We turn onto the narrow lane that leads to my place. The headlights catch raindrops and transform them into streaks of silver. The kart track I built in the backyard will be slick with rain, the white lines barely visible in the darkness.
"You know," I continue, "you can talk to me. Actually talk, not just pretend everything's fine when it's clearly not. It might ease the pain a bit. And look, I know all about the doubts, the anxiety, the feeling that your career is slipping through your fingers."
Felix slows as we approach my driveway. The silence stretches until I think he's not going to answer.
"Have you had any anxiety attacks?" he asks suddenly. "Since that accident six years ago in F4?"
That day. My car flipping over. The flames. The sound of my own screaming through the radio as I tried to get out of the burning car and saw a friend dead in theirs; the car I had clipped on track.
Felix glances at me, then back at the road. "Sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"No," I say, cutting him off. The word falls between us like a stone.
His eyes narrow slightly. He knows me too well to believe it.
The tires crunch over gravel as we pull up to my farmhouse. The porch light casts a warm glow across the weathered wooden beams. Home. My little sanctuary.
"No," I repeat, more firmly this time. "I haven't."
Felix puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine. He studies me for a moment, his blue eyes searching mine—well, my one good eye, since the other is now swollen shut. Then he nods once, accepting my lie, because it's easier than pushing.
"Your eye looks like shit," he says finally. "Let's get you some proper ice."
I'm lying through my teeth. Felix knows it, too, but he lets it slide. The truth sits heavy in my chest: I've had dozens of anxiety attacks since that F4 crash. They come without warning—in the car, in bed, in the middle of sponsor events. My heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Sweat breaking out across my forehead. My hands shaking like crazy after driving, after crashes, after tight corners that feel claustrophobic. The world shrinking to a pinhole while my lungs forget how to draw breath. The sense that death is reaching for me with both hands, dragging me to a pitiless void. That feeling of not driving myself… but of being a passenger in my own body.
We make our way into my farmhouse. The wooden beams overhead creak slightly as I flip on the lights. My trophy wall comes into focus—the regional kart championship, European titles, my F3 championship trophy. And right there, that empty space next to my three F2 runner-up trophies, waiting for an F1 championship that still feels like a far-off dream.
"Your fridge is still pathetically empty," Felix calls from the kitchen. Ice clinks into a towel.
"There's mango beer," I shout back, collapsing onto my couch. "And some Chinese takeout leftovers." My head throbs.
The anxiety attacks started two months after the F4 crash. I'd convinced myself I was fine—a little fire, a dislocated shoulder.Nothing permanent. Nothing that would keep me out of the car. And it wasn’t my fault my friend died. I didn’t know how to avoid the accident. Well, that’s what my therapist drilled into my head, and I’ve… come to accept it.
Then I got back in for testing at Brands Hatch. Clear day. Perfect track conditions. I made it through two laps before my chest seized up.Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't see.
Couldn't hear my engineer shouting in my ear.
I managed to get the car back to the pits before I passed out. Told everyone it was dehydration.
Felix returns with a proper ice pack and tosses it to me. "You need anything else? Painkillers?"
I press the ice to my eye. "Nah, I'm good."
He settles into the armchair across from me, eyeing the empty takeout plastic bags from the sushi restaurant downtown on my coffee table. "Your housekeeping skills haven't improved since last year."
"Says the guy with a cleaning service."
"Had," he corrects. "Past tense. Since I have some free time now, I do it myself."
Since last year’s 51 G crash, every time another car got too close in my mirrors, my throat would close up. Every time I approached that same corner in the simulator, my vision would start to tunnel. I'd grip the wheel so hard, my hands cramped, fighting to stay present, to stay in control. No one knows that at Colton Racing.
"Are you still with me?" Felix asks, pulling me back to the present.
"Yeah, sorry." I adjust the ice pack. "Just tired."
He studies me. "Right."
