Sometimes, you'd have dreams of loud engines and fast cars. You'd dream of feeling the adrenaline in your body as you turn at the chicane like it was real. You'd dream of a bustling paddock filled with mechanics and engineers and journalists. The voice that came out when you'd respond was not your own, it was deep, with a slight English accent. You never quite got a glimpse of who it exactly was, or maybe you forgot every time you woke up again.

Sometimes, your family would be relieved at the sight of you with your hair tied up in it's usual style with your red string, muttering something about how you were back to your senses. You were confused, it was like they'd meet someone else in your place, and maybe they were, because for some odd reason some days left holes in your memories, not quite remembering where you went or what you ate.

Sometimes, Pepe would dream of the countryside, a life of peace and quiet, free from the constant stress of racing. He'd dream of nature and red tori shrines, the scent of incense filling his lungs as if he was right there. He'd join his grandmother and younger sister that weren't actually his every weekend to the temple, and conduct rituals that felt like second nature to him even if it wasn't. He felt lighter, smaller, like he was a grain in the bigger picture of the universe, and he'd constantly tie the red string around his wrist.

Sometimes, he'd wake up to journalists swarming him, asking him about things he doesn't remember saying. He'd wake up after the race, oddly refreshed and at ease until he realized he couldn't quite remember what happened at the race. His engineers would ask him if everything is alright and his teammate would tease him like he returned back to normal, but he's always been like this, right?