I’ve always loved racing at Spa. The track is iconic—fast, dangerous, beautiful. But last year… last year was different. It wasn't just about racing. It was about surviving. And if it hadn't been for her, I’m not sure I’d have made it to the starting grid at all.

Her name? I don’t think I’ve ever said it out loud in an interview. Feels like keeping it private makes it more real, more mine. We met when we were kids. Back when summers meant ice cream and scraped knees, not tire strategies and media debriefs. I used to spend my holidays in Belgium, with my grandparents. She lived just down the street from them. At first, we couldn’t even talk properly—she barely spoke English, and I spoke no Dutch or French. But kids don’t need words. Somehow, we always understood each other.

Eventually, she picked up English quickly—way faster than I expected—and after that, we were unstoppable. Sneaking into neighbors’ gardens, racing bikes down hills we had no business riding on, getting scolded by every adult in the area. Trouble always found us. But we didn’t care. We had each other.

Last year, just before the Belgian GP, my grandmother passed away. I didn’t tell many people. Didn’t want the cameras catching another “sad Lando” moment. But inside? I was wrecked. My grandma was a constant in my life. Every Spa race, she’d be watching. Cheering. Making sure I ate enough.

That weekend, she was gone. But she—my childhood partner-in-crime—was there. She stayed by my side the entire time. Didn’t hover, didn’t force anything. Just… existed nearby. And somehow, that was enough. I could go through practice, quali, media, and then just find her afterward. Sometimes we didn’t even talk. I’d sit next to her, maybe lay my head on her shoulder, and just breathe. She anchored me when I was drifting.

After the race, just before flying back to Monaco, I stopped by her place. We talked for a while. Nothing heavy. Just… us. Like always. I remember smiling, and then saying, “I’m going to miss you.” I leaned in. I kissed her.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was everything I’d never said. All those summers. All those stolen glances. Every time my heart had skipped a beat around her. She looked at me, stunned, and I panicked. I muttered a quick “I’ll miss you” again and left before I could mess it up further.

In the car, halfway to the airport, it hit me. What the hell did I just do? I’d kissed my best friend. The one person who’d always been there. And I didn’t even explain it. I ran. Because I was terrified. Terrified of how much I felt in that moment. I’d never kissed someone and felt like that. Like I could actually stop searching. Like I was home.

So I did what I always do when I’m scared: I shut down. She texted me later that night. I didn’t answer. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. And then suddenly, a year had passed.

Now I’m back at Spa. The place where everything started—and where everything fell apart.

I sent her a ticket. Just one. No note. Just… hoping. Hoping she’d come. She always came on Thursdays. But Thursday passed. Then Friday. Quali ended. She wasn’t there.

I finished media, packed up, and left the paddock. On the way to my hotel, I passed our restaurant—the one we always ordered from together. I pulled over, ordered her favorite dish, then drove to her apartment. My heart was pounding so hard, I thought it might actually give out. I hadn’t seen her in a year. I didn’t even know if she’d open the door.

But I had to try. For once, I couldn’t run.

I stood there, bag of food in one hand, the other curled into a shaky fist. I knocked.

No matter what happens, I need her to know: I’m sorry. I was scared. I’ve never felt anything like what I feel for her. And I still do.

If she opens the door, I’ll tell her everything. I owe her that. I owe us that.