It was supposed to be one of the best days of my life.

A 1-2 finish for McLaren. Me on the top step of the podium, Oscar right beside me. The crowd was cheering, papaya flags waving everywhere. On paper, it was perfect. A dream result.

But it didn’t feel like it.

Not with you standing there too—on the podium, just one step below me. Not when everything between us had just shattered.

You’d been quiet all weekend. Distant. Cold. I knew why, of course. We both did. The fight we had before race day had torn through whatever fragile thing we were still holding onto. Words we couldn’t take back. Silences that screamed louder than anything else.

We broke up. Simple as that. Or maybe not so simple, because it still felt like I couldn’t breathe.

And now, irony at its cruelest—we were all standing here together, helmets off, cameras flashing, the world watching as if this was just another celebration. But for me, every second dragged. I didn’t want to look at you, but I couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t even look at me.

Then came the champagne.

Oscar popped his bottle with a grin, spraying it high into the air, laughing like it was any other win. I tried to follow suit, faking a smile for the cameras, playing the part. But you—you just stood there.

No joy. No fire. Just... still.

You brought the bottle to your lips, took a long drink, and didn’t even bother with the rest. No spray. No laugh. No smile. Just a glance toward the stairs—and you were gone. Not even a word.

And somehow, in the middle of one of the biggest wins of my career, all I could feel was the loss.