Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a random Wednesday before the season start, when Max, just like all the other people in the world, learns through an Instagram post that Charles Leclerc has decided to end his Formula 1 career, no complicate reasons, no big words, a simple black rectangle with the decision written on it.

He loses his grip on the phone, as if it was burning. Then, almost immediately, he picks it up again to check if it’s true. It is. Blue checkmark, the handle is right. This is not a joke nor a false information, Charles just left; his Instagram caption reading “I’m sorry, this is the end. Thank you for everything, goodbye.” And honestly? It seems like a suicide note.

Messages start appearing on the top of his phone, all the other drives writing in the group chat asking why, tons of notifications but none of them are from the Ferrari driver, who just exited the conversation. His best friend Pierre said he doesn’t know, he is trying to get a hold of the young man, but it’s like he vanished, or that is what he wrote.

Max was dumbfounded, everything whirling swiftly around him, while he was trapped in place, the world relentless in its pace, as emotions gradually tightened their grip on his throat. The house is quiet, not even his cats were emitting a sound, and it’s suddenly too much to bear. He didn’t know what to do, he just didn’t. Is he supposed to call Charles? They aren’t friends, colleagues sure, but in the six years they spent together on the grid, friendship was not something that blossomed for them. Still. It was Charles, he knew him since they were kids, racing in those old go-karts, spinning for contact, arguing, and sharing the podium.

A spark flared inside him as memories of their time together came rushing back. It was not anger, but a burning need to know—to know why. What had happened? So, with shaking hands he dialed Charles’ number, and just as he was expecting, it went immediately to voicemail, no bips, no sounds, just a recorded voice telling the person is not reachable. Without thinking it through, Max takes the keys of his car and drive to his place; Monaco wasn’t a big city, and he knew where all, or at least most of, the drivers lived.

It was an unusual ride, there weren’t many people around – strange, he thinks, wondering why; the usually sunny city was grayer, but more in twisted way, it’s like even the air knows that something isn’t right, Monaco just lost his Principe. He doesn’t even bother to turn on the radio, it is a short ride, and he isn’t even in the mood. Everything feels uneasy, and he can’t understand why the news is affecting him that much, maybe because it was so sudden, so unexpected; he vividly remembers the Ferrari promo over the break, and Charles was there, hundred percent.

Absentmindedly, he parks, he can’t even make out how he arrives in front of Charles’ house, but there he is, and he feels so stupid. Asking himself again why he is there – sure he is a nice person, or at least he wants to be, he is friendly with everybody; yeah, sometimes he lashes out but it’s normal, F1 brings the worst out of people, the stress doesn’t help.

Before he can chicken out, he knocks three times. Slowly, the door opens, and a figure emerges from the shadows: Charles.

“Why?” he didn’t even say hi, there wasn’t time for small talk.

“Max” the monegasque exclaims in disbelief, “what are you doing here?”

“I need to know why you are retiring” he blurted out, “and also the others are worried”, a little “me too” was left unspoken.

“There isn’t always a reason Max, you know? Sometimes you must take decisions that need to be taken” he simply stated, “And I’m okay, I was going to message all of you privately, some people matter more than others.” Then continued, “I’d invite you in, but… I don’t think that’s a good idea. I still need—” His voice shrank with every syllable, “—space.” He can’t meet Max’s gaze, can’t look at him, his face shadowed by a veil of anguish and melancholy. He isn’t ready to speak about what had happened, it’s easy to tell for the Red Bull driver.

Max isn’t satisfied, not in even in the slightest, but something on Charles’ face makes him stop talking. He can’t quite put a name to it—only that something in his rival’s face carries an emotion too tangled to be aired on the porch, and, as if that wasn’t enough, it doesn’t seem ready to surface at all. Max stuck to a few polite words—an apology, and the offer to talk if he wants. Then, with the same absent-minded haze, he slides back into the car, starts the engine, and drives through the city streets without a destination. Something inside him had coiled around his heart, and he fears that a single twitch might turn it into a deadly squeeze.

After an hour, he finally makes his way home, still dazed. He opens the front door and kicks off his shoes, his cats waiting patiently on the porch to greet him. He starts petting them; his fingers yearning for something that can bring him back to planet Earth. He asks himself if any of what had just happened was real, if even a single fragment of the day he had lived through could possibly be true—because in no universe would Charles Leclerc retire from Formula 1 without a WDC. And yet it had happened, and he has been caught up in it completely. His phone lets out a soft buzz—a message from Christian, saying that Ferrari would soon announce a new driver. He doesn’t reply, not that it matters to him. What drew his attention was another message, one that thanked him for stopping by, for checking in, and wished him a good season. It’s a message that doesn’t expect a reply, though no reply exists.

He drifts off to sleep, visions of a pair of green eyes lingering in his mind, once ablaze with passion and a fierce desire for revenge, now hollow and lifeless. In his dreams, red and yellow dance before him, unfamiliar colors at first, yet ones he has learned to cherish over the years, for they meant that an exciting fight was coming; this dream just another reminder that it will never be like this again, and he will never be able to dance on the track like that again. Earlier he told himself that today’s reaction was simply the result of that—the absence of variety, of real struggle, that the new season would bring. The thought had brought him a strange comfort, because the child inside him, the boy who had once only wanted to be friends with Charles to feel less alone, to avoid the shadow of his father’s absence, could no longer be appeased. So, he kept sleeping, as if nothing had happened, racing in his dream one last time against Il Predestinato.

Was it too much to ask?

Chapter Text

The first race of the season came quickly, almost before anyone was ready. In the past, Max’s energy would have been impossible to contain, a storm barely held in check. Now, though, there was only a quiet stillness inside him. It was only Thursday, that meant media day, and he would’ve done anything to miss that. He started walking without a real destination, his hands rested deep in his pockets, fingers brushing over coins, keys, or whatever else he found, while his gaze wandered past the movement on the track, half aware of the bustle around him.

That’s when he collided with Gasly, who was making his way across the paddock. They exchanged a quick, apologetic glance, but neither spoke. Words felt unnecessary.

Max noticed immediately—something was off. Pierre’s face was tense, uneasy, his whole-body humming with adrenaline, a tremor he couldn’t hide.

“What’s wrong, Pierre?” Max asked, worry threading his voice.

Pierre answered with a single word.

“Charles.”

It hit Max like a cold gust, running down his spine, shaking away the morning haze.

“Charles? What happened?” His voice sharpened, urgency pressing against every syllable, his mind already leaping toward the worst.

Pierre only said the young man was here, in Ferrari’s garage, and he was on his way to see him. Two weeks of chaos and confusion had passed, and through it all, Charles’s silence had been almost unbearable for the best friend.

Max didn’t respond. He just turned and walked with him.

Pierre gave him a questioning look, but Max had no explanation to offer—he didn’t even fully understand it himself. He had spoken to Charles before, briefly, and knew the former driver didn’t want to talk about his retirement. Yet something compelled him forward, stronger than reason, a force he could neither name nor resist.

A deep unease crept through him, heavy and insistent. He didn’t know why he was going, why he couldn’t let it go.

But it felt inevitable, as if something beyond him was pulling him straight toward Charles, and resisting wasn’t an option.

They reached the garage within minutes, and it was immediately clear they weren’t alone. Other drivers were already there, waiting for Charles to come out. No one spoke—only furtive glances, full of unasked questions, the kind that made the atmosphere tense and uncomfortable. Max started to regret coming. The tension was rising, measured in the restless tapping of shoes on the concrete, occasional sighs, and sidelong glances that lingered a beat too long.

Then the back door opened. Charles stepped out, closing it softly behind him. Max took a moment to observe him. His hair, usually neat and soft, was tangled like a bird’s nest. The happiness that had once shone in his eyes was gone, leaving only emptiness. The expression he wore now offered no trace of the joy he once carried.

Charles flinched at the sight of the drivers in front of him, hand rising to his chest as if to protect himself.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low, almost a whisper.

“We’re worried about you, Charles,” Pierre spoke up, calm but firm, his words carrying the weight of a long friendship. “You haven’t answered calls, or messages, and you haven’t said anything publicly.”

Max was surprised. He had thought Charles had at least talked to Pierre. He remembered the man’s words: “I was going to message all of you privately; some people matter more than others.” And now it was clear those messages had never been sent. Lost in thought, Max almost missed Charles’ reply. But the moment the words came, he focused entirely.

“I’m sorry, Pierre. Sorry to all of you. This decision was hard… and I couldn’t bring myself to speak with anyone. Even now, I don’t have the strength. Please… respect that.” His whisper broke off, fragile, like he was on the verge of tears.

Everyone looked at him with pity. Max hated it. Charles didn’t need pity—he needed understanding, empathy. So, Max stepped closer.

“It’s okay, Charles. Pierre, the others, and I—we’re here whenever you’re ready.”

For a moment, Charles’ gaze flickered, a small spark of life returning. A silent thank you flashing through them. The other drivers nodded, gave a few pats on his shoulders, and left for their garages, leaving Max alone with Charles.

“You can go, Max. Thank you… really,” the ex-driver said, his voice lacking conviction, though his body hummed with a restless energy, he was ready to run. Max nodded and turned to leave.

“Good luck for the race” he heard as he walked away, so he raised two fingers in the air, a quiet sign of gratitude.  Max didn’t see Charles again that weekend—a sign that the man had truly stepped away from what had once been his world. He had turned his back on it, said his farewell, once more. Max wished he had stayed, if only to talk, to exchange a few words, to slip inside his mind and uncover his secrets. But life rarely gives you everything you want.

The practice sessions and qualifying passed without any major issues. Max had faced no problems, and secured pole position. Yet, even as he raced, his thoughts kept drifting back to the boy from Monaco, a growing need to understand burning with every second passing. There was a fire in his stomach, an urgent craving to know why Charles had made such an absurd choice.

The more he thought about it, the more restless he became. It was Saturday night, and the first race of the season awaited him the next day. Champions didn’t waste time worrying about others—he could almost hear his father’s voice in those words. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to sleep, and once again dreamt of racing that red Ferrari, number 16, on any track, on any day.

The next day, Max took first place in a rather uneventful race. The thought that it felt empty without Charles was impossible to shake.

He arrived at the press room, and the first question was predictably about Charles’ retirement. Max had never worried about what he said—he was always blunt and honest.

“I think it’s a huge loss for the sport. As a driver, losing someone like Charles is a missed opportunity to grow. Today, his absence was loud on the track. But it’s his choice, and it deserves respect,” he said simply. The room fell silent. He meant every word. It wasn’t his fault if journalists—or anyone else—couldn’t understand it; it was just the truth.

The interviews continued for another half hour, but eventually the three drivers were dismissed. Max couldn’t wait to reach his cabin and take a moment to relax. He turned on his phone and saw the messages of congratulations from friends, the comments under a post made by his social media manager… and almost missed it, lost in a sea of notifications: a message from Charles.

"Did you really mean it? What you said in the press conference," it read.

Max replied with a simple, “Yes.” Few words were needed.

The response came quickly, “Thank you. That really means a lot to me.”

Max didn’t know what to say, so he just turned off his phone, took the things he left there and went to the hotel, with a flight to catch.

The plane hummed softly with a low vibration beneath Max’s seat as the world outside blurred into darkness. He leaned his head against the window, eyes unfocused, the glow of the city shrinking into scattered sparks below.

He had read Charles’s last message more times than he cared to admit. “Thank you. That really means a lot to me.”. Simple words and yet they carried a heavy weight pressed right on his chest.

Why did it matter so much? Why did Leclerc suddenly matter so much?

He tried to reason with himself, it was empathy, nothing more. Anyone would feel shaken, watching someone so brilliant fall apart. But the excuses rang hollow. It wasn’t just anyone. It was Charles, his old-time rival, his karting menace.

Max closed his eyes, frustrated with his own thoughts. He had just won the first race of the season. He should’ve been celebrating, already thinking of the next one. And yet, all he could picture was the look on Charles’s face that day in the garage, the emptiness in his eyes, the way his voice had nearly broken.

A knot twisted inside his stomach. He didn’t know what it was, or what it meant. He only knew that Charles’s pain had become almost his own, and that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

He turned his phone off again, slid it into the pocket of his hoodie, and forced himself to close his eyes. Sleep never came easy, not with questions that had no answers.

Far away from Bahrain, just an hour before, in his house in Monaco, Charles Leclerc had just heard Max’s words. Tears streamed down his face. He messaged him immediately, needing confirmation that it was true, even though he knew the Dutchman never held back his thoughts.

Watching the race had been torture. He couldn’t stop thinking that he would never step into that cockpit again, never race in his red car. And now these words had awakened a new kind of pain—one he couldn’t name. He only knew it was consuming, unbearable. It wasn’t a fire, it was ice, freezing every part of him, holding him still. He ran his hands through his hair, exhaled, and with eyes closed, whispered repeatedly: “I made the right choice. I made the right choice.” A mantra to convince himself.

The phone buzzed again sometime after midnight. Charles stirred, half awake, his head heavy and his eyes raw from tears. On the screen: Pierre. For a moment, he considered answering. His thumb hovered over the green button, trembling with indecision.

He could almost hear Pierre’s voice already—warm, insistent, the kind of voice that wouldn’t let him sink too far. The kind of voice that had always pulled him back.

But he couldn’t. Not tonight. Not when even breathing felt like a battle.

His thumb slid to decline the call. The silence that followed felt deafening.

A message arrived seconds later: “I’m here if you need me. Anytime.”

Charles stared at it until the letters blurred, then locked the phone and placed it face down. He curled into himself on the couch, whispering once more the words that no longer comforted him: “I made the right choice.” But the mantra cracked now, breaking apart, and with it, so did he.

He fell asleep like that, on the couch, phone in hand, his face still wet with tears that had escaped without permission, a burning sensation that while some people thought it was a small thing that happened, the world ended when it happened to him.

Chapter Text

Max’s weekend had started with a burst of promise. On Friday, during free practice, he felt almost airborne, as if the car were an extension of himself—something beyond metal and machinery. In the cockpit, he felt a rare, pure freedom; the world shrank to the track stretching out beneath his wheels. The engine roared in his ears, fuel and oil thick in the garage air. This was home. Not a house, not a place—but this world of speed and danger. Ever since his father had shoved him into that rickety go-kart—wild and unforgiving—he had lived for this. That memory, half sacred, half cruel, tied him to the man he’d become.

Saturday meant qualifying. Max woke restless, buzzing with the nervous energy that only racing could summon. Q1 went smoothly, a warm-up, a confirmation of his control. But Q2—disaster. Fifteenth. The chassis had snapped, and he was forced to retire the car.

Back in the garage, climbing out of the cockpit, he avoided every look, refused every word. He wasn’t searching for no explanations, no encouragement. He walked alone to the quiet of his room. Sitting on the bed, the weight of it hit him—the collapse of expectation, the narrowing of possibility. He knew exactly how much had slipped through his fingers in a matter of minutes. Victory tomorrow felt like smoke, disappearing before he could grab it. A half-sigh, half-groan escaped him, and he collapsed onto the mattress.

His phone was in his hand before he realized it, thumb scrolling through Instagram. He wasn’t reading, wasn’t seeing—just moving, mechanical, a distraction from the storm inside that was on the verge of coming out. And maybe because of that storm, that hollow vulnerability, he reached for Charles. If anyone could understand, it was him. Or so Max hoped. No one had ever fully gotten him—no one shared that same fire, that same madness.

No one except the Monegasque.

He stared at the blank screen, words failing him. Finally, he typed: “Out in Q2; P15.” Blunt, like the wound itself. Minutes later, a reply: “What happened?” Max frowned. Charles wasn’t watching—he’d texted last in Bahrain over nothing more than a press conference remark. “Chassis failure,” he typed back, clipped, unwilling to dress it up. Then Charles again: “I’m sorry. It’s the worst when the car betrays you.”

The words cut deep. Max smiled, despite himself—not cruelly, never that—but because the truth was bitter and absurd. Charles had been betrayed by his car over and over. Talent beyond measure, yes, but without the car, it was like a bird with broken wings. Useless and sad.

“Well, you do know a thing or two about tractors,” Max typed trying to lighten up the mood. Silence followed for too long. Regret prickled—had he gone too far? Finally: “Oof, that’s low, even for you Verstappen! But… fair enough.”

Max laughed. At himself, at the absurdity of it all. Here he was, Max Verstappen, venting about his Red Bull to Charles Leclerc—the man who had already walked away from Formula 1. And he still didn’t know the reason for that stupid, senseless choice. All he was sure of was this: Charles wouldn’t have left if there had been another option. If even the tiniest possibility had existed, he would have taken it.

Max couldn’t believe it. Everything felt like a cruel joke—and it was only the second race. His mind drifted back to what Charles had said in Bahrain, to the unexpected message he’d sent that day. What pain, what melancholy had hidden behind those words?

And in that moment, Max regretted reaching out at all. He didn’t know how Charles was, hadn’t heard from him since that message—and now he was writing again, over a failed qualifying.

A heavy sigh escaped him. He felt impossibly small in the face of it all. Losing control drove him near madness. But he had to stop thinking about it—this wasn’t the time. He had a race to turn around. That night, he replayed his perfect lap from Friday, over and over, closing his eyes and reliving every corner, every surge of acceleration. Once, twice, a hundred times—until memory blurred with dream.

Sunday was war. The race punished him at every turn, yet fate handed him small mercies—a safety car, rivals’ mistakes that let him overtake them more easily, madness possessing his body. He had only one thing in mind, winning or do absolutely everything he could do to go on the podium. He remained calm, waiting for the perfect moment, and he was rewarded as positions fell one by one. By the end, he was second. Perez on top. Max was happy for him, in a way that surprised him since they were actively fighting for the championship.. Fifteenth to the podium—it wasn’t failure, anyone would see it as a victory. Still, in the back of his mind, his father’s voice echoed, sharp as a blade: “Second is the first of the losers.” He shoved it away, drowned it in champagne, drenching Checo in victory’s ritual.

Hours later, on the flight home, his phone lit up again:

“P15 → P2. Not a bad improvement, no?”

A smile curved his lips. For the first time all weekend, he breathed. Yes—he had been good. And for once, he allowed himself to believe it, even for just a minute, he needed to feel enough for a moment.

At home, his cats greeted him, rubbing against his shoes. He scooped them up and carried them to the couch, sighing with relief. Qualifying, the race—it had all been a headache. With ten days of rest ahead, he welcomed the quiet.

He stayed on the couch for hours, the cats purring beside him. The TV flickered with something he barely watched. His focus was on them, their warmth, their soft presence, his favorite companions.

Late that night, just before sleep, Charles’s message returned to him. He had already replied with a simple “thanks,” but something nudged him to say more. He reopened the chat: “Anyway, thanks for supporting me.” Even from afar, Charles’s presence had made the weight easier to bear.

“We only exchanged six messages, Max. I didn’t do much,” came the reply, catching him off guard. True, they hadn’t poured out their hearts, hadn’t written long confessions—but it had been enough. Even a single word could matter during a race—and Charles knew that as well as Max did.

“You were the only one who could make me smile all weekend.” Immediately, regret hit. Too much, too vulnerable. He switched off the phone and lay down, unwilling to see what Charles might say.

It lasted barely five minutes. He turned the phone back on, hoping—and a message waited: “That made me smile. You know where to find me if you need me.”

Without thinking, he typed: “I should be the one saying that, with all the chaos you’re dealing with.”

Then the regret hit seriously this time. Reminding Charles of his retirement at this hour wasn’t smart. Max could still see the quiet melancholy on his face when they were in Bahrain. As expected, the reply didn’t come immediately, he knew he’d pushed too far. If only he’d been brave—brave as he was on track—he would have apologized or at least asked how Charles was. He wasn’t. “But pride is gonna be the dead of him”.

The silence didn’t come easily. Memories surfaced unbidden, pulling him back years. Austria, 2019. The day he forced his way past Charles with all the fire and fury of youth, claiming victory after a grueling combat. He remembered the look on Charles’ face, sharp as broken glass when the race finished. With that victory he also earned an unfollow by the Monegasque, a petty act, but it had cut deeper than Max cared to admit.

Then another Austria, three years later, 2022. Charles victorious this time, the red Ferrari untouchable. They had fought like their life depended on it, and when it was over, they celebrated together. On the podium, Max had drowned him in champagne until Charles was laughing, soaked through, joy written across his face. This time no grudges. Just two men who had burned themselves alive on the track, and for once, stepped away smiling.

The contrast haunted him now. How had they gone from that—laughter, rivalry, respect—to this silence? How had Charles gone from the boy who had met his fire head-on to the man who had vanished from the grid entirely?

He turned off the phone again, surrendering to sleep, exhaustion finally claiming him.

Chapter Text

"I should be the one saying that, with all the chaos you’re dealing with."

Charles stared at Max’s message for a long time, unsure how to reply. It was true—Max’s complaints seemed almost trivial compared to what he was going through. But it had been Charles’s choice to step away, to leave Formula 1 behind forever.

A tear slid down his face and soaked into the pillow beneath him. Then another followed, and another, until what began as a single tear became a sob that shook his entire body. His throat closed up, his vision blurred. Leo, curled up nearby, woke and began barking, worried for his dad. He tried licking Charles’s face, but Charles gently pushed him away, pressed a salty kiss on his snout, and retreated into the bathroom. He couldn’t bear for even his dog to see him like this. He realized that the world outside his walls continued to move, indifferent to his pain. The cars, the fans, the engines roaring—they existed in another universe, one he no longer belonged to. And that thought pressed down on him, heavier than the tears, heavier than the memory of a lost dream.

On the other side of the door, Leo scratched and whimpered, and Charles’s heart broke even further. Slowly, he slid down onto the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, and the tears came, unrestrained and relentless. It wasn’t fair—none of it was fair. But fairness was something the universe seemed to care little for. The more he cried, the further Charles felt from his own body, as if his very soul was slipping away, escaping through the cracks of his pain. He felt like a stranger within his own skin, trapped in a body that no longer felt like his. His breath bounced back at him, too fast, as if the narrow bathroom walls were pressing in on him. He ran a hand, damp with tears, through his hair, his nails scraping against his scalp, and the sting of pain pulled him back to himself for just a second. He wanted to scream, but all that came from his throat was a broken sound, something closer to a whisper without words.

Desperate, he clung to the lessons his family had once taught him: breathe in, hold, breathe out. Over and over, he forced the rhythm, as though each breath might tether him back to himself. And slowly—painfully, but surely—the storm inside began to quiet.

Eventually, the tears ran dry. His throat was parched, his lips cracked, and his head throbbed. He hadn’t noticed how much time had slipped by as he sat motionless on the cold floor. With some effort he got up and opened the door. Leo was asleep outside, as if guarding him, and cracked his sweet eyes open but was too tired to move. The sight made Charles smile faintly. He scooped him up, laid him on the bed, and placed a small kiss on his head, as if to reassure him that he was fine. His body ached as if it had been racing all day, though he hadn’t moved. The physical memory of speed, of adrenaline, of turning the wheel in a car he no longer drove, lingered inside him. And yet, his mind felt hollow, empty of purpose, haunted by a quiet grief that refused to be outrun.

He took a sip of water, then another, until the pounding in his head eased and he could lie down again. His phone was still on the nightstand. Hours had passed since Max’s message—surely, he thought, Max was asleep by now. His trembling fingers typed “I chose it”, but he erased it right away. Yes, technically it had been his choice—but it wasn’t as if they hadn’t fucking drove him toward it.

His only dream had been to win a championship with Ferrari. It was the promise he made to his father, Jules’ legacy, and the dream that had fueled him since childhood: training relentlessly, pushing beyond his limits, giving up everything just to climb into that kart and win. Last year he had come close—at least in the early stages—but race by race it had all slipped away: wrong strategies, botched pit stops, a car that couldn’t follow him. And it had been like this for four years. Yet he had kept trying, because it was what he wanted—his dream, the dream he swore he would never give up.

Or so he thought. But after last season, something inside him cracked. He couldn’t say exactly when or how.

Then without wanting, the memory of that last time in Maranello came rushing back—when he knew he was on the path of self-destruction.

It was a day like any other, scheduled to test the new car. He had walked into the Ferrari garage and, without knowing why, it felt like it was the last time. He drove the car out onto the track. The balance was wrong, the weight distribution off, the acceleration poor. By the end of the first lap, Charles was crying inside his helmet—because he was exhausted, because he knew it wouldn’t be his year again, because he was sick of the endless ‘next year will be better’ that never came. The tears blurred his vision, mixing with the sweat on his face, and he pressed the throttle harder as if speed alone could drown out the sound of his own despair. But the faster he went, the louder it became, until he felt trapped in a cage of noise and failure, driving not toward victory but toward the collapse of everything he had ever believed in.

In that moment, the broken pieces of himself screamed at him, begged him to end it all—because if not, it would be the end of him. His heart ached so sharply that he clutched at his suit, the pain no longer just mental but searingly physical. He realized he couldn’t go on when his greatest love, Ferrari, had become his cruelest tormentor.

So, he drove recklessly, without pit stops or checks, not caring if he crashed or wrecked the car. He drove free—freer than he had in years. One lap. Two. Then the last. Not wanting them to end but time was ticking.

When he returned to the garage, his engineer greeted him with a wide smile. “Charles! Those lap times were incredible, that was brilliant!” The joy in his voice stung like a knife.

Charles laughed—an empty, bittersweet laugh. “That was my way of saying goodbye. Today, I’ll walk out of this garage for the last time. I’m not a driver anymore.” Saying the words shattered what was left of his heart into a million more pieces.

“What are you talking about, Charles?” Now the whole team was listening.

“I’ll talk to Fred later. This was my last run. Good luck with the season.” He had so much more to say, but the words died in his throat. He couldn’t look anyone in the eyes.

He pulled off his race suit, and as if summoned, Fred appeared before him. They didn’t know each other well, and Charles didn’t know what to expect. Fred looked him in the eyes and spoke “You never stop being a Ferrari driver. The doors of this team will always be open for you.”

Charles hadn’t expected that—at all. But before he could reply, Fred was gone. Still dazed Charles bent slightly and lifted the helmet from the shelf, pressing it against his chest as if trying to absorb it, to hold on to everything he had given to Ferrari, everything Ferrari had given him. Then, almost unconsciously, he let his right glove fall to the floor, marking the definitive end of that chapter. A simple gesture but loaded with meaning: there would be no turning back. For a moment, almost against his will, he saw himself as a child again: hands too small on the wheel, his father’s eyes shining with pride. The memory was so vivid it stole the air from his lungs. Now, with empty hands and a weary heart, he wondered if that child would even recognize him.

Without looking back—though he heard voices calling his name— he exited the Ferrari garage for the last time as an F1 driver. Every step he took on the glossy floor of the Scuderia reminded him of the countless moments he had spent here: the mechanics shouting, the roar of engines, the heated debates over strategy, the laughter shared after long test sessions. All of that world, that chaotic and beloved life, was slipping away.

His gaze fell on a poster hanging in the corner of the building: a younger version of himself, smiling, suit red and helmet in hand, eyes full of dreams and promises. That boy seemed so far away from who he had become, so light, so alive. A sharp pang squeezed his chest, and he felt his breath catch. Yet, for the first time in months, he felt a strange calm, as if accepting the pain was the only way to move forward.

He got into his car, started the engine, and said goodbye to his only dream.

The memory faded. Charles rose from his bed and went into the living room, where one of his helmets sat. He pressed it to his forehead. All that had been, was gone, leaving only those helmets and a few trophies. He knew he had made the right choice—he had listened to his body, his heart, his mind. But some days, acceptance was harder than others.

He pressed it to his forehead. The cold surface bit into his skin, and in that contact, he felt as though he was touching a gravestone—his gravestone. All that had been, all the years of sacrifice, the endless hours of training, the victories that had once made his heart happy, the defeats that had carved scars too deep to heal; everything had vanished, reduced to lifeless objects on a shelf. The helmets, the trophies, the photographs, remains of a life that no longer existed, a museum of a dream that had consumed him until there was nothing left to give. Only then did he remember, it had all started with Max’s message. His childhood rival, the cause of so many crashes and fights, yet also a man who, since Formula 1, had shown him nothing but respect, and at times, even support.

With a heavy heart and a vulnerability that didn’t feel like his own, Charles typed the only words that fit, staring at his dream engulfed in fire,

“It was the loss of my life.”