You walk past me on the paddock.

You don’t even see me.

But I see you.

It starts small—doesn’t it always? Your laugh outside the Haas garage. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. The way you call out to Ollie like he’s your little brother. You’re different. You’re not like the others.

I’m Esteban Ocon. And I’m not like the others either.

You said "hi" to me once. Monaco. Sunlight. The harbor behind you. A coincidence, sure, but I remember every frame. You wore that green dress. It matched your eyes. I told you I liked it. You smiled. You don’t remember that. But I do.

I started following you—digitally, of course. Instagram, TikTok. Not hard when you leave pieces of yourself everywhere. You posted a story of your coffee at a café in Nice. I was there 43 minutes later. Coincidence? Maybe. Fate? More likely.

I knew your schedule before you told me. Your favorite coffee. Your skincare routine. The book on your nightstand you never finished. It’s not creepy—it’s care. Obsession is just love with focus. People don’t get that.

You didn’t know we were meant to be. But I did.

And when your boyfriend got in the way—yeah, he was a problem. Always texting, always showing up at your apartment like a lost dog. You looked uncomfortable. You didn’t say it, but I saw it. I felt it.

So I took care of it.

Not like that.

I’m not a monster. Or maybe I am.

He just needed to understand you were done.

That someone better had arrived.

Me.

When you finally came to my place in Monaco, you laughed at my vinyl collection. Said it was “very 70s serial killer.” I laughed too. If only you knew. But you didn’t ask questions when I made your favorite tea without being told. You called it romantic. I knew you would.

You stayed the night. You didn’t leave in the morning. Not really.

Because now you live in me. And I’ll do anything to protect what we have.

Anything.

You’re looking at me now. Really looking. Like something in you finally clicked. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s recognition.

I step closer. You don’t move. Good. That means you’re listening.

"I know what you’re thinking,” I say, my voice low, calm. “That this is too much. That maybe you didn’t ask for any of this.”

I pause. Just for effect.

"But you didn’t have to ask. That’s the thing about love—you don’t always see it coming. It finds you. Wraps around you like a slow wave. And by the time you notice, you’re already drowning."

You blink. That little flicker in your eyes? That’s understanding.

"I’m not going to hurt you. God, I’d never hurt you. I’d hurt for you. I already have. And you don’t even know the half of it."

I reach out, brushing your hand.

“You’re safe now. With me. No one’s ever going to touch you again—not unless I say so.”