The air in Melbourne feels thicker on race day – like this city is breathing for Oscar and Oscar only. The paddock glows under the sun, heat bouncing off concrete and metal. Fans press against the fences with flags, banners and homemade posters drawn in marker that's beginning to fade in the heat.

Everywhere I turn, I see Oscar's mark.

His jersey number is being worn by someone, papaya color all around, his face sketched and re-sketched, smiling versions taped on walls.

For a second there, I am suffocated on his behalf, for being his teammate and rival.

Stepping in the garage, I quickly spot Oscar standing a few meters away from me, fireproof top clinging to his shoulders, listening to the engineer while maintaining that perfect unbothered look.

Pole position. He has all the right to be unbothered in this moment.

Oscar's home race is obviously different. His name being chanted like a prayer everywhere – PI-AS-TRI, PI-AS-TRI, PI-AS-TRI!

It should feel like a triumph but the tension is thick enough to chew.

Oscar starts on pole and I am two rows behind. My job is simple – drive fast, make no mistake, win if I can, overtake when there's a chance.

Andrea stands at my side with a tablet, tapping on my shoulder. "The track temperature is rising. Medium tires might get overheat around lap 15 or 16 if you push too hard, consider boxing then rejoining in clean air."

I nod, almost robotic. No mention of Oscar, no analysis of his advantages nor disadvantages, no reassurance. We're McLaren, we are two very different drivers with two data sets (which might not be entirely true at the moment), two very different targets.

I strap into the car, eyes on the light ahead. My helmet fills with my own breath, the scent of rubber, the muted anxiety raising.

Five red lights illuminate one by one – each a hammer striking the stillness.

The world narrows. The lights vanish.

Light out.

And the entire grid explodes into motion. My launch is quite strong, good grip, clean shift, enough to avoid the mess that Mercedes and Ferrari created. My engineer screams in approval through headphone – "Good start Lando. P4".

I breathe out then start pushing. On track, I'm a hunter. That's all I am – hunting for higher positions and another title.

Oscar's car must have taken turn 1 perfectly since his name is all I could hear outside, the crowd erupts like the sky cracked open. I block it out, not giving a fuck about anything but me and my car.

I move into P3 with a clean overtake down the inside of turn 9, braking late enough to feel the car shudders beneath me. Andrea keeps feeding me with information in clipped bursts:

"Gap ahead 2.2"

"Delta target +0.9"

"Leclerc on the left"

Everything becomes input, math and calculation. Crowd noise, emotion and Oscar's lead meaning nothing to me, nothing but names through strategy updates.

"Leader pace stable"

"Leader box"

Never "Oscar", just leader of the race, just another competitor we keep an eye on.

Right when the race starts to bore me, Andrea's voice goes straight to my radio, sharpen with a hint of nervousness.

"Leader's rears overheating, distance's dropping"

I say nothing but eyes lock onto the Red Bull right in front of me, close enough to see it twitch on corner exit. Max is trying to close the gap, a desperate attempt when there's only 8 more laps left.

"Gap 1.4"

The numbers stop being theoretical and start turning physical. My chest tightens as I'm about to witness one the most dramatic takeover in this season.

"Lando" – my engineer calls out urgently – "Verstappen through. Fail defense. Push harder"

The timing tower updates brutally.

1. VER
2. PIA
3. NOR

Professional, blunt, no sympathy. Just analysis and number. I push harder, because that's my job. The car responds, obedient and furious but with only 3 laps left, there's nothing much I could do to earn myself a higher position.

The finish line comes almost quietly – muted by exhaustion, by the roar of crowded which has died down and turned into a sorrow by now. I cross the line with the calm precision of someone who knows he has achieved something for the day. I climb out of the car, remove the helmet and have a chat with my engineers.

Oscar's orange blur moves pass me, helmet on, shoulders stiff, disappearing down the tunnel. I don't follow, don't let anything show but there's a part of me acknowledge the pain I have for his misfortune.