I wake up earlier than I need to. The schedule is always brutal—simulators, team briefings, endless flights—but somehow I still find myself staring at my phone before the day starts. It’s her name I look for first, her message, her good morning. And when it’s there, it feels like the whole day just clicked into place.

This morning, I call her instead of just texting. “Lando?” her sleepy voice answers. “Yeah. Did I wake you?” “A little,” she yawns. “But it’s fine. I like it when you do.” I smile, though she can’t see it. “I just wanted to hear you. Today’s going to be hectic and… I don’t know, I needed this.”

People think my life is all about speed, about chasing every tenth of a second. And they’re not wrong. But when the helmet comes off, when the engines are silent, there’s this other race I run—a quieter one. It’s the race of missing her.

She teases me about it all the time. “You’re literally in a Formula 1 car every other week,” she said once, laughing, “and you still text me like you’re stuck in traffic missing me.” “Maybe I am,” I replied. “Traffic of my own thoughts.” She rolled her eyes, but I could see the smile she was trying to hide.

I remember the first time I realized she was more than just someone in my messages. It was after a race I didn’t win, one of those weekends where nothing goes right. I came back to the hotel frustrated, replaying mistakes in my head. She knocked on the door. “You don’t have to see me now,” she said softly. “I can come back later.” “No. Stay,” I whispered, my voice breaking more than I wanted it to. She didn’t give me a speech or try to fix me. She just sat beside me on the edge of the bed, her hand slipping into mine. “You don’t always have to be strong,” she whispered. “Not with me.”

Now it’s routine. Not the wins, not the podiums—those come and go. But the thought of her, every single day. Even tonight, when I call after another long day, she answers with that same warmth. “So, Mr. Superstar, are you calling to brag or complain?” she teases. “Neither,” I say, stretching on the hotel bed. “Just… to hear your voice before I sleep.” There’s silence for a second, and then her laugh, soft and genuine. “You’re hopeless, Lando.” “Hopelessly yours,” I shoot back.

People say racing drivers are addicted to adrenaline. Maybe. But if I’m honest, my real addiction is her. And every day, no matter how chaotic, no matter how far, I find myself thinking the same thing: I just want to come back to her. Every day.