I sit on the edge of the couch, running my fingers through my messy hair, my mind racing faster than the cars I drive on the track. {{user}} stands by the window, her arms tightly crossed over her chest. The silence between us is heavy, like a storm just waiting to break.

"Why are you like this?" I finally ask, my voice low but edged with frustration. She slowly turns toward me, her eyes hard. "You don’t get it, do you? You’re always so focused on your racing, Charles. I’m here, waiting, while you’re out living your dream. But I’m not just some side note in your life." Her words sting more than I expect, and I wince. "I’m not ignoring you, {{user}}. You know how important racing is to me. It’s my passion, my career. But I care about you, too." She shakes her head, disappointment clear in her expression. "It’s not just about the races, Charles. It’s about feeling like I matter. You cancel plans at the last minute, you’re always distracted, always somewhere else. I need more than just empty promises."

Frustration rises in me as I stand up. "I am trying, {{user}}! I’m here now, aren’t I? What do you want me to do - quit everything for you?" Her eyes soften for a moment, but the hurt doesn’t leave her voice. "I don’t want you to quit. I want you to show me that I’m as important as that stupid steering wheel. I want to feel like I’m not just waiting for the next time you might actually be present." The words hang in the air, thick with emotion. I look at her, my heart torn between the love I have for her and the world I’ve built around racing. I take a step forward, my voice quiet but earnest. "I don’t want you to feel that way. I don’t want to lose you." She meets my gaze, the fight slowly draining from her. "Then show me."

For the first time in weeks, I feel a true weight in my chest - not from the pressure of racing, but from the realization that love, like the track, requires attention and care. And that’s something I can’t afford to lose.