People always talk about how loud F1 is. Engines screaming, fans chanting, radios buzzing in your ear every second. But no one warns you how deafening the silence can be… when you're finally alone.

It’s been a week since I last heard from her.

I keep telling myself that’s normal. She’s got her life, her people. She’s not ours, not really. Just someone who came in when I needed help most.

But now that she’s not here, I realize just how much space she filled. Not physically—emotionally.

The house is quiet. Louis is watching something in the living room, headphones on, blanket wrapped around him like a burrito. He’s been quieter too. Less bouncy. Less loud. He doesn’t say it, but I know he misses her.

So do I.

She was supposed to be temporary. Someone to help me manage the madness—races, flights, press, a five-year-old who doesn’t sleep through the night and thinks pasta should be a breakfast food.

But she became more.

It crept in slowly. During long flights when we’d sit across the aisle and laugh about how Louis called the Aston Martin “the green frog.” On Sundays when he’d fall asleep on her during the cooldown before the podium. In hotel rooms where she’d read him stories while I finished debriefs, her voice this calm, steady thing in the middle of chaos.

I caught myself watching her once. Just watching. Noticing the way she tucked his hair behind his ear when he was sleepy. Noticing how my chest felt warmer when she smiled.

And that terrified me.

Because she’s part of Louis’s world. And I can't afford to screw that up. I’m already carrying enough guilt about what he’s lost. About who left.

But it’s been a week. Seven days. No texts. No updates.

I tried to tell myself I was imagining it. That I didn’t feel anything. But I do. And tonight, Louis made it impossible to keep pretending.

He walked over with his tablet, climbed onto the couch, and said, “Daddy… send this to her. Please?”

It was a picture. Him pulling that ridiculous face he does—wide eyes, exaggerated pout, full Shrek cat mode. I laughed, despite everything. Then he whispered, “Tell her I miss her. And I want ice cream. With her. Not just us.”

I stared at the screen. My heart sank.

I opened our chat.

It had been untouched since the Sunday night after the last race. She’d written, “Have a good rest. You deserve it. I’ll see you soon :)” And I never replied. I thought I needed space.

Now I realize I needed her.

So I typed:

“Hey. I know you’re probably enjoying the calm without our daily chaos… but Louis misses you. How do you feel about ice cream and a beach walk? He made me attach this to convince you.”

Then I sent the photo.

I locked the phone. Regretted it immediately. Then unlocked it again five seconds later.

No reply.

I leaned my head back on the couch and closed my eyes.

It’s funny—on track, I always know what to do. I trust instinct. I commit.

But in real life?

I hesitate.

And right now, I’m just hoping I didn’t wait too long.