Barcelona doesn't welcome us, or at least that's how it feels.

The paddock looks the same on the surface – sun-washed concrete, transporters lined up like they always are, journalists packed behind barriers. But the moment I step inside McLaren garage, I know something has shifted.

There are people I don't recognize. None of them wear team kit, carry tools. They stand still, eyes observant, clipboards in hands, facial expression stiff. Their eyes move constantly, tracking not just cars and data but also behavior. Who stands where, who speaks to whom, how long conversations last.

There are cameras everywhere, not the broadcast ones, but the ones are for recording each of our motions. Every sentence sound like it's been practiced twice before being spoken aloud.

Oscar and I are directed to different sides of the room without any explanation. We don't sit together, don't debriefing. Never lingering near each other under any kind of excuse. I catch a glimpse of him across the garage, standing alone with his race engineer, his face blank.

I am acutely aware of how unnatural it feels, like asking two halves of the same thought to pretend they've never connected. At one point, I try to challenge my luck. I step closer to the screen where he's standing and immediately, a hand guide me back to where I should have been.

I nod and move without looking up. Because arguing would look defensive, and defensive looks like guilt.

***

That night, I return to my hotel room, pace like a ghost. Every single surface of this overclean hotel room reflects the image of myself as a reminder of how lonely I am. I walk to the window, then back to the bed, to the door. The phone in my hand is still screened dark, disappointing me. My body hasn't figured out yet that proximity has been outlawed. My instinct keeps reaching for Oscar.

I feel his absence everywhere.

In the garage, where usual laughter is replaced with thicken air, makes me unable to breath. In the sim, where silence stretches longer without his presence anchoring it. In briefings, where ideas die down the moment it surfaces. And right here, right now, where the quiet presses against my ears until it hurts like I'm hundred meters under the deep blue sea.

Half way through another pointless circuit of the room, the thought arrives so suddenly it stops me mid-step. I still have his Discord account.

Months ago, when I accidentally bumped into him while gaming, we kept contact ever since. I sit on the edge of my bed, redownload the app with anticipation growing inside. Even if there's a chance of him never getting the text, I still have to try. So I text him.

Lando: You there? Ate something?

Eyes fixed on the ceiling, I count my breaths as an attempt of calming myself. I'm in the middle of convincing myself "it's fine" for the 50th time, then the screen lights up.

Oscar Piastri: Yeah. You?

We don't talk about the race, data or the fear has been overshadowed us for days. We send short messages, careful ones, nothing that would look like anything to anyone else – but to me it feels like being allowed to breathe again.

Not having him is a loss which no one would understand. Like something essential as water and air has been taken away, followed by the expectation from the world that I function normally without it. I just don't have it in me to do such a hard thing.

Before falling asleep, I send him one last text. "Tomorrow will be better".

Except for the truth that it did not get better.

***

Qualifying ends without drama. I pull into the garage and look up at the board.
P9 – PIA
P10 – NOR

I don't react, at least not outwardly. I don't go near his side of the garage, don't look for him. If there's something I've learned this week then it must be wanting too visible could be used against you at any moment.

That night, back in the hotel, the quiet spreads out again. I reach over to my phone and text him – the most stupid thing I can do right now.

Lando: P10. Horrible. Thinking about you"

It's stupid and reckless but also the realest thing I've said all day. A minute later, his reply comes to light up the room.

Oscar Piastri: P9. Same mess
Then a moment after, he sends me one more text, "Be safe tomorrow"

I lie back on the bed and close my eyes, phone resting on my chest like an anchor. Sleep comes easier than it has all week.

Morning doesn't.

Race day arrives sharp and unforgiving. The paddock vibrates before the engines even start warming up. I haven't thought of Oscar or my phone since I woke up. That's why it hits so hard when Zak stops me near the garage entrance with his hand extended. "Phone."

The word lands like ice in my vein. My heart pounds like I'm 15 again, caught red-handed making-out with a girl from school. I hand it over anyway and Zak scrolls. Slow enough to kill every single brain cell left in my head. I stand there in my race suit, helmet under my arm, feeling absurdly small while the garage becomes busy around us.

He stops. Scrolls back. Pauses.

Zak exhales, not sharply nor angrily. Just tired. He hands the phone over to me, hands over his face. "You two make this harder than it should be".

Someone calls his name from behind. As he turns away, they ask him something I don't quite catch, something serious and official. Zak answers without hesitation – "Nothing worth flagging".

That was so close I came to lose something I wasn't even supposed to have at the first place.

***

"Light out and here we go"

Supposed to be another fun day at work, expect for all the thoughts and assumptions won't leave my head, shouting loud enough whoever sits next to me would be able to hear.

I miss my first reference by a brake and correct too late – a simple mistake I don't think I would ever make. The steering wheel judders, irritated as if the car can feel my distraction. Tom's voice cuts through the noise, steady and maddening unhelpful.

"Good start. Settle into rhythm. Keep space"

The race stretches out into heat and vibration, but I'm not a part of it like how I should be. I'm driving purely from muscle memory and instinct while my mind drifts somewhere dangerous.

Don't think about Oscar.
Don't think about our text or the phone.
Don't think about data.

Every braking zone feels loaded, every corner feels watched. I imagine Oscar sitting in his own car, taking the same line, feeling the same rear twitch. Would he be terrified the way I am, or keep his face completely natural and a blank mind as he always does?

"Manage tires, avoid braking too soon", my engineer says flatly through radio channel.

When the chequered flag finally comes out, it feels less like an ending and more like mercy. I gather all left-over strength and glace up at the result board, already know the answer for this terrible performance of mine.
P11 – PIA
P12 – NOR

Worth every single bit of our separation, thank you.

Back in the garage, the noise is muted, like someone just turned down the volume. People move efficiently, already preparing for the next phrase of damage control. I pull my gloves off and sprint to the data screens, a sick hope lodged under my ribs.

"Please", I think silently, "Let our separation mean something, let us have the answer."

But the traces don't change, at least not in the way I hoped they would be. Not identical anymore, but close enough to be damning.

My stomach drops when Andrea calls out for me and Oscar's presence in the private meeting room, hidden on the other side of the hall. He waits until the room is still, every sound feels magnified, then finally speaks up.
"The FIA has expanded the scope of investigation."

They are looking backward now, he explains. Earlier races, longer timelines, patterns across the season. Barcelona and our separation didn't fix nor answer any of the questions they have listed out.

I sit there as the truth settles in, heavy and inescapable. It's no longer about our cheating accusations, points or reputation – it's about being seen.

If they dig far enough, stop looking at numbers and start looking at us, the real us – they might notice the way everything aligned at the same time. There is no room in this sport for vulnerability or softness. And more surely, no room for a man who loves another man and then his performances become better and better because of that love.

I imagine headlines I don't want to read, questions I don't want to answer. A truth which isn't illegal but showing up as a threat anyway.

Numbers and data are nothing compared to my life and my feelings - things are about to get exposed any minute now. I'm not a religious person but that night I still look up to the sky and pour my heart out, saying my prayers over and over again to any God out there who could listen.