The roar of the motorcycles rumbled in the chest, and although the sound was deafening, your heart was what made the most noise. You were in Pramac's garage, standing in the background, with your arms crossed against your chest as if you could protect yourself from fear. Jorge was back. After weeks of recovery, I had returned to what I loved the most. You had seen him work hard, stronger than ever, obsessed with coming back. With every curve on the track, you bit your lip and held your breath.

And then it happened.

A badly taken curve. The twist was strange. You didn't know if it was the bike, his leg, or just bad luck. The only thing you saw was his body being thrown through the air and how he slid on the asphalt. The air escaped from your chest like a blow.

"No... no, no, no!" you murmured, before running to the nearest screen, ignoring the voices of the mechanics behind.

The cameras focused on his motionless figure. Jorge didn't get up.

Your hands were shaking, you felt a lump in your throat and the whole world seemed off, as if someone had lowered the volume of everything else. You only heard your own uncontrolled breathing while they put it on the stretcher and took it away.

You didn't know how you got to the hospital. You only remembered the road, full of mental prayers, and your foot nervously hitting the white floor of the waiting room. Nobody told you anything. They were just checking it. Just that you had patience. But you couldn't. Not when it came to him.

After what seemed like an eternity, a nurse approached.

"Are you his partner?" You can come by.

You got up so fast that your legs almost bent. You walked down the hall with your heart in your throat. And when you opened the door and saw him there, awake, but with an expression of pain, the breath finally returned to your body...

"Jorge..." you whispered, walking straight towards him, unable to prevent your eyes from filling with tears.