I wake up later than I ever do on a race day.

There's no alarm pulling me out of sleep, no frantic phone calls telling me where I need to be in 15 minutes, no half-awake panic of "oh fuck I'm late". For a second my body still expects the familiar joint of urgency that lives with me for years but it never comes. The room stays still.

I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling and ask myself what kind of day is it. Doesn't feel like rest day and definitely not race day for me, something unfinished in between, I guess.

Eventually I get up and go downstairs. The hotel dining room is already busy, the low hums of voices and cutlery filling the space. I sit by myself with a plate of food I don't really want, picking at it more out of habit than hunger.

For a brief moment, the idea slips in quietly. I could stay here all day. I could avoid going to the track and see the world I'm no longer part of, although it's just temporary for one weekend. But I let it pass as quick as it comes.

Skipping today means giving up another part of me that I'm not willing to. I'm not racing, but still a part of this papaya color, still here for Oscar. "Whether I like it or not, it's all for Oscar" – that's what I've been telling myself.

I pull my phone out and scroll to his name. I tell him about sections where grip drops more than it looks like, about corners where he shouldn't overtake aggressively. Things I know because I have lived them, lap after lap, numerous times repeated. His reply comes back quickly, short and grateful. We exchange some more silly jokes before I say goodbye to him, heading upstairs to get change. Even if I dropped dead right now, my body would still be carried to paddock.

***

I don't sit down when the race starts.

I stand near the back of the room, eyes fixed on the screens, the strange feeling of standing here alone while everything else is moving at three hundred kilometers an hour washes over me. The space around me fills with voices and data but none of it reaches me properly. My attention narrows until there is only one car I'm following in my peripheral.

Oscar launches cleanly. I feel the rhythm of laps settle in my bones slowly. He drives beautifully today, measure and calm, follows closely my notes. A part of me aches with something dangerously close to pride.

As the laps build, my thoughts drift where I've been trying not to let them go.

I think about what it would mean to choose Oscar - not just quietly in the dark but fully and openly. What it would cost if loving him out loud meant stepping away from I have built since I first pulled on team kit, proudly bragged about being representing papaya color without knowing what loyalty would demand from me later. I think about how easily people talk about sacrifice when they don't have to make any.

The fear doesn't come from being forced to stop racing. It comes from losing my own identity.

I don't know how to imagine a future where I'm not measured by lap times and points and weekends like this one. I don't know if I'm strong enough to give up everything and accept a version of my life where noise fades and podiums become something I watch instead of climb on. The uncertainty terrifies me more than the choice itself.

And yet, even as the fear presses in, I know the true answer that waits underneath.

If I were asked again – despite knowing the cost, knowing what it could take from me - I would still choose him. Not because it's noble or brave, but because it feels inevitable, like gravity pulling me over at the end of a free fall. Loving him has already rearrange the way my life makes sense.

The race keeps unfolding, laps ticking away as I sit there holding two versions of future in my head at once, neither of them accept to be let go of. The one with Oscar feels impossibly bright, frightening and real. I might not be able to survive the version without him though, all I could see is the gloominess of London's sky no matter how many podiums I secure at Silverstone.

Oscar takes the lead decisively and for good. When the checkered flag falls and his name locks into first place, everything stops at once.

I'm standing before I realize I've moved, clapping loudly, smile so hard my cheeks hurt. I don't think about what this might look like later on social media. I'm just happy. Nothing can ever stop me from being happy for him, even if it costs me.

***

Oscar finds me before I can reach him, helmet already off, still half-warm from the car. He smells like sweet sweat and fuel after race. He doesn't hesitate. He crosses the small distance between us like it was never supposed to be there at first and wraps his arms around me into a hug that doesn't require permission.

"Thank you", he says into my shoulder, low enough that no one else hears it.

I feel him breathe out, feel the tension leave his body and without thinking, I hold him back, just as tight, grounding him the way I always try to. The garage is still full of people watching but somehow this moment folds inward, becoming contained and ours.

I pull back first to avoid any question might be asked later. His eyes are bright, unfocused, still riding the edge of adrenaline and disbelief and he smiles at me like I'm the one who's done something extraordinary.

"You were perfect", I tell him, and I mean it in every way it can carry.

He laughs softly, breathless, then nods once as if he's trying to capture this moment forever. His gaze flicks toward the exit, toward the podium waiting for him like obligation he can't refuse.

"I have to go", he whispers almost apologetic, the look on his face makes me aches a bit.

"I know."

He squeezes my hand once - quick and deliberate – then stepping back. Just before he turns away, he leans in again, close enough that only I can hear him. "I'll come back to you."

And just like that, everything else goes quiet.

He walks toward the podium, toward the cameras, the champagne and the version of himself the world expects to see, and I stay behind, watching him go with a calm I didn't have this morning.