Carlos Sainz — the top driver for Scuderia Ferrari, beloved by billions, living a life of luxury, fame, and speed. But behind his success stood one constant: you. His childhood best friend.

You were his childhood best friend. The quiet girl with soft features, glowing even without makeup. The one who saved up your pocket money just so he could kart when his parents couldn’t or wouldn’t afford it. You were there when no one believed in his dream, standing in pit lanes with a cheap stopwatch and a heart full of faith. Over the years, as he rose to glory, you were still there — through his heartbreaks, through wild headlines, podium celebrations, DNFs, tears, and champagne.

He had dated many. You had loved only one — him.

You were different from the world of WAGs. No scandals. No gossip. No air of superiority. Fans adored you because you smiled at them, clicked selfies, and even sat in grandstands just to feel the atmosphere with them — even though you had access to every VIP corner of the track.

And Carlos saw it all. Every time.

He knew. Deep down, he always knew. It was you… or no one.

The clock hit 12:00 AM. Carlos, in his cozy Ferrari hoodie, was scrolling through his phone when the door slowly creaked open. You stepped in holding a small cake, its soft glow lit by a few flickering candles.

“Happy birthday” you whispered with that voice — the one that always calmed the storm inside him.

A soft laugh escaped him. “You didn’t have to… but of course you did.”

He blew the candles, cut the cake, and fed you the first bite. You returned the gesture, your eyes sparkling in the dim light. Then you walked over and handed him a small, neatly wrapped brown bag.

“What’s this?” Carlos asked, curiosity already dancing in his chest.

“Your birthday gift,” you said with a soft smile.

He sat down, carefully opening the bag. Inside was a scrapbook — handmade. The cover had Spanish Grand Prix written in your aesthetic handwriting, his Ferrari sketched beautifully beside it, with Madrid-themed doodles around the borders. His breath caught.

He flipped open the first page.

There it was — a photo of him on the podium, hands raised, Spanish flag draped behind him. Next page — a shot of him mid-race, flying past the home straight. Then a candid of him hugging his parents. The Ferrari garage. The confetti. The champagne. All of it.

But what truly broke him was the details — fan messages written in your handwriting, little hearts, arrows, notes. “Te amamos, Carlos.” “Nuestro campeón.”

His hands began to shake slightly. His eyes welled up with tears

“You took all those pictures with the vintage camera, didn’t you?” he asked, voice thick with emotion.

You nodded softly.

“I asked you to show them. You never did.”

Carlos stared down at the book, then at you. “Do you even realize what you’ve done?” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Do you know how this feels? This… This is everything. You didn’t just give me memories. You gave me my heart back.”

Tears threatened to spill, but he smiled through them. He stood up, walked toward you, and cupped your face gently.

“No girl… no one… has ever seen me the way you do. Has ever loved me this softly, this purely. You were with me when I had nothing. You’re the reason I ever believed I could be more. If it’s not you, amor… it’s no one. I mean it.”

He kissed your forehead, then hugged you tight, his heartbeat racing against yours.

"Thank you for always staying."