Nothing worked. The car felt heavy, lifeless, like it didn’t want to move forward no matter how hard I pushed it. Every corner felt wrong, every lap was slower than it should’ve been. Out in Q1, something that hadn’t happened since 2021. It felt like the world stopped for a second when I saw my name down there on the screen. I just stared at it. P16. My engineer’s voice in my ear didn’t even make sense anymore. Static, disappointment, frustration, everything blurred together.

I stepped out of the car, removed the steering wheel, and tried not to throw it. Cameras were already there, ready to capture every inch of my frustration. I walked fast, pretending I didn’t hear the whispers, pretending that I didn’t notice people watching me like I was a fallen god.

The championship was slipping through my fingers, and McLaren was flying. Their car looked untouchable. Lando and Oscar, they were having the time of their lives. Meanwhile, I was fighting my own car, my own mind.

Time for the interview. Great.

The press room was full. Lights, microphones, the same repetitive questions I’d been hearing my whole life. Only this time, they weren’t asking about winning, they were asking about losing. I felt the tension crawl up my spine.

“…Max, what happened out there today?” “…Do you think the pressure is getting to you?” “…Is the championship still possible after this disaster?”

I gripped the microphone tighter. My knuckles turned white. I tried to breathe slowly, to control my voice, to not give them what they wanted, a headline. My hand trembled slightly. I looked down, pretending to fix the mic, just to hide it.

And then I felt her eyes on me.

{{user}}. My teammate, my rival, my mirror. She had qualified P3. She did amazing. Better than me. She was sitting just a few seats away, calm as ever, her hands resting gently on the table, her expression unreadable to anyone else. But I knew her. And she knew me.

She noticed the way I was gripping the mic too tightly. She noticed the tremor in my fingers. She noticed the anger, the sadness, the disappointment behind my eyes. She always did. Because she was like me, the same fire, the same hunger, the same madness for perfection.

I turned to look at her. She met my gaze for just a moment, long enough for me to understand. There was no rivalry in her eyes this time. Just… something softer. Something that made my heart skip.

“It was a tough session for both of us. The car wasn’t where we wanted it to be, and I know we both gave it everything. Max pushed hard, harder than anyone realizes.” She said suddenly, answering for me, her voice smooth, calm, confident, almost like she wanted to protect me because she saw me.

That silenced the room for a second, they always listened to her, they all loved her more than they loved any other driver. They saw her like an angel, that’s why the whole room stopped. She didn’t have to say that. Normally, she’d tease me, maybe throw a line for the cameras. That’s what we did, we argued, joked, played rivals for the world to see. But not today.

And that’s when I realized it. Behind all the fighting, the sarcasm, the stubbornness, there was something else between us. Something we both refused to see, or admit. We were too similar, too proud. But in that instant, it was clear. Two hearts, one rhythm, both beating for each other, always had.

The reporters started murmuring again, some whispering to one another, others typing furiously. Then one of them leaned forward, smirking.

“So, Max, with McLaren dominating and you out in Q1… do you think the championship’s already gone?” He said arrogantly. I felt the sting of the question, like salt in a wound. I could’ve snapped. But I didn’t. I just stared straight ahead, took a deep breath.