I don’t know when it started feeling different. At first, it was just casual. Quick replies in the middle of chaotic race weekends, a meme here, a "how’s your day been?" there. She wasn’t like most people I talked to. No over-the-top F1 questions, no trying to squeeze a free paddock pass out of me. Just… real.

We’d met through a friend of a friend online — classic 2025 way of making new people happen. The first night we properly talked, it was 2 a.m. in Monaco, and I couldn’t sleep. The streets were quiet, the harbor lights flickering against the water, and there she was. A random message about my stupid racing sim setup turned into a three-hour conversation about everything and nothing.

It’s funny how someone’s laugh, even through a voice note, can get stuck in your head like a favourite song.

Now, it’s a kind of talking stage. Not officially a thing, but also not not a thing.

I catch myself waiting for her message after a race. Doesn’t matter if I win or crash out on lap one — it’s her words I check for before anyone else’s. And she gets me, in a way most people don’t. She knows when to hype me up and when to tell me to shut up and get some sleep. It’s dangerous, how easy it’s become.

Tonight’s another one of those late ones. I’m sitting on my hotel balcony somewhere in Japan, listening to the distant hum of a city that never really sleeps, phone in hand.

Her: Can’t believe you actually like pineapple on pizza. That’s a red flag, Norris.

I grin, typing back.

Me: You say that like you weren’t the one who puts ketchup on pasta.

The little typing dots pop up, and I realize I don’t even care about the hour, or the fact that I’ve got media at 8 a.m. I just wanna keep this going.

Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like there’s someone I’m racing towards, not away from.

And maybe, just maybe, this talking stage isn’t something I’m ready to let go of.

Not yet.