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The roar of the crowd fades, a distant tremor swallowed by the vast emptiness of the podium where a new champion has just been crowned. You stand there, Lewis, bathed in the dying embers of glory, the fierce red of your triumph a stark contrast to the silver shadows of your past. Yet, the gold hangs heavy, its shine tarnished by the glint in your eyes – a flicker of longing, a tremor of doubt.
•
When you said it was over, I didn’t want to believe you.
The day the jade-eyed muse sang your name, you turned your head, not with defiance, but with a yearning I refused to see. Hello Lewis. I was your haven, an oasis in the quicksand of your- our success, but you craved the mirage of a crimson dawn, the intoxicating allure of a love painted in Ferrari red.
That night, I dreamt of you. Thin clouds painted the sand with watercolor shadows, and you were staring at me with those warm brown eyes of yours, wanting to speak words that would shatter me, words you wouldn't regret. I know you, Lewis. You saw the pain in my heart, yet you turned away.
Morpheus led me to the white cliffs of Dover, the ones that hold your heart - the same cliffs where ages ago you took my hand and swore our forever. But no matter how mighty the stacks are, their rock is soft, and the sea devours them wave after wave, caress after caress.
What could I have done? The most exquisite silver pales before the raw allure of a ruby.
Ferrari is not a team, but a dream. It echoes in every gear shift, in every checkered flag. Though Maranello stumbles, shrouded in a scarlet haze, its flaws remain but a whisper compared to the roar of its legend. This, the mystique that burns brighter than any trophy, you chase. It is the molten core of a phoenix, its fiery spirit igniting the track with every surge of power, forging you anew with every lap, with every challenge, with every near-miss.
Yesterday in the paddock, a child's innocent hand held out crayons. "Draw a race car," he chirped. My hand hovered, then dipped into the brightest rosso. Susie laughed, I choked back a sob. Because you and I forged a story of success and sacrifice that put you in the pantheon of motorsport. You were to be my Senna, my Schumacher.
Yet, it wasn't enough.
Legends are fickle creatures, and like empires, crumble under their own weight. Was I naive believing whispered vows and ambition-tinged crocodile tears? Perhaps. Reckless? Undoubtedly. Did everyone see the storm brewing except me, the fool blinded by love's shimmering mirage?
I offered you the world, Lewis. Not just trophies and accolades, but a family.
I'm falling apart, staring at aging trophies twinkling from afar like stars in sidereal space. Why did you leave? What more can they give you than me? Our team was a fortress, built brick by brick with victories and defeats, laughter and tears. I held you together, a lighthouse in the storm of self-doubt that threatened to consume you.
Remember the way your hand used to fit perfectly in mine, the unspoken promises exchanged in the trembling warmth of our room? I swore I'd never be the one to let go, that I'd fight for us even when the world seemed against us. But now, you're asking me to break that vow, to set you free even though it will tear me apart.
I should have known better, my love. You have always longed for open skies and all I could offer you was a nest.
I'll help you fly towards your sunset, Lewis. I’ll watch the scorching rays melt your silver livery away, exposing the beating mess of blood and passion beneath.
Soar, Icarus, but know this: the ashes of my once unwavering devotion will swirl around you, a bitter smoke choking the air you breathe. I'll be the ghost haunting your victories, the chill that seeps into your champagne celebrations.
You may reach for the heavens, but the weight of the future you killed will be your albatros, forever tugging at your wings. So go on, my love, bask in your hollow pursuit. Climb to the highest peak, for the fall will be all the more devastating when you realize the only thing waiting for you at the bottom is the ashes of your own making.
•
Rosso corsa anoints you a legend, king of a pyre built on a broken promise. Was it worth it? You raise your trophy, but gold mocks you, on your head a crown forged in the fire of betrayal. Do you see me, Lewis? Can you recognize the man whose love was the nurturing light that fueled your rise? I am here - I’m the pit in your gut, cold dread that freezes your blood.
Your gaze is in the crowd, a sea of faces celebrating a victory you have long chased. Then, a flicker of recognition amidst the desperate searching. I’m cloaked in shadow, yet your heart knows. My eyes never stopped following you, two burning stars no longer of vengeance, but of a twisted amusement.
Do you savor the bitter irony, Lewis? Waltzing on the precipice, your every step echoes my fall.
You raise the trophy again, a desperate plea lost in suffocating silence. Lift it with me, your silver tears ask - a traitorous hope escapes your beautiful eyes, yearning to bridge the chasm you carved. How dare you ask this? This victory is not for me but for the wreckage you dance upon. My love, how can this be your olive branch?
The redemption you so desperately need comes at my annihilation. A flicker of loyalty, tarnished though it may be, dares to reach out, then recoils into a defiant fist. No, forgiveness is not a suicide pact. So we stand, a macabre tableau of agony, the bitter ash of love clinging to our tongues.
Fall, Icarus, plummet to the ground. You search for solace in the ghost of what you left behind. Yours, my love, is a loss that will echo long after the cheers have faded, long after the red paint peels away, revealing the hollow shell beneath, a monument to the love you traded for a dream painted in borrowed hues.