… Are The Stories I Can't Explain

Six years later 

July - Spa Francorchamps 

Just in time for the last few laps the sun shines down on the most famous corner, the Eau Rouge and reflects on the wet surface. 

I look up to the corner down at the barricade, a smile building on my lips. 

It‘s been 21 years since my father‘s car went up in flames and I had to watch him burn in the flames, standing at exactly the same place as right now. And even though there is still a tightness in my chest, it doesn‘t consume me, not anymore. 

I worked a lot on my PTSD. Together with a therapist, but also with Lando. He helped get in touch with racing again, I visited him at countless of his own races, saw him win Silverstone, Abu Dhabi, Monaco and so many more.

There‘s just one that has been missing that would mean the world to me. 

And that is about to happen.

“Ms. Rousseau-Norris?“ A middle-aged man walks up to me, redness building on his cheeks as he calls me out. I got used to people reacting to me this way over the six years of dating Lando. The media seems to be obsessed with a love story between a Rousseau-daughter and Lando Norris, Formula 1 World Champion. 

I nod. „Yes?“ The light blue dress flows softly around my legs, the right warm breeze you need in the hot, sunny weather. 

„Follow me right up, please.“ The man guides me closer to the barricade and already hands me the heavy flag with the black-and-white boxes on it. 

Excitement mixed with nervousness pulls at my stomach. I don‘t feel ready. But this is what I have waited for all my life. 

A camera is pointed at me and I shyly wink at it. I know what the people will now read on their screens. Daughter of Mathiéu Rousseau’s, local hero and racing driver, and the wife of Lando Norris. 

A smile tucks at my lips at the thoughts. 

„Okay, so what you are going to do, you wait for my signal and then you swing the flag like this, alright?“ He shows me the movement that I grew up seeing whenever I was there to watch my dad race. 

I nod, pretending that this is completely new information to me. 

Then, the only thing we have to do is wait. 

The cars rush past us, the commentators announcing the last lap of the grand prix. 

My heart starts beating faster and faster the longer it takes, but then the moment arrives. 

It‘s Lando‘s papaya-colored car rushing down the straights, my stomach curls at the sight of him. Winning my home Grand Prix. 

„Now.“ The advisor gives me the signal and I wave the flag. 

Like it‘s the one thing I have waited for all my life. A laugh escapes my mouth.

You see Dad? This is for you.  

And in my ear, I think I can hear him laugh beyond the roaring of the cars.

Lando‘s car takes the Eau Rouge one last time for his post-race lap and for a minute, there are these pictures of the exploding car in front of my inner eye. 

But they disappear. It‘s my Lando. He won. 

I give the man the flag back and rush down to Parc Fermé, eager to get the best place. I encounter many of the Mclaren employées on my way, Lando‘s mechanics and engineers, celebrating his win together with me. 

Standing in parc fermé, seeing him get out of the car, holding his fist up into the air, my heart jumps. Celebrates. 

I grip my necklace, the rough material grounding me, reminding me that this is for Dad as well. Everything is. 

And then he comes running over to me. His helmet already off, he hugs me tightly, like his life depends on it. 

„You won!“ I scream, a tear running down my face. 

„This is for you, Isla. And for him.“ He whispers closely into my ear, his sweaty curls tickling my cheek. He wipes the tears away, cupping my face. We stare into each others eyes and for a second, the noises, the cheers, they all disappear. It‘s just us. 

„I love you, mon petit fou.“ 

Six months later  January - Silverstone 

The pit lane is almost empty, only the sporty, black Mclaren experience car in front of us and Lando‘s hand in mine. 

In the back, there are few Mclaren and also Silverstone track employees, but they don‘t really look out for us. 

„Are you sure you wanna do this?“ Lando asks me one more time, I can spot the worry in his hazel eyes. 

Since that day at Spa I haven‘t been to another race.

It watched them all from afar, my sofa in London, his living room in Monaco when I needed to feel closer to him, but always from somewhere safe. 

There were days where I needed to turn the TV off. The walls seemed too close. The papaya of the car was too bright. Just too much. 

But the late-night calls after the races made it better. 

We talked. About the PTSD. And about the triggers. We grew. Together. 

And I didn‘t feel anxiety circling through my blood when somebody mentioned racing. It is a part of me now. Or again. 

„Yes. I need this.“ 

I asked him to organize a private track day with Mclaren at Silverstone. I wanted to come here.

To watch him drive. With me on the passenger seat. Just one last thing I needed to prove to myself that I was strong enough. 

Even thinking about this makes it hard to breathe though. 

But so much has changed. And I know deep down that this is what I need. For myself. 

But also for Dad. 

It‘s like he was the one speaking through me when I asked Lando for this. For the hot lap. With him. 

I sat next to Lando driving one of his sports cars on the normal road and I felt— safe. Carried. Held. 

I don‘t remember when exactly the thought crept in of wanting to do a hot lap. It just made sense. 

I breathe loudly next to him. He caresses the back of my hand with his thumb, drawing slow, relaxing circles. 

„Deep breaths, alright?“ 

I nod, closing my eyes for a minute. 

It‘s gonna be fine.

I. Need. This. 

A weird mix of excitement and nervousness curls in my stomach, increasing the knot tightening. 

A woman from the Silverstone staff hands us the helmets. The fabric of the inner side feels soft against my ears, comforting in some ways. 

I struggle with closing it, my hands shake too much. So Lando helps. His hands feel cold on my chin. January in the middle of England even makes a racer freeze. 

A smile tucks at his lips as he studies my face with the helmet on. „Suits you.“ There is a melancholic look in his eyes that doesn‘t quite make sense to me. 

„What?“ I laugh, nervous. 

„It‘s just— you look just like in these pictures that you showed me. From karting, you know?“ 

A lightning of electricity runs through me at his words. Karting. 

I‘m still sad I didn‘t continue back then. Dad would‘ve wanted it. But I am here now, for him in some ways. 

„Lan, can you take a photo of me? I need something I can send to my Mom.“ Who is dying a thousand deaths knowing I am here. 

We take quickly take a selfie. It isn’t beautiful. But it’s us. 

Opening the car door, the handle feels too heavy in my hand and sinking down in the seat, my stomach drops. The memory of me in my Dad‘s racing car appears in front of my inner eye. 

Can you see me, Dad? This is for you. 

Lando starts the engine, the car comes to life. I inhale shakily at the feeling of the vibrating car under me. 

He looks over at me, I feel his gaze resting on me. Only one second later, his hand finds itself on my leg. Warm. Safe. 

I smile at him, hesitant. 

„You sure?“ He asks one more time. 

I nod, fight the upcoming anxiety. 

I want this. And I need this. 

„Okay, ready?“ 

I nod again, a determined, almost stubborn look covers my face. 

He starts driving, leaves the pitlane. And then we‘re on the circuit.

Once he hits the gas pedal, it feels like flying. 

Like something moves to the right place inside of me. 

This lap. With him. It is the missing piece to the bigger picture.

We drive, corner for corner. The G-forces pull on my body, my neck, but I don‘t care. 

I think back to my dad. That‘s what he felt every time he sat in the car. That‘s what he felt going up Eau Rouge. 

„Tu sens l‘énergie, ma Petite Rouge?“ 

Something clicks. 

I feel it. 

The energy. 

Him. 

It feels like a part of him is with me in the car, watching over me. Watching what his little girl achieved. 

The vibrations of the car travel through my body, become a part of me. Settle in my heart. 

Every once in a while, Lando‘s gaze falls on me, but I barely notice. 

Too gone in the memories. The early ones, from karting. The later ones, with him in his car. Track walks. 

His hand in mine, we walked through the paddock thousands of times and knowing that I will never be able to do that again, hurts. More than I want to admit. Then, there‘s his voice in my ear. The Belgian accent that I inherited. 

L‘énergie. 

Now I know what he meant. 

This. This is my own version of the energy he told me about ever since I was a little child. 

I found it. In Lando. 

The green, the grandstands, they fly past us in a blur and I can‘t help, but yelp a few times. I grip the door. 

It‘s a blur. A good blur, I think. 

We reach the straight again, he slows the car down. And I believe it is fate. 

Fate, that brought me to this club in London over a year ago. Where I met him. 

Thank you, Dad. 

It is only when the car nearly comes to a stop that I notice the tears on my cheeks. Hot tears, streaming down my face. I wipe them off, stare at the wet streaks on my fingers.

I breathe. A little more free than before stepping into the car. Like somebody took weight off of my chest I had carried for years and years. 

I sniffle, meeting Lando‘s gaze. When he turns the engine off, I almost seem to miss the vibrations. 

The look in Lando‘s eyes changes suddenly when he sees my red face. The tears. „Love, are you okay?“ There‘s so much worry in his voice, it rips my heart out.

“It was amazing, Lando.“ I close my eyes, feel more tears beneath the surface. „So, so amazing.“ My voice breaks, a sob escapes my throat. 

The picture of my dad doesn‘t leave my mind. He‘s here, I can feel it. 

The expression on his face grows softer. Quickly, he gets up from his seat and runs around the car to reach my door. He helps me get out of the car and the minute I stand on my own legs, he wraps his arms around me. Tightly, but never too tight. 

I bury my face in his neck, sobbing. Overwhelmed. 

„Thank you.“ I whisper. 

„Always, Petite Rouge.“ 

The nickname catches me off guard. Out of his mouth, it sounds different. But good different. Just so damn right. 

I let go of him for a second to look into his eyes. Drown in the golden hazel. 

„I love you.“ The words just slip past my mouth. I don‘t even notice what I just said until I see the startled look on Lando‘s face.

A moment of silence builds and embarrassment floods my mind. 

„I— I‘m sorry. I didn‘t want to…“ 

„I love you too, Isla.“ He interrupts me, the biggest smile on his face. But his eyes betray him. Tears reflect in the bottom of his eyes. „So, so much.“ 

He loves me. 

Me. Isla. The girl that is scared of racing. 

Was. I correct myself. Was scared of racing. 

Before I can respond to his words, he presses our lips together in a soft kiss. His lips meet mine, warmth builds in my stomach, reaches my heart. 

Six months later

June - London/Austria

My bedroom in London is already dark, when my phone on the nightstand lights up because of an incoming call.

Lan <3 the caller ID reads and I am fast to grab it and take the call.

„Bonsoir, petit fou.“

I am greeted with his soft laugh. „You still haven‘t told me what that means, love. It‘s mean when you have a nickname for me that I don‘t even understand, you know?“

I chuckle. „What are you gonna do? Check google translator?“

We both laugh and for a minute it feels like he is right here next to me and not in Austria. Silence grows as both of us don‘t know what to say. „Tu me manques.“ (I miss you.)

„I know.“ he answers. I taught him that phrase once during our nightly calls and since then I keep using it again and again. Sometimes, French seems more intimate. Deeper.

“Isla, I…“ I know what he is going to say.

„You won.“ I interrupt him.

We don‘t speak about the races. Or the results. Only when something happened that upset him. And that used to be enough for me. But when he won Monaco a few weeks ago and I only learned through his instagram post a few hours later, it bothered me.

So I started watching the races. Subscribed to F1TV. Behind his back. I didn‘t want him to ask questions. What this means for my relationship to motorsport. And foremost, I didn‘t want him to worry.

It‘s enough when I need to sit at home every other weekend, knowing damn well that he is driving a car at 320 km/h and I can only pray. That there is no fire. No stab in my heart.

„You… know?“ He seems surprised. But happy-surprised. „But… how? I mean… I haven‘t posted yet.“

„I… watched it.“ I let out, my grip tightening on the phone.

„The race?“ He breathed, a chuckle following his words. „You watched the race?“

I shrug, until I remember that he can‘t see that. „I‘ve watched all the last races.“ I play it down, like it‘s not a big thing.

„Wait, really? Since when?“ Excitement spills out of him and a smile covers my face. Hearing him happy, not only because of a race win, but simply because of me, it allows warmth to travel all across my body.

„Since Monaco. I… couldn‘t live with the thought of knowing you‘re out there driving and I don‘t know how you‘re doing.“ My voice grows quieter with each word.

I don‘t hide from him. I always tell Lando the truth. It‘s a promise I made to myself. If this is meant to work, I need to be honest. With all of my struggles. All my thoughts.

„Love, that‘s… you‘re good though, right? Are you…“

panicking. Is it too much?

We both know what he wanted to say. But he stopped himself. Because I wouldn‘t handle it well. Because he knows.

„I‘m happy. For you. I mean, the way you defended against Oscar? Proud of you, petit fou. Nothing like my old karting moves.“

He chuckles, but I can feel the tension through the phone. He is worried. Exactly the thing I didn‘t want him to be.

„Lan?“

„Hm?“ He sounds distracted.

„Don‘t overthink it, yeah? I‘m just a girlfriend who wants to support her boyfriend doing boyfriend-things.“ I try to let it sound casual.

„Yeah, but… It‘s different. With you.“

I sigh, knowing damn well what he means. And for some reason frustration builds inside of me, impossible to hold down. „I want to fight the PTSD. I don‘t want it to control my life. And most importantly, I want to share your passion with you. Even when it scares me to death.“

“That‘s brave, love. I‘m proud of my girlfriend.“

I tilt my head. „Merci.“ I whisper.

And as silence builds between us again, I remember what I had thought about for a while now. Before I can hesitate a second longer, I use all of my courage as Lando had just called it and ask: „Lan, do you think… I could come to one of your grand prixs any time soon?“

He stays quiet. Too long.

I fumble with the hem of the heavy blanket on top of me, giving my nervous hands something to do.

„Do you… want to? Am I pushing you? Isla, I don‘t want to make you feel like you need to come. It doesn‘t mean that much to me.“

Ever since the start of our relationship where he asked me to come to a race with him, we never spoke about it again. In between these six months of getting to know each other, he has learned every single trigger for my PTSD. He has helped me to dance around a meltdown. But that can‘t be reality. Living on the edge. Ignoring.

I need to change. Something. Anything.

„You‘re not pushing me. I want to, you know, see more of the world you‘re living in. And… I do miss the cold garages.“ I try to laugh, ease the tension.

Lando stays silent again, although his thinking is so loud, it feels like I can almost hear his thoughts. He sighs and I already start worrying if I am asking too much from him when he speaks up: „If you want to, I‘d love to have you there. But… whenever it‘s too much, you need to tell me, okay?“

„Thank you, Lan. Really.“

———————

July - Spa Francorchamps

The Spa Francorchamps paddock isn‘t comparable to what it used to be like with dad. All the people screaming Lando‘s name and his bodyguard pushing us forward, framing us from both sides the best he can. It‘s overwhelming to say the least.

The only thing that stayed the same, is that I have someone's hand to hold.

It‘s not the big, warm one of my father, but it‘s Lando‘s hand that fits into mine like it was meant to be there all along.

I cling onto him like my life depends on it as we walk past the barricades. And once we reach the paddock, scan our passes, I start to recognize a little more. My throat tightens when I think about the times I have walked on the same ground. And the last time I did.

Lando notices. „Too much?“ he whispers into my ear, but I shake my head.

It‘s just friday. Practice day. Lando convinced me to start slow. With the day that is the least crowded. So he can watch out for me, especially because he doesn‘t even have to drive the first free practice, one of the Mclaren Junior Academy drivers is taking over his car.

He is going to be here.

I am not alone.

My gaze wanders around the paddock, watching all the different team motor homes. Red, green, blue and papaya. We walk towards the door of the Mclaren hospitality, when suddenly Lando stops.

Another man stands in front of him, a big smile on his face. He wears a blue team kit, Atlassian Williams, I read. That must be Carlos.

Lando has told me much about his past teammate, a good friend. Carlos points to me, surprise flickering in his eyes. „You brought her? Finally?“ He asks, clearly excited, a strong spanish accent in his tone.

I can‘t help but laugh, as he greets me with a handshake. „I‘m Carlos. And that man can‘t stop talking about you, do you know that?“

“Isla. Only good things, I hope?“ I look over at Lando, redness creeping up his cheeks as Carlos‘ words.

„Claro que si!“ His gaze wanders between the both of us. „Have a good time, yeah? Enjoy the racing.“

My stomach tightens at his words and for a second, my mask drops. Lando squeezes my hand tighter. I make a step closer to him.

“We will. And you have fun driving, you muppet.“

We leave Carlos behind us and just within the few exchanged words, the paddock already got more crowded. Every mechanic, every engineer arrives early to prepare everything.

That‘s how it always has been.

Thierry appears in front of my inner eye and I want to ban him from my thoughts. He lost so much with my dad‘s death as well.

Stop. Not today. Too hurtful.

Lando guides me through the transparent front door of the hospitality and silence greets us. He looks at me, studying my face. A soft, reassuring smile tucks at his lips.

For a second, it‘s just us. It‘s like all the people around us don‘t even exist. Not the hospitality workers, not the marketing experts. Just us, his hazel eyes and his hand in mine. And everything is okay. Not scary.

But the tightness around my heart I woke up with this morning won‘t disappear.

„Shall I give you a tour?“ Lando breaks the moment.

I nod. Distraction. Good idea.

——————

We walk past everything that he is allowed to show me. I visit his messy driver room that he spends the most alone-time in, the garage and am even allowed to touch his papaya-car with the number 4 on it. He introduces me to a hell lot of people whose names I have already forgotten, but hearing him say „my girlfriend Isla“ so many times doesn‘t fail to make my heart skip a beat. And the smile growing on his face every time tells me that he feels very similar.

And then it comes to the pitlane. Because it is so early on a friday morning, it is nearly empty, only the staff of different teams rushing past.

The second I walk out of the Mclaren garage onto the pitlane, it is like I am stuck in a past memory. I switch the papaya of the engineer‘s shirts for light blue. My head exchanges the modern barricade with the old rusty one that I clung to as a child, pretending I can still smell the metallic scent on my hands. We walk across every garage and as much as I try to stop myself from looking at the track, I can‘t.

Immediately, I spot Eau Rouge.

And in my mind, there‘s fire. I still see the fire ball from the explosion, feel the soft fabric of Thierry‘s shirt under my fingers, when actually it is Lando‘s arm I am gripping tightly.

I start to lose myself in the memories, my vision blurs.

But before the panic can take control, he‘s there.

„Love, Isla. Hey, I‘m here.“ I can‘t stop staring at the corner. The corner that killed my dad.

I hold back the tears, but the ringing in my ears doesn‘t disappear. Not immediately.

„It‘s… strange. So much has changed, but at the same time everything feels the same.“ I tell Lando, my gaze still resting on the Eau Rouge.

I hear mechanics working on the cars, the sounds of different tools being used reaches us, but my mind blurs it all out. In my head, there‘s only the memory of shouts from the workers trackside, screaming for a fire extinguisher and for somebody to call an ambulance.

Lando squeezes my hand. Pulls me back into reality. „It‘s okay. It‘s normal that it makes you feel like this.“

Is it though?

In moments like this I become hyper-aware of my PTSD diagnosis. It makes me different from other people. Weaker.

But I am here to change that. I am here to beat this part of me that tells me I can‘t do it.

Right now, the goal seems a bit too big, too scary.

Throughout the morning, Lando tries to spend as much time with me as he can, but the later it gets, the more busier he is. Social Media duties, content that needs to get filmed that they couldn‘t quite get finished yesterday.

But somehow, he still makes sure to check in on me.

Only when the first free practice of the weekend comes closer, the paddock becomes the busiest and so is Lando. They expect him to sit at the pitwall, watching over the data of Oscar and their academy driver during the session.

He walks me to the space in the garage where I can spend my time and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. His warm hand cupping my face seconds before he needs to leave, he whispers into my ear: „So proud of you for pushing through. You‘re the bravest.“

And as much as I would like to believe him, I feel everything, but brave. The smell of fuel, the hectic energy in the garage, it all reminds me of my past.

And with it comes so much grief. Darkness that drains me.

I hide it in front of Lando, though. I can‘t allow to distract him from his work. He has already done too much for me.

He leaves for the pitwall eventually, leaving me behind in the garage.

It feels like I am watching the situation unfold from the outside. A passive observer, watching over all these busy people, a clear job in their minds. While I just stand there. Doing nothing.

Thoughts spiralling.

The session starts. The first car is sent out. Heated up tires.

I think I am fine. The sounds of the cars firing up and heading out of the garage sounds almost like an old lullaby that I grew up with.

That somehow ended in a nightmare.

I watch the big screens in the garage during the first few minutes, when I hear the first car rush past us on the straight.

And looking back at it, that‘s what triggered it.

My hands start to shake, I lean against the wall beside me to steady my collapsing nerve-system.

My thoughts become too much inside of my head.

Fire. Smoke.

„Daddy!“ „Petite Rouge.“

Fire.

„Bring the girl in. It‘s not looking good.“

Too many memories.

Something cuts through my chest. I am bleeding.

My head spins, my legs feel like they are going to give out.

When an unfamiliar face appears in front of me.

„Hey, are you okay?“ The woman dressed in all-papaya asks me in a polite, but slightly worried tone. „You look a bit pale.“

I shake my head, another wave of dizziness hitting me.

My hands tremble, I press them against my sides.

I don‘t want to lose control. I can do this.

No, I can‘t. I can‘t be strong.

„Okay, um… can you… talk to me?“

I let out a whimper, my brain feels fuzzy, like clouds grew inside of it.

„No… got it. Different idea. Let‘s sit down together, yeah?“

The woman says too many words at once. I can‘t follow. A sudden headache makes it feel like my head is going to explode.

My vision blurs, turns white.

So bright.

The woman helps me sink down against a steady, cold wall in my back.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The lighting hurts.

In the distance, I still hear the cars. The roaring engines. Downshifting.

„Petite Rouge veut regarder Le Rouge.“

The woman disappears, I am left alone.

My whole body starts to shake, I have lost complete control over my muscles.

And I am cold. So cold.

Muffled words exchanged next to me. Nothing reaches my cloudy brain.

Then, a familiar face. Familiar hand in mine.

Lan. My Lan.

„Isla. Hey, hey, hey.“ He wraps his arms around me, pulls me against his chest. „You‘re ice cold.“ He mutters under his breath, his heart beating irregularly right next to my ear.

He exhales and stills for a minute. I cling to him like a toddler that just fell onto their knees.

„Okay, focus, Norris.“ He whispers, inhaling sharply. „We‘re gonna get you somewhere safe, now. Right, Isla?“

I nod, hazy gaze. Everything feels heavy. Like I am dying.

I yelp when I feel his hands grabbing first my legs and then my shoulders. Then I‘m in his arms, he carries me.

My head falls against his chest and I grip his hoodie anxiously. „Lan, make it stop.“ I whisper.

„What, love. What?“ His voice is in distress. I feel his hands trembling as he holds me up.

„Too bright.“ I let out.

„Close your eyes. Close them, for me.“ His voice is gentle, but I can spot the worry beneath his words.

I have lost all my orientation, until we finally reach a room that I can quickly identify as his driver room. He sits me down on the expanded couch that he can use as a bed.

I lean against the wall and hold onto his hand. I need his warmth.

His hold.

My eyes still closed, I hear Lando mumbling. It feels like he is miles away. My hearing fades with every word he is saying

„Shit, Isla. What should I do?“

I want to open my mouth, say something.

But it takes every strength of my body to stay conscious. To keep a little bit of control.

Only a whimper escapes my dry throat.

My fingers tingle, like they aren‘t even mine anymore.

I feel the mattress shift under his weight. Then I get pulled into his lap softly.

Lavender. Ciderwood. Safe. Lando.

I take a shaky breath.

He strokes through my hair lazily, his warmth travelling through my entire body as everything calms down a little bit.

“Let‘s breathe together.“ he whispers close to my ear.

„In…“ I feel his chest tightening under my body.

„Out.“ I try to match him, but it doesn‘t work.

It never works.

I stay like this. Curled up in his arms. And somehow, the world doesn‘t feel so scary anymore.

My trembling stops. My heart slows.

And eventually I drift off into darkness. With Lando beside me.

———————

My eyes flutter open and I am greeted by dimmed light. Every muscle in my body protests as I try to sit up, but Lando‘s gentle hand keeps me in position.

In his lap.

„It‘s okay. Take it slow.“

My throat feels dry, like I swallowed bricks. Or had a panic attack.

Guilt floods my body, my soul. My heart.

Lando grabs a water bottle from the shelf beside him, opens it and lightly holds it in front of my mouth.

„Small sips.“ He advises me and I feel the cold water run down my throat as I nearly choke on it.

My brain is still in a hazy state, not every part is working yet. I let myself fall against his steady chest again, inhaling his scent that allows me to breathe. To relax.

„You scared me.“ He says. Whispers.

I swallow the tears bubbling from beneath the surface. But I can‘t stop the shame. Or the guilt.

Emotions take control over my body that I thought I had banned forever.

„I‘m sorry.“ I mumble against his soft hoodie. He draws lazy circles over my back.

„Don‘t apologize. Ever.“

His words don‘t reach me. Not really. „I‘m weak.“

“You experienced trauma.“

Now I can‘t stop the tears. They blur my gaze, heat my face up and intensify the guilt. Ripping my heart out. Too much.

Tired.

So damn tired.

„Hey, don‘t cry.“ He wipes the tears away with one swift motion.

„I just— I hate this. I hate PTSD.“ A broken cry follows my words and his grip on me grows tighter.

Not uncomfortable. Just safe.

“I understand. You‘re still so fucking brave, love.“

I sniffle, listening to the soft hum of the air conditioning in his driver room. A consistency I find comfort in.

I stay silent, too exhausted to speak.

„Can I ask what triggered it?“

I shrug. Shift in his lap. „The car rushing past. Up Eau Rouge. I think. I remembered the chaos. The smell. And the noise when it… when it exploded.“ My throat tightens at my words, not familiar with talking about it. The accident. That killed him.

It‘s almost ironic that I am at this track. Crying, in the arms of a racing driver.

Dad, can you see me?

„And…“ I hesitated, scared he might get thrown off by my honesty.

„Yeah?“ he asks gently. Not pushing. My heart clenches.

„I heard his voice in my head. He repeated the nickname he had for me.“

He exhales, waits for me to continue.

“Petite Rouge, he called me. Because his engineers gave him the name Le Rouge. He was always the fastest up the Eau Rouge.“

„Isla, that‘s…“ his voice cracks. „Beautiful. Petite Rouge?“ He tries mimicking my belgian accent, but fails miserably.

„No, Petite Rouge.“ I repeat. Emphasizing the t and the soft g. A little laugh escapes my throat. „You‘re not allowed to use that though. It‘s reserved.“

And it breaks my heart every time I hear it.

But something about the way his voice sounds when the two words roll off his tongue, does something to me. My stomach curls. Warmth travels through me.

Silence builds between us, but being held by him, feeling his hands on me, it could never feel uncomfortable.

I just exist.

„What can I do next time? If it happens?“ he asks quietly.

„Just— be there. Hold me. You did everything right.“

He sighs, clearly not happy with my answer. „I felt so useless.“

His fingers travel over my bare arms, leaving behind a shiver. „I wanted to help, but didn‘t know how.“

„Nobody can help, petit fou. That‘s just how it is.“

He groans. Protests. „I don‘t like that. I want to be there.“

I chuckle. „You are there.“ In the best way possible.

„Am I?“ The worried tone in his voice tells me that he means it.

Three weeks later  February - Monaco 

For the second time already I visit Lando in Monaco. I like the city, the atmosphere, the sea so close by. 

But the thing I like most is him. I‘d travel to any place in the world if it meant to be able to be surrounded by his soft temper. 

Sitting at the kitchen island on one of the bar stools, I watch him across the room preparing pancakes for breakfast. Every once in a while, he looks over to me, a grin immediately growing on his face. 

When he places the plate with hot pancakes in front of me, I smile. „Lando!“ A laugh escapes my lips and I smack him playfully on the arm. 

„What? Only the best for my girlfriend.“ He acts hurt, but the blood rushes into his cheeks as he reaches for the sirop d’érable (maple sirup). The heart-shaped pancakes in front of me, my stomach curls in… love. Warmth. A feeling I have been surrounded by ever since that night in the club. 

We never officially talked about starting a relationship. But somewhere between my first visit in Monaco and the thousandth movie night in my apartment in London, it just got fairly obvious to us both. 

With him, it feels like breathing. Taking a deep breath on a sunny Saturday. 

The word girlfriend still makes me blush like a teenage girl, though. 

„Thank you.“ I blink at him. 

“Need to make the most of it when I have you here, don‘t I?“ He walks past my chair and pressed a quick kiss to the top of my head, while I start eating my breakfast. 

Lando got up a lot earlier, went to the gym and trained for the upcoming season. 

During the last weeks of his winter break, it was easy to forget that I am falling in love with a racing driver. Besides the pictures of him with his car and the helmets displayed everywhere, he doesn‘t make it too obvious that he races cars for a living. But now that every conversation he has with other people shifts more and more towards Formula One and the season opener in Australia, it gets hard to ignore. 

Even for me. 

Lando returns from the living room, a book in his hand. He sits down next to me and when I see the cover of the book in front of him, I let out a happy squeal. 

„That‘s…“ 

„One of your books, yeah. I thought you wouldn‘t mind.“ A cheeky grin grows on his face. 

„You stole it from my bookshelf?“ I act upset, but the smile on my face tells a different story. 

He nods. „Last week in London. But this is really good.“

I shake my head in disbelief. „Lando Norris turned into a Romance reader. Who would‘ve believed it.“ 

He shrugs. „I don‘t care what others think. I‘ll even walk through the paddock with it.“ He winks at me playfully. 

We sit there quietly, I eat the pancakes, he gets lost in between the pages of one of my favorite romance novels.

And the race weekend stands between us like an elephant. 

We haven‘t spoken about it. Yet. 

It was like we were lost in our own world filled with laughter, movies and getting to know each other that we forgot about the one thing that is meant to keep us away from one another. 

„Isla, I…“ He takes a deep breath. „I wanted to ask you something.“ 

I don‘t look up from the plate in front of me. 

„Would you like to come? To the first race? Not to… show you off or anything. Just— It would be nice to have someone there that knows— knew— this world. This crazy… racing world.“ 

He stumbles across the word racing, his voice cracks. 

And for me, everything goes silent.

I‘ve never been to Australia. It could be a new start. Fresh. 

But only thinking about the garage, the smell of fuel and old tires. Cars rushing past me. My chest tightens.

I squirm uncomfortably in my chair. 

When I let out a sigh, I feel his hand touching my leg. „Hey. You don‘t need to. If it‘s too much, I understand. Racing can be— a lot.“ 

I look up at him, his understanding gaze resting on me. 

The pressure inside of me, to be normal, to be brave, it disappears with his presence next to me. Comforting. 

„I‘m not ready. I think.“ I let out a shaky breath, getting lost in his hazel eyes. „It‘s too much.“ The last words are not much more than a whisper, but he hears them anyway. Comme toujours. 

„That‘s okay.“ He presses a soft kiss to my temple, his big hands cupping my face. His touch leaves behind a trace of shivers on my skin. 

I smile hesitantly. 

„Isla.“ 

„Hm?“ 

„It‘s okay.“ He chuckles. „You don‘t need to come.“ 

I study his face. Search for evidence that he is lying. „Really?“ 

„Really.“ 

Just slightly, I shift my weight towards him until my head rests on his shoulder. My favorite position. His hands trace through my strands of brunette hair and a weird feeling of trust echoes through my body. 

Like I would trust him with anything. Even with my heart. 

Silence builds between us, a quiet space that is just made for us. For existing. 

I play around with my necklace, the one that is equally a part of me as my hair or my fingernails. It belongs to me. 

Lando notices. He gently takes the pendant in his own hand and rubs over the rough fabric. Then looks at me, my head still lying on his shoulder. „Did he give that to you?“ he whispers. 

I shake my head. „My dad‘s engineer made it for me after his death.“ I hold it higher, study the light blue fabric. „It‘s a piece of his race suit. From the sleeve.“ My throat tightens, my vision gets blurry. I‘ve never had to tell anyone about this necklace. 

Because nobody asked. „I always held onto his sleeve. That‘s why Thierry picked that piece I think.“ 

„It‘s beautiful.“ Lando still looks at the necklace like it‘s art. Then his gaze flickers up to me again. „Can I ask you something else?“ 

I nod slightly, not leaving my safe space on his shoulder. 

“What‘s your favorite memory? With your dad?“ 

My heart skips a beat. Just like it always does when somebody mentions my dad. 

Thousands of memories flood my mind, but one stays prominent. The one I have been keeping closest to my heart. “One day, he allowed me to sit in his race car with him. He was just about to drive out for a private training session with his team and Thierry lifted me onto his lap.“ A nostalgic expression covers my face. „I gripped the steering wheel and turned it, amazed that the tyres followed my movements.“ I chuckle. „That‘s when my dad decided he is going to take me karting.“ 

Lando‘s eyebrows shoot up. „You were a karter?“ 

„Oui, local Belgian Karting Championships. I was addicted to the speed, to the battles. And of course spending time with my dad. I felt insanely cool, knowing that my dad is Mathiéu Rousseau, Le Rouge.“ 

His hands brush over my arms, draw circles. „Do you miss it?“ 

I sigh. Hesitate. Camille thinks so. „It doesn’t matter. Because I couldn‘t do it without him. It was our thing. I still feel shame that I stopped though. He would‘ve wanted me to continue. Be the first woman in Formula One, who knows?“ I smile, look up at him. 

“He would be proud of you, no matter what.“ 

A knot in my stomach tightens as I nod. „I think so too.“ I play with the hem of his soft shirt. „He would‘ve loved you.“ 

He blushes. „That‘s good to hear.“ 

15 years later  January - London 

„Mais… Camille, come on. I don‘t want to party tonight.“ and especially not with your boyfriend and his party-animal friends. 

But she loved him. And I am her best friend, so I should too. 

„Mon dieu, Isla. Loosen up! It‘s gonna be fun. And you‘re lucky you even get a chance of going into this club. It‘s pretty luxurious.“ 

I roll my eyes in a moment when Camille is looking out of the window of the taxi. 

My definition of loosen up is sitting on the sofa in my little apartment in London and watch a movie. Read a book. 

Definitely not wearing a tight dress and tying up my dark brown hair in a tight knot that already makes my head ache painfully. 

Camille next to me keeps playing with strands of her blonde hair that falls loosely over her small shoulders. The dark blue eyeshadow is the same color as her dress with a few too many layers of tulle. She takes up most of the space in the backrow in the taxi and I find myself clinging to the car door, somehow trying to give her even more space. 

I intertwine my hands, pressing my palms tightly to one another. 

„Besides, I want to introduce you to someone.“ The flirtatious tone in her voice tells me everything I need to know. Another set-up. Another guy I will have to hold empty conversations with. Another night in an overcrowded room and too loud music. 

„Camille…“ 

„No, listen. He‘s really nice. And I promise he‘s different.“ 

I shoot her a warning look. She just shrugs. „You have said that every single time now.“ 

„N‘importe quoi! It wasn‘t that many dates yet, what are you talking about…“ 

I snort, shaking my head in utter disbelief. The air in the taxi thickens with each minute that we spend inside it and the moment we step outside into the cold January air in the middle of London, my relief for filling my lungs with fresh air is quickly overshadowed by the knot in my stomach tightening. 

Camille squeals as she runs towards her boyfriend and only seconds later finds herself rocking back and forth in his strong arms. 

I only get a half-hearted smile from Shawn when our eyes meet. Not that I wish for much more. I just want this night to get over with. 

Above the entry, it reads Purple Room in neon letters. I bet it‘s supposed to sound mysterious, like something that you‘d be dying to enter and judging by the excited look on my best friend‘s face, the marketing strategy works out pretty well. For some people. 

She jumps up and down and claps her hands together before grabbing my arm. „Isn‘t that so cool?“ 

I force a smile. The corners of my mouth hurt. 

„Bit more excitement?“ She blinks twice. „Please? If not for yourself, do it for me, yeah?“ 

I sigh, but a muffled laugh escapes my throat anyways. 

“Better, Isla. Better.“ 

Shawn is already walking in front of us as Camille drags me forward. „We‘re gonna have so much fun. I just know it.“ 

I just stay silent. It‘s not worth an argument. Pas aujourd‘hui. Pas toujours. 

——————

The club is loud. Crowded. Everything I expected it to be. I hold onto the small glass in my hand, a mocktail Camille ordered for me. I can‘t taste any alcohol, so I am praying she really did buy a mocktail. 

I don‘t drink. Ever. 

Losing control scares me. Makes my heart ache in my chest just when I think about it. 

I fumble for the necklace dangling around my neck, chase the heart-shape with my finger and rub over the rough material in the middle. I pretend the smell of motor oil and rubber mixed with his scent reaches my nose. But it‘s just my imagination running wild, as Camille would say. 

You‘re trapped in the past. 

I’m worried you’re gonna lose yourself eventually. 

Why are you not watching the races? 

Because. It would rip my heart out. 

Speaking of her, blonde hair and and her sparkly dress appears in front of me and without another comment, she grabs my elbow and pulls me with her. 

„Camille, what…?“ 

„You need to meet someone.“ She looks at me and the familiar sparkle in her eyes tells me that she already had one drink too much. I should watch out for her. 

She laughs as if I made a joke. „Loosen. Up. Isla. You‘re killing the energy.“ 

Énergie. 

I hear the word in a much more belgian accent and it leaves behind a sour taste on my tongue. 

We rush past different people, all dressed up in fancy clothes, until we reach a round table and she stops. “Guys, this is Isla. Don‘t worry, she‘s not always this boring. She just hates parties.“ 

The people around us laugh, my throat closes up. 

When Camille drinks, she says things about me that hurt. But in the morning, she doesn‘t remember one thing. Just the little scars on my heart never disappear. 

„Isla, that‘s Pietra and her boyfriend Max, Ed, Connor…“ she points at each person at the table, then reaches the guy standing right next to me. „… And Lando.“ 

„Hi.“ he whispers towards me, leaning a little closer. I feel his soft breathing and a smell of lavender and cedarwood reaches my nose. A soft smile tucks at his lips.

I turn towards him a little, study his dark, curly hair in the faint light in the club, when I feel a light tap on my back. I look over my shoulder and am greeted by a mischievous smile growing bigger and bigger on Camille‘s face. 

He‘s the man she wanted to introduce me to? 

I can‘t help, but smile back at Lando. „Hey. Nice to meet you.“ 

His gaze wanders over my face slowly. Taking in centimeter for centimeter. I stare back into his eyes. The hazel color shimmers golden. Heavenly. 

Magnifique. 

„So, you‘re Camille‘s friend?“ 

People try pushing past us, I lean closer to him. The smell of his perfume embraces me even more. 

I nod. „Yes. She dragged me here, thinks I need a social life outside of my apartment and my books.“ A forced laugh leaves my mouth. I look over to her as she empties the next cocktail glass. 

I tell myself she is old enough to take care of herself, but I see her fingers shaking as Shawn places the next drink in her hands. 

Worry travels through my body. I still see her unconscious body in that dark corner of that one club. 

I stop myself from saying something though. Instead, I turn back around to Lando. He tilts his head, studying my face. „Worried?“ 

I hesitate, but nod. „I don‘t like when she drinks too much.“ 

I see his lips moving, but over the loud music, not one word reaches me. „Sorry, what are you saying?“ 

He chuckles, moves closer to me. Suddenly, his mouth is worryingly close to my ear as he tries talking to me. „Were you set up too?“ His words vibrate through my body, leave behind an unfamiliar feeling of warmth in my chest. 

I want to answer, but suddenly people push past us and I stumble forward. 

Against him. 

For a moment, I bury my face in his chest, inhale his scent that I can‘t seem to get enough of. It reminds me of childhood, but in a good way. Not the kind of memories that shortens my breath. Or triggers something. 

Just— safety. 

Then his unexpectedly strong hands wrap around my shoulders and he helps me stand steadily again. I smile awkwardly. 

My hands rub over my bare shoulders and my gaze wanders across the room. So many people, so many different smells and sounds. And it feels like I am not a part of this moment. I am just the quiet observer that nobody notices. 

Until a hand brushes past mine. Skin on skin. 

I look up into Lando‘s eyes again. I want to believe, understanding lies beneath his gaze. 

„Wanna leave?“ he screams against the music and points towards the exit. 

Yeah. Yeah. Why not? 

But. I can‘t leave Camille. She stays with me. Always. I can‘t leave.  

My eyes hesitantly look over to her. Dancing, a bundle of dark blue and blonde curls, too much alcohol circling through her blood. And then back at Lando. 

It‘s weird. It feels like there is something between us.

Something interesting. That goes beyond the small talk. His scent. The warmth he is surrounded by. I feel drawn to him, like some sort of cheesy invisible-string metaphor. 

We barely know each other. 

But that‘s how mom met dad. In a club in Bruxelles. 

C‘est pas une romance, Isla. My inner voice pulls me back into reality. 

But I make a decision. 

I motion Lando to wait a second and squeeze past a couple of dancing people to reach Camille. 

I tap onto her shoulder, she turns around immediately. A huge smile grows on her face, grabbing my shoulders. „Isla. Danse avec moi!“ Her pupils are blown, flushed cheeks. So different from the girl I know. The girl I trust with every secret. Every truth. 

It hurts seeing her like this. 

I shake my head slightly. „Camille, listen. I‘m gonna go somewhere quieter with Lando, yeah? It‘s too loud in here.“ I point to the DJ on the side of the room. 

„Bonne idée! Alors, go. Talk with him.“ 

„And you…“ 

„Don‘t think about me. I‘m having the time of my life.“ An exaggerated laugh escapes her mouth and I can‘t stop the worry creeping up on me the longer I talk to her. It‘s not real. It‘s not who she is. 

I look over at Shawn. 

„Text me if something happens, s‘il te plaît?“ 

„Oui, petite rouge.“ She rolls her eyes, turning over and she continues to dance with Shawn. 

It‘s like something knocked all the air out of my lungs. 

Petite rouge. 

Nobody ever calls me that. Not after… 

It belonged to him. And died with him. Sometimes it slips past my mom‘s lips, but I‘ve never heard it in a belgian accent, since… that day. 

I‘m left in shock in the middle of the club, but I try to hold it together. 

Just a name. Just a backstory that nobody knows. 

I walk back over to Lando, who still stands at the table and he smiles at me when he spots me. I want to respond with the same unbothered look, but the fact that Camille forgot about what happened the last time I let her alone in a club overshadows my thoughts. 

But still, I follow a man I barely know away from the dance floor into a less crowded space with small tables and sofas. The heavy door shuts behind us and we are surrounded by silence. We are the only ones in this more hidden area and at first I feel awkward. Like I don‘t belong here. 

But he smiles again and it feels like the sun looks at me. Warm. Comfortable. Like this is how it should be. 

And, somehow, something inside of me moves to the right place. Something clicks. 

With him. 

And whilst my heart speeds up, I‘m scared at the same time. Of my own feelings. 

I sit down next to him on one of the sofas. The soft velvet under the thin fabric of my dress gives me a feeling of safety. Of belonging. Something that the crowded club could never give me. 

„So… why are you here? If you guide a girl outside of the club you stepped into first?“ I am meant to sound truly curious, but my thoughts distract me. 

Camille. Petite Rouge. 

They won‘t let me go. 

„Same as you.“ He leans against the backrest. “My friends think I need some more fun in my life besides the job.“ He tilts his head and smirks. „And a girlfriend. They believe a girlfriend would fix all my problems at once.“ There is a sparkle in his eyes. Irony, maybe. 

Or admiration. 

For me? 

I feel heat rushing into my cheeks, but I don‘t let go of his gaze. „Why is that?“ My voice is rusty. Like the words don‘t actually want to leave my mouth. 

He sighs, the polite mask slipping for a second. „Racing doesn‘t leave much space for personal life.“ 

My heart skips a beat. 

Racing. Did he say racing? 

It‘s like the room starts spinning and I can‘t see straight. My vision blurs, his hazel eyes disappear and reappear in a matter of seconds. 

My hands shoot up to my forehead. Feels like something is about to explode inside of me. 

My heart races inside of my chest.

Just because of one word. 

One word and everybody can see how fucking broken I am. 

„Um.. I— I need a minute. Sorry.“ I rise from the sofa and run out of the room. Entering, I saw the sign for the toilets. 

Blurry vision, shaking hands, I try to orientate myself and finally find the neon sign. 

I stumble into the women‘s bathroom. 

Empty. Thank god. 

Quickly, I hide inside one of the stalls, lock the door behind me and immediately fall to the ground. 

I try to regulate my breathing. One hand pressed to my chest, I breathe in. Out. 

Uneven. Panic. 

I remember the first time this happened. The wall of the bathroom wasn‘t a dark purple. It wasn‘t a club. It was in my school. 

Camille banging on the door outside, asking what she could do to help me, while I felt like I was going to die. 

Same moment. Just years apart.

I bury my head between my legs. 

Nothing is happening. 

It‘s all in your head. 

You‘re safe. 

No one is going to die. 

Everybody is fine. 

Except for that one person that had the audacity to leave me alone in this goddamn world. 

Pictures of fire, smoke, so much destruction come up in front of my inner eye. 

I close my eyes. Lean against the steady wall with my head. Hide my shaking hands between my legs. 

And wait. For it to pass. 

The panic. 

Just like my therapist told me to. 

And I still feel like a failure. 

One word. One word was all it took to bring me here.

Racing. 

Does that mean— no. No, Lando can‘t be a racing driver. The first man that I have feelings for, he can‘t be the personification of my worst nightmare. 

Of the one thing I have been running away from for half my life. That took so much from me. 

I take a deep breath when I hear the bathroom door open. 

„Isla?“ Camille‘s shallow voice. She speaks in a low volume. She knows that loud noises overwhelm me in this state. 

Fuck, I sound like a therapist myself. „I saw you run away.“  

„Yeah.“ I whisper, eyes still closed. 

„Ça va?“ 

French. The more comfortable language. Not so tiring for my brain. „Oui. Je pense.“ (Yes. I think.) 

„Alors, tu peux ouvrir la porte?“ (Okay, can you open the door?) 

A click echoes through the room as I unlock the bathroom stall. Gently, Camille opens it more and more. „Oh, ma chérie.“ 

She kneels down. „What happened?“ 

„He‘s a racer. He races, Camille.“ I choke on my words. Hiccups following the sentences. 

Her expression changes. Guilt. 

„You knew?“ I whisper. Can‘t believe it. My chest tightens in disbelief. 

She nods, slowly. Rubbing the dried tears from my face. Her hands feel cold, her gaze is still controlled by the alcohol. I hate to see her like this. 

„I— yes. I knew. I thought… I don‘t know what I thought. That it might help you.“

I look at her, unsure. Judging. But I stay silent. Too tired. 

„You miss it, Isla. The racing. The speed. The energy.“ Her eyes soften, she tilts her head slightly. “Don‘t you see how it kills you slowly? Every year a bit more?“  

I am speechless. 

I never knew she thought about me like that.

“I can‘t go back. Pas sans lui.“ (Not without him) Tears fill my eyes again, pressure building behind them. My forehead hurts. 

„But why ignore everything that has something to do with it? I saw the way you looked at Lando. Don‘t let that die because of grief that you can‘t let go yet. I‘m worried. About you.“ 

——————

Fifteen minutes and tons of cold water later, I return to the lounge, almost expecting to not find him sitting there anymore, but am surprised to see him in the same position as when I left. 

His eyes are filled with worry. 

For me. 

„Sorry.“ I whisper, sitting down next to him again. I ignore his gaze and look down onto my hands resting in my lap instead. 

„What‘s wrong? What— did I do wrong?“ 

„It‘s just… You‘re a racing driver?“ I let out the words that have been stuck in my mind for minutes now. 

He nods. „Formula One.“ 

The one thing my dad always wanted, but never achieved. 

„My dad, he…“ I reach for my necklace, my thumb stroking over the pendant restlessly. „He was a racer too. Belgian GT driver. He…“ I sniffle, trying to swallow past the tightness in my throat. „… died. Eau Rouge.“ I had never been good at talking about him. About the accident. Sentence fragments left my mouth instead. 

I feel a hand resting on mine. Looking up, I can see his apologetic face through a veil of tears. 

„I‘m sorry. That‘s… horrible.“ He draws lazy circles on the back of my hand, slowing down my irregular breathing. 

„I saw it. His car going up in flames. And— I have PTSD. Since then.“ 

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. 

Getting the diagnosis was difficult. But there was finally an explanation for the panic keeping me in a chokehold. 

I might be hallucinating, but I see tears shining in Lando‘s eyes. “I— I don‘t know what to say. You shouldn‘t have had to endure that. I can‘t imagine what it‘s like.“ 

I‘ve heard these words lots of times before. The same empty apologies. But from him, they sound more sincere. Like they truly mean something. 

„You don‘t have to be here with me anymore. If it hurts you too much. I understand.“ The softness in his gaze is what makes my insides twirl. In a good way, somehow. 

I remember Camille‘s words from earlier. Don‘t let that die because of grief that you can‘t let go of yet. 

No, I don‘t want to let him go. 

15 years ago  July - Spa Francorchamps 

„Ah, tu es là, Petite Rouge!“ Thierry, the engineer of my dad exclaimed as he came running towards me. 

I giggled, pulling the hat my dad gave to me further into my face. „Où est-il, ton père?“ He asked next, crouching down and lifting the cap slightly so he could look at my face. 

I pointed outside of the garage. „On the track!“ I couldn‘t hold back my excitement. My last track-day had been too long ago and I missed the smell of burnt rubber and fuel and the sound of the loud engines roaring in the distance. „On the track, you say? Want to go and watch him?“ 

I nodded. What a question? I shrieked when he grabbed me on my waist and picked me up and carried me in his arms. I laughed and the crew started looking at us confused. 

But Thierry, he just shrugged and said: „Petite Rouge veut regarder Le Rouge!“ 

We reached the barricade to watch my dad take it up the most famous corner Eau Rouge in Spa from what he got his nickname from. It was just practice ahead of the new season of the Belgian GT Championship and the paddock was quiet, but still filled with the nerves.

When we walked in this morning, my hand strongly intertwined with his, he squeezed my hand twice and said: „Tu sens l‘énergie, ma petite rouge? C‘est important que tu te souviennes toujours de cette énergie.“ (Do you feel the energy, my little red? It‘s important that you always remember this energy.) 

I smiled at him. „Oui, je la sens. Toujours.“ (Yes, I feel it. Always) 

I loved the energy. The adrenaline rushing through my veins when I heard a car coming closer and closer on the long straight. It was like I was in the car with him, at least in my mind. 

„There he comes!“ Thierry told me as a light blue car chased around the corner. Dads car felt familiar to me, like it was a part of me too. A part that I soon hoped would take up more and more space in my life. 

I loved the days at the go-karting tracks with dad. It‘s the time where he‘s more relaxed. Not so stressed. 

His car rushed down the straight faster than the others beforehand and I gripped the steel barricade in front of me to catch the best glimpse at him. 

An undefinable something of light blue flew past us and my head turned to face the Eau Rouge as I shouted: „Yes, daddy!!“ I heard Thierry chuckle beside me, his grip on my waist growing stronger the further I reached over the barricade. 

„Okay, let‘s go back into the garage, shall we?“ 

I wanted to protest, was in the midst of shaking my head when a loud explosion shook my ears. 

I turned my head to look back to Eau Rouge, oblivious to what just happened. It was only when I saw the smoke, the fire that it hit me. 

My stomach dropped. I gripped Thierry‘s arm tighter, the soft fabric of his hoodie the only anchor when my thoughts collided. 

Dad. 

No, dad. 

People started running. Shouting. Panic. Loud. 

I smelled fire. Smoke covered the race track. 

Someone called Thierry. „Bring the girl in. It‘s not looking good.“ 

They thought I didn‘t hear. They thought a ten year old girl can‘t know that her dad just took his last breath. 

The subtle moonlight shines through the small window and steals the darkness its loneliness. But I can‘t sleep. Again. 

My legs restlessly shift over the mattress constantly, I feel my body spiral together with my thoughts. 

Lando‘s arm is loosely draped around my upper body, his breathing has been evening out for half an hour already. While I stay awake. So many thoughts, doubts, worries. So many emotions. 

Under the heavy blanket, I feel trapped. Imprisoned. I try taking deep breaths, regulating my racing heart in my chest. The doubts grow louder, take control over my entire body. 

And at the same time, there is so much heaviness.

Heavy heart. 

Tight knot in my stomach. 

I squint my eyes together, forcing the sleep. But I know it‘s a lost game. 

I can‘t win. Not against myself. 

I notice my stiff shoulders, the tense muscles in my body and suddenly, Lando‘s lazy touch on my body lost its comfort. 

I need to get up. Do something. 

Slowly, I sit up, sliding Lando‘s warm hand off of my trembling body, already missing it. I rub my hands over my face and swing my feet out of the bed onto the cold floor. 

I don‘t bother putting on pants or socks. The cold has been my friend for a while. During restless nights like this that feel a little darker than the others. 

Opening the door, the handle presses uncomfortably into my hand and I have to force myself to not look back into the darkened room. Lando‘s relaxed face would increase the shame boiling in my stomach. For being like this. 

This fucking broken. Embarrassing. 

Just me. 

Stepping out of the room, the tightness in my chest doesn‘t disappear. I wander through the dark corridor, the moon outside mocking me as I reach the living room. 

I sink down onto the soft cushions of the sofa, tucking my feet under my legs, curling up in a position that Lando always laughs at. 

„Like a pretzel.“ His voice echoes through my mind, spreading warmth before the ruthless coldness takes control again. 

The doubts creep in, growing louder and louder in the quiet of the night. 

You‘re unlovable. 

You will fail. Like you always have. 

You don‘t deserve anything in this world. 

I grab my book from the tiny, wooden couch table and stare at the colorful cover. It‘s happy. It‘s sweet. Will cheer me up.

I drag my arm over my head, switch on the warm reading light behind the sofa. 

Since my childhood, books have always managed to distract me. From everything. Even from myself and the darkness that pours out of me. 

I open the page, the papaya-colored bookmark letting a tired smile grow on my face. A fan gifted it to me trackside. I‘ve kept it ever since. I lie it down beside me and start reading. 

Page for page. But nothing reaches me. I read phrases again. Paragraphs and every word feels strange on the page. Like it doesn‘t fit. 

I lean back, a soft sigh exiting my throat. My heart races, fingers tremble.

Suddenly, the book feels too heavy in my hands and I put it down. These heavy, dark thoughts, they consume me. Take control over every part of my body. 

I want to break out, sling my arms tightly around my legs, the head resting on my knees. Rocking back and forth, I try taking deep breaths. 

The exercises my therapist has told me about before I stopped going. I told myself I wasn‘t broken enough. I could work through it alone. 

In for four. 

Out for four. 

In for— 

It doesn’t help. It makes it worse. 

I buried my face in my hands and only notice the hot tears on my face as the first muffled sob escapes my throat. 

This heaviness, this hopelessness, it feels familiar. As much as I try to fight it, I know this feeling. 

The tense muscles. Stiff shoulders. 

It‘s here again. Another episode. 

Just what I had been scared about ever since the last one. Feeling weak, breaking down. Needing help. 

My cries grow louder, echoing through the lit-up room and shame tightens the knot in my stomach. I don‘t want to feel like this. I am stronger than this. 

A soft touch on my shoulder lets me look up in distress. It is Lando‘s hazel eyes I am looking into through my blurred gaze. His hand feels comforting on shoulder, weirdly warm for my shivering body. 

„Hey.“ he just says. No annoyance in his tone, just drowning worry. He kneels down beside me, cupping my face and catching the falling tears. 

The reassuring smile on his face doesn‘t quite reach his darkening eyes as he looks at my breaking facade. 

“Scale of 1 to 10?“ He quietly asks, barely audible. It‘s a method we invented for moments like this where speaking drags too much energy out of my body. Soul. 

„2“ I just say.

1, I want to say, but that number stays in my head. Because it feels too pathetic. His eyes rest calmly on me, not hectic. Just present. Anchoring, somehow. „Oh, baby.“ 

He strokes lost pieces of hair behind my ears and his fingers leave behind a comforting trace of shivers all over my skin. I close my eyes, leaning fully into his strong hold on my face. Eventually, he sits down on the sofa beside me and pulls my trembling body against his chest. 

My head meets his collarbone and he strokes lazily over my body, buries his hands in my blonde hair. Sobs escape my throat, but I don‘t feel alone. I feel like for the first time tonight, I can breathe. 

Lando starts humming next to my ear, a comforting melody that I‘ve heard before. One of the songs that get stuck in his head before races. And then stay with me until I see him cross the finish line. 

I close my eyes again, sniffling. 

„What is it?“ Lando mumbles, trying not to disturb my mind. 

„Everything.“ I answer, eyes squeezed shut. „Too heavy. Too loud.“ 

He hums, tightening his hold around my curled up body. „I‘ll make it better.“ 

He grabs a blanket from the other side of the sofa, pulls it over my bare legs and feet, a soft warmth immediately flooding my body. Then, he shifts just slightly under my weight to switch off the light and let the night settle in. 

“Good?“ he asks right against my ear. I nod, exhaustion pulling on my body. 

„Lando?“ I whisper into the darkness. 

„Yeah?“ 

„Thank you. For silencing the thoughts.“ I cuddle even closer to him, inhaling his scent. The scent of home. 

„Always, baby. Always.“