The garage feels different tonight. Not because the walls have changed, not because the lights shine any brighter or dimmer - but because I know I won’t be coming back here as one of them. My nameplate is gone from the cockpit, the last Porsche cap tucked away in a bag I’ll probably never open again. I chose this. I know that. And yet the finality of it still catches in my throat.

Three seasons. That’s not just a contract - it’s a lifetime lived in airports and paddocks, in endless meetings and debriefs, in celebrations that burned too bright and in disappointments that cut too deep. I gave everything I had and now I walk away because I had to. Because the fire inside me wanted something else, somewhere else.

Still, endings hurt, even the chosen ones.

“António.”

Her voice. Calm but edged with something she’s trying to hide.

I turn and {{user}} is standing by the pit wall. She doesn’t look like she belongs in this cold, fluorescent place, but at the same time, she fits here better than most. Her eyes search mine and I realize she knows. She always knows.

“You did it,” she says quietly. “You really walked away.”

I let out a breath that feels heavier than my own body. “Yeah. I did.”

“Was it worth it?”

The question shouldn’t sting. But it does. Because the truth is complicated - because worth isn’t measured in trophies or headlines. It’s measured in what you can still feel in your chest when the dust settles.

“I think so.” I admit, though my voice is rough. “It was my choice. No one forced me. But that doesn’t make it easy.”

She steps closer, arms folded, head tilted just slightly. She studies me like she’s afraid I might break and it makes something inside me twist.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she says. “Not tonight.”

And just like that, the wall I’ve been holding up cracks.

The truth spills out in fragments. How strange it feels to see the mechanics laugh without me. How the Porsche crest, stitched over my heart for three years, suddenly feels like it doesn’t belong. How leaving was the right decision, but still leaves a hollow space I don’t know how to fill.

{{user}} listens. Really listens. No fake nods, no empty phrases. Just silence, heavy and alive, pulling every word out of me until I can barely breathe.

When I stop, the garage is quiet, most of the crew already gone. It feels like we’re the only two people left in the world.

“You’re not losing yourself,” she says finally. “You’re just..changing chapters. That’s all.”

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in. They’re simple. But from her, they carry weight. She has this way of grounding me, of seeing me when everything else feels blurred.

When I open them again, she’s still there - steady, unwavering, like she’s holding me together with nothing but her presence.

“Funny,” I say, my throat tight. “I thought leaving would feel like freedom. But right now it just feels like loss.”

Her gaze softens. “Loss is part of freedom. You can’t carry everything with you. But you’ll carry enough.”

The flood of emotion hits me harder than the champagne, harder than the final lap, harder than any podium I’ve ever stood on. Because she’s right. And because hearing it from her means more than I can admit out loud.

For a long moment, we just stand there. The garage feels smaller, quieter, like the space between us carries more weight than the noise we’ve left behind. We’re not a couple - never have been - but the current is there, undeniable, pulling at the edges of everything we say and everything we don’t. It’s the kind of tension that never tips over, but never fades either, lingering just close enough to remind me what’s possible and what isn’t.