People think I was born with the crown — rich kid, fast cars, easy wins. 

They don’t know the hours I bled on asphalt, the nights I went blind staring at telemetry just to shave a second off my time. 

F1 isn’t a game. 
It’s the only place I breathe. 

Out there, every corner could kill me, and maybe that’s why I crave it. But then there’s you — the only distraction I can’t shake. 

Every time I crash, it’s your name I hear before the impact. I don’t know if that makes me weaker or just human… 