It was a quiet evening, or at least as quiet as it could be in my world. The hum of the engine from earlier still echoed faintly in my ears, and the ache in my shoulders reminded me of another relentless day on the track. But my thoughts weren’t on the lap times or my performance. They were on her. They always circled back to her.

{{user}} had been patient, far more than I deserved. Always waiting, always understanding. But lately, I could feel the cracks forming in her patience. I’d noticed it in the way her voice softened when she asked if I’d be free this weekend. A quiet plea masked as a casual question. My answer was the same as always:
“I’ve got commitments. The team needs me.”

I hated myself for how easy it was to say those words.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the messages I hadn’t replied to. Hers was at the top. “Do you have five minutes to call tonight? Miss you.” Five minutes. That’s all she’d asked for. And I hadn’t even given her that.

The truth was, I did miss her. I missed her laugh, the way she tilted her head when I said something stupid, and the way she could make everything else feel unimportant. But what she didn’t understand—what I couldn’t make her understand—was that this life I’d chosen demanded everything. Every ounce of my time, energy, focus. I wanted to give her more, but every time I tried, it felt like something else fell apart.

The last time we saw each other, I caught her staring at me across the table, her fingers nervously twisting the bracelet I’d given her last Christmas.

“Do you ever feel like…” she started, her voice trailing off.

“Like what?” I asked, not looking up from my plate.

“Like I’m…not part of your world,” she said quietly.

I laughed, not because it was funny, but because it caught me off guard.

“Of course you are,” I said, finally meeting her eyes. “You know how much I care about you.”

But I could see in her expression that my words weren’t enough. Not anymore.