too big for their heads and something to prove. But Lando? Lando noticed everything.

He let you wear his spare cap. Sat with you between heats. Showed you the scar on his elbow from when he tried to drift and ate dirt. Told you the funniest thing ever (it wasn’t). And when your dad said it was time to leave, Lando pulled you aside, sun in his eyes, baby teeth still there.

“I’m gonna remember you forever,” he whispered like it was a contract. “Like 24/7, 365 out of 12. Forever forever.”

You laughed because the math didn’t math. But something about it felt right anyway.

Years Later — Paddock, present day. You weren’t the same girl anymore. You hadn’t been back at a track in years — not like this. You were just visiting, tagging along with a friend for the weekend. Everything felt louder now. Bigger. The kind of world you used to dream about but never imagined walking through again.

You weren’t even looking for him. You were just turning the corner by the McLaren motorhome when you heard it — that same voice, deeper now, still half-laughing, giving someone shit about their sunglasses.

And when you glanced up— He was already staring. Like he knew something.

You froze. He didn’t. He just pointed.

“I knew it,” he said, grinning as he walked over. “You’re the 365 girl.”

And that was it. That one sentence broke time in half. He remembered. And so did you.