n

It came out hoarse, deeper than he meant it to. He hadn’t drunk the warm milk he usually made before bed, the one thing that soothed his throat after the dehydration and long press runs. They were in Mexico now, far from his kitchen in Monaco, and this wasn’t his apartment or his bed. He hadn’t even remembered to pick up milk from the motorhome earlier. The thought of going out again, finding some corner shop at this hour, had been too much effort.

Carlos didn’t answer right away.

“I am miracle.”

Oscar let out a short breath that was almost a laugh. He didn’t bother to open his eyes fully this time, just cracked them open enough to see the faint outline of the man lying beside him.

“Okay, then I’m death, if you’re miracle,” he muttered, half-amused, half-annoyed. “Whatever, Carlos. Go to sleep.”

He shut his eyes again, too tired for whatever game this was. Carlos said weird things sometimes—philosophical, poetic nonsense that Oscar usually ignored because it sounded like something he’d picked up from a meditation retreat or a bad documentary. This was probably just another one of those.

He could hear the other man chuckle softly beside him, a low sound that vibrated through the mattress. Warm air brushed against Oscar’s arm where Carlos shifted under the sheets. It was strangely soothing, that sound.

“No, Oscar,”

Carlos said quietly, his voice threaded with something calm and absolute.

“You are not death. You are Oscar Jack Piastri.”

Oscar’s eyes opened again. This time, the darkness felt heavier than before—thicker, somehow. He frowned and turned his head toward the window, expecting to catch the faint light from the street lamps leaking through the curtain. But there was nothing. No glow, no trace of the outside world. Just black.

“And you,” Oscar said after a moment, his voice rough but steady, “are Carlos Sainz Vázquez de Castro.”

For a moment, he thought that would end it. That Carlos would laugh, maybe shove his shoulder like he always did when Oscar teased him for being dramatic. But there was no laughter. No movement. Only the sound of breathing, slow and measured.

Suddenly, Oscar felt Carlos move beside him.

At first it was just the faint rustle of sheets, a small shift that made the mattress dip slightly under his weight. But then something changed. When Oscar blinked and turned his head, what met him wasn’t Carlos’s familiar silhouette — it was light.

It wasn’t a lamplight, not the dim electric kind that bled from street signs outside. It was brighter, purer. So bright it seemed to move, alive in the dark. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

Then he realised those lights weren’t floating. They were looking at him.

Eyes.

Carlos’s eyes.

But they weren’t brown anymore. They were something else entirely. Two endless, burning points of gold and white, so radiant that the darkness seemed to lean away from them. There were no lights in the room, nothing that could have caused that reflection, yet they shone as if they contained their own source.

Carlos was looking straight at him.

“No, Oscar,” he said softly.

“As I told you, I am miracle. Carlos Sainz Vázquez de Castro was never born.”

Oscar stared. The words didn’t hit him all at once — they sank in slowly, like stones dropped into deep water. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

He wanted to laugh. He should have laughed. This was ridiculous, wasn’t it?

Normally, something like this would give him a pounding headache. He could already imagine himself groaning, dragging a pillow over his face, muttering at Carlos to shut up with his philosophical bullshit. He’d probably make a joke about divine interventions and ask how much tequila Carlos had had at dinner.

But none of that came. There was no irritation nor tension behind his eyes.

Instead, there was nothing. Just a stillness that felt unreal —like floating in an ocean so dark you couldn’t tell where the water ended and the sky began. Somewhere far away, he thought he could see stars.

His voice came out quieter than he expected.

“Then why are you here?”

He tried to sound steady, but he could hear the faint tremor buried underneath.

Carlos didn’t answer. The silence stretched, almost like time itself was waiting for something to happen. The glow in his eyes shifted, as though those lights were expanding, unfolding from inside him. Oscar had the dizzying impression that if he looked too long, he’d fall straight into them.

The air felt different too. Thicker, charged, almost humming with something unseen.

Oscar swallowed, eyes fixed on Carlos.

“You’re not— you can’t just say stuff like that, mate.”

His voice wavered between irritation and unease. “If you’re trying to freak me out, congrats, it’s working.”

Carlos’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m not trying to frighten you,” he said quietly. “You asked who I was.”

“And I was expecting a normal answer,” Oscar muttered, but it came out weak. He didn’t sound convincing, even to himself.

He shifted slightly, trying to sit up, but his limbs felt heavier than they should have. The room still looked wrong — completely dark, only filled with that strange, muted glow from Carlos’s eyes. Like starlight had taken a shape and decided to stay.

“Carlos —the real Carlos— died in his mother’s womb.”

The words fell into the quiet like something both impossible and certain.

“He made it to the second trimester,” Carlos continued, his tone calm but distant, almost like he was reading a memory rather than reliving it.

“But when his mother felt something was wrong, she prayed. She prayed for miracles to protect her child.”

Oscar blinked, struggling to keep up. The glow from before had changed again. It wasn’t light anymore.

He realised, slowly, that the lights were stars.

They shimmered within Carlos’s eyes, small and infinite, entire galaxies turning inside the dark pupils. It was as if the whole universe was alive in them, spreading wider, the orbits expanding beyond human sight. Oscar lifted a hand without thinking, and for a moment he thought he could almost feel the warmth of those stars against his skin.

The light grew, swirling. The two eyes were no longer separate. They merged together, blending into one vast expanse. It burned quietly, like creation itself —like a big bang contained within something that looked like a man.

“Unfortunately,” Carlos said, his voice soft and steady, “the baby was already gone by the time the prayer reached. But I was there, floating close to her.”

The way he said it —floating— carried a strange gentleness, something ancient that brushed at the edges of Oscar’s understanding.

“Miracles float through the air,” Carlos went on, “and when we catch a prayer, we make it real. Isn’t that wonderful, Oscar?”

Oscar didn’t answer. His mouth was dry, his breath too shallow.

“So when I caught her prayer,” Carlos continued, “and saw that the child was already dead, I pitied her.”

The sound of his voice was everywhere now —not just in front of him, but all around. It filled the room, the air, the space between every heartbeat. Oscar could feel it, deep and resonant, moving through him like a low vibration.

And the stars… the stars were everywhere. The darkness had vanished completely, replaced by a living galaxy that shimmered and shifted like a sea of light.

Carlos’s voice followed, quieter but still echoing through that brightness.

“We cannot bring back the dead from death, Oscar. We cannot.” His tone was sad, but not mournful —simply true.

“But she was so desperate to protect her child that I decided to give her a chance. Just once. A chance to hold him.”

The stars moved around them, almost pulsing in rhythm with his words.

“So I went into the body of the child,” Carlos said, “and continued to grow, using what remained of it.”

Oscar stared, and something bright streaked across his vision —a meteor, burning through the universe that surrounded him. He blinked hard, trying to follow it, but the scene kept shifting, the vastness stretching further until he couldn’t tell which direction was up.

Then he heard child’s laughter —light, soft, familiar.

It came from everywhere at once, echoing through the galaxies with the meteor falling. And suddenly, he knew that sound. That was Carlos’s laugh —so close to the one that always made his chest ache a little, that carried warmth even when he tried to sound teasing.

Oscar’s throat tightened.

He wanted to reach for him. He wanted to touch him, to feel that large, warm hand he always felt safe holding. He wanted to press his palm against the cheek that was always a little rough from stubble, to pull him close, to ground himself in that human warmth.

But there was nothing to hold.

He was alone, drifting through this infinite space —alone inside Carlos’s eyes.

Carlos’s voice came again, softer now, like it was speaking from a far distance but still close enough to feel.

“And I thought,” he said, “that after I was born as Carlos, it might be fun to live as a human. I’ve always existed, always watched what humans and every living creature were like —but I’d never been one. So I lived as Carlos for the past thirty-one years.”

He paused, the sound of his breath woven through the stars.

“It’s… quite something to admit. Living. It’s strange and fun. I like it.”

And then came the chuckle.

It rippled through the universe like light itself had laughed —airy and bright, spilling warmth into every corner of that endless sky. When the laughter faded, a thousand meteors streaked across the expanse, cascading through the stars. One passed so close that Oscar flinched, his eyes squeezing shut against the sudden brilliance.

He let out a sound that wasn’t quite a cry, but close —a small, choked noise of helplessness. He wanted out. He wanted to be back in Mexico, back in the dark hotel room with the sheets tangled around them, back where the world made sense.

He wanted to hold Carlos —his Carlos— the one who smiled like sunlight and teased him about his driving. He wanted to wake up from this.

But no fear came.

Even here, in the impossible vastness, he felt safe. He didn’t understand why. Couldn’t explain the calm pressed against his chest like a heartbeat but he knew it. Deep down, beneath the wonder and confusion, he knew this place, this voice, this presence would never hurt him.

He was safe.

He didn’t know why, but he knew it completely.

“Why—why are you telling me this? Why, Carlos?”

Or miracle, whatever he was supposed to call him now. Oscar’s voice came out rough, too loud for the stillness surrounding him. The echo of his shout seemed to ripple across the galaxy, and for a second he thought the stars themselves flinched.

The laughter that had been filling the space faded, leaving a quiet so heavy it almost hummed.

“Because I like you, Oscar,” came the reply, soft and certain. “And you like me.”

Oscar didn’t see him, couldn’t even find where the voice came from, but he could feel Carlos smiling. It was the same warmth he always carried —that invisible heat that clung to him, that somehow made any place they were in feel alive.

He realised then, dimly, that he was still inside Carlos —or inside whatever Carlos truly was— and the thought should have terrified him. But instead, something in him unclenched. The tension drained from his shoulders, from his jaw, from the tight knot in his chest that had been there since this began.

“Isn’t it a bit arrogant,” he muttered, voice cracking, “for you to assume that I like you?”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them —the same old sarcasm, that sharp edge he used when he didn’t know what else to do with the truth. He regretted it instantly. His throat tightened, and he felt a sting behind his eyes.

He was crying. He didn’t even realise when it started.

“Silly Oscar,” Carlos said, gentle, amused. “I know everything. I’m a miracle, remember? I know everything.”

Oscar swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he tried to breathe through it.

“What do you look like?”

It came out rushed, desperate. It wasn’t really a question, but a plea. He wanted something solid, something human to hold on to. He needed to understand what this thing was that had been living as Carlos all this time, walking, breathing, laughing beside him.

He needed to know who he had been loving.

“What do you look like, miracle?” he asked again, quieter this time.

“I don’t look like anything,” came the answer, calm and infinite. “I am the universe itself. All miracles are the same —we are part of the universe, just as you are, Oscar. The difference is only time. Your kind is here for a blink, and you have bodies. We don’t.”

Oscar felt his breath catch. The words wrapped around him like something vast and impossible, but all he could think of was Carlos.

Carlos laughing in the paddock, the mark of balaclava on his cheeks.

Carlos angry, waving his hands, his accent sharper.

Carlos training, sweat running down his temples.

Carlos eating, half distracted, half talking.

Carlos stepping into the car, focus in his eyes.

Carlos stepping out of it, exhausted but smiling.

Carlos removing his helmet, hair sticking up in every direction.

Carlos looking at him —always looking.

Carlos on the podium, grinning like the world itself couldn’t hold him.

Carlos, who wasn’t Carlos at all.

The thought twisted something deep in his chest.

“Can I see you?”

His voice came small, almost childlike. “I just… I want to see you.”

He didn’t know what he expected —maybe nothing, maybe everything— but the moment the words left his mouth, the stars shifted. The light folded inward, and from the centre of that vastness bloomed a glow of deep, radiant orange.

It floated in front of him, pulsing softly, as if alive.

Oscar stared. It looked warm. Comforting. Familiar in a way that made his throat ache. It was the same colour as the sunrise that crept through the hotel curtains when Carlos woke before him, turning over with a quiet kiss good morning. It was the same light that caught on Carlos’s hair when he smiled, sunlight through amber.

“You’re so bright,” Oscar whispered, awe slipping into his voice before he could stop it.

He could feel the smile again. That same kind, fond curve, though he couldn’t see it. He didn’t need to.

Carlos —or miracle, or whatever he was— felt close enough to touch.

Oscar leaned forward, instinctively reaching out. His fingertips brushed through the air, but the light had no texture, no surface. It wasn’t solid. It couldn’t be touched. It was there and not there, like warmth without a source.

“I don’t have a shape,” Carlos said softly. “No true appearance. What you’re seeing is what you imagined me to be. And I like it, Oscar. I like how warm you think I am.”

Oscar’s hand fell back to his side. The glow wrapped around him, soft and golden, and it felt like sunlight spilling through an open window on a spring morning. Gentle. Weightless.

It was so warm.

Something in his chest broke open. He hadn’t realised how much he loved Carlos until now —not until he found himself floating inside him, surrounded by his warmth, held by something that wasn’t entirely human but still him.

He wanted to stay there forever.

“The question of you asking why I’m telling you this,”

Carlos said softly, his voice no longer a sound but something that rippled through the space around Oscar. It brushed against his skin like sunlight through water.

A faint warmth touched Oscar’s cheek. It was the kind of touch that didn’t belong to a human hand. It was like the air itself had remembered how to be gentle. It wiped away his tears with care, leaving behind a strange heat that pulsed beneath his skin.

Oscar’s breath caught. For a second, he thought he could feel Carlos smiling somewhere very close, and he closed his eyes, letting the warmth spread through his body until his chest ached from it.

“I got greedy,”

Carlos continued, and the words seemed to echo softly through the space. “I was fine living as Carlos. That was enough for me. But then you happened, and… Oscar, I like you. I really do. I wanted you to know who I truly am, even if you can’t remember it later.”

Oscar blinked hard. “What?”

His voice cracked as he tried to speak. The warmth around him flickered, and for a heartbeat he saw the soft orange light fade away.

And then, suddenly, it was gone. The light disappeared completely, dissolving into the darkness, and before his eyes appeared a small, translucent bubble. Inside it was a universe. Tiny, perfect, and alive.

It floated slowly in front of him, pulsing faintly, birthing new stars as if it was breathing. Galaxies curved and vanished, constellations spun into existence, and the whole thing shimmered with life. A universe within a universe. Carlos’s voice, softer now, came from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“You won’t be able to remember this when you wake up,” he said.

“This is a miracle, Oscar. Humans can’t notice a miracle when it happens. But I wanted to know how you would see me —not the body I borrowed, not Carlos, but what I truly am.”

Oscar tried to answer. He wanted to tell him he’d remember anyway, that he wouldn’t tell anyone, that he’d keep this secret just between them. He wanted to promise that he didn’t care if Carlos wasn’t human —that it didn’t matter. But his throat refused to move. His body wouldn’t obey him.

He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. The sound was gone before it existed. The small universe began to glow brighter, expanding, curling outward until it filled everything around him. Just like how it all began. Just like the way light floods through a dark room before morning. It was growing, endlessly growing, until Oscar realised this was the end.

He felt his heart tighten painfully. He didn’t know what to do with the truth that Carlos wasn’t Carlos. He didn’t know how to love something that wasn’t human, and yet, he was sure that he did.

Whatever Carlos was, whatever miracle he came from, Oscar loved him. The miracle itself was beyond him, impossible to understand, and still, everything it showed him, every colour, every pulse of warmth, every trembling breath of light was beautiful.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe this miracle did love him too.

The universe folded into itself. Light collapsing, colours fading until only darkness remained. And then, silence.

“Sleep tight, Oscar,” Carlos whispered. His voice was almost a sigh, barely holding together before it disappeared.