We sit in silence for a bit. The clock on my wall ticks loudly.
"Look," I finally say, "I know it's not my place, but... at least go to a therapist or something. To ease a bit of that burden, talk with them."
Felix raises a brow. "A therapist?"
"It helps. I’ve been going to one since then, and I’ve noticed the difference, Felix." Even if it doesn’t help me completely forget what happened that time, I live a bit better with it.
"I don't need one," Felix says, but there's no bite in it.
"Don't bottle it inside you," I press on. "You're a good man, an amazing friend. It'd hurt seeing you hit rock bottom."
I don't tell him just how well I know rock bottom. No one should have to experience it. How it opened beneath me after the F4 crash, after Nicholas took me out, after countless nights staring at the ceiling wondering if I'd ever feel normal again. As drivers, we negotiate with death in every single race. It’s not all about winning or getting points—well, that’s the main thing—but it’s also about doing something I love and returning from each race alive.
I don't tell him about the times I've pulled over on country roads because I couldn't breathe. About the sleeping pills I sometimes take just to quiet my mind. About the nightmares where I'm trapped in a stalled car, screaming for help that never comes.
Instead, I say, "Talking helps. Having someone who can give you tools to manage it."
"Tools," Felix repeats, skeptical.
"Yeah. Like ways to ground yourself when everything feels like it's spinning out of control."
My therapist taught me the 5-4-3-2-1 technique: five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, and one you can taste. It sounds simple, even stupid. But it works when the panic starts rising.
"I'll think about it," he says, which we both know means probably not.
"That's all I ask." I lower the ice pack. My eye has gone from a throbbing pain to a dull ache. Progress, I suppose.
"Is it that obvious?" Felix asks after a moment. "How messed up I am about all this?"
I consider lying, then decide against it. "To me, yeah. But I know what to look for."
"Because you've been there."
I nod. Not exactly the same place, but close enough to recognize the landmarks of despair.
"I never thought it would end like this," he says, voice barely audible. "Not with a press release on a Tuesday morning."
"It's not the end," I tell him. "Just a detour."
He tries to smile but doesn't quite make it. "Easy for you to say. You're living the dream."
The dream that sometimes feels like a nightmare. The dream that comes with a side of panic attacks and insomnia. But I don't say that.
"You helped me get here," I remind him. "Now let me help you."
Felix smiles—a real smile this time, not the forced one he's been wearing all night. "Thanks, Will. Seriously." He clears his throat, discomfort with emotional sincerity kicking in. "Though if your idea of helping is getting your face smashed in at concerts to make me feel better about my life choices, maybe I should look elsewhere."
I snort, wincing as the movement jostles my swollen eye. "Hey, it worked, didn't it? Got you talking."
"By scaring the shit out of me." He leans back in the chair, tension visibly draining from his shoulders. "Your team's going to love this look for testing. Very professional."
"I'll tell them I was defending someone's honor. Chicks dig scars."
"One specific chick in mind?" Felix asks, eyebrow raised.
I throw a couch pillow at him, which he catches easily. "Shut up."
While we laugh together—me wincing more than laughing—an idea comes to me. "Colton Racing is on the rise. Which is why..."
