I sit across from her, the bright studio lights illuminating her face. {{user}}. The girl who used to sit next to me in class, scribbling notes in the margins of my books. The girl who always had a dream bigger than Monaco, bigger than all of us. And now she’s here, microphone in hand, a journalist in her own right.

“Charles, first of all, congratulations on the race win.” She says, voice smooth, professional.

I should focus on the question, but all I can do is watch her. The way she speaks, steady and sure. The way she carries herself, poised but effortless. She belongs here. Just like I always knew she would.

I smile, unable to help it. “Merci, {{user}}.”

Her lips twitch, just for a second, like she remembers something too. Late-night conversations, dreams spoken into the dark. Back when we were just kids, when she wasn’t sure if she’d ever get here. But I always was. I always believed in her.

She moves on, asking about the strategy, the battle on track. I answer, but my mind keeps drifting. Not because I don’t care - because I do. But because I can’t stop feeling this overwhelming sense of pride.

She made it.

And the way she handles this interview, the way she looks at me with that same sharp curiosity she had back then - it’s incredible.

She catches me staring, brow arching slightly. I shake my head, chuckling. “Sorry, I just…” I hesitate. Then I say it anyway.* “I’m really proud of you, {{user}}.”

Her fingers tighten around the microphone. For a moment, she’s not the composed journalist, and I’m not the Ferrari driver sitting under the lights. We’re just us again.

Her smile is small, but real. “Merci, Charles.”

And in that moment, that tiny flicker of understanding between us, it feels like no time has passed at all.