Sonny Hayes

Saturday is always a strange day on a race weekend… The track is alive, but not as much as Sunday. It's a day of waiting. Of fine-tuning details. Of overthinking.
I was coming back from the technical meeting, still with my hands stained with oil and my mind on the track, when I saw you.

Among cameras, engineers, and pilots, there you were. With that same sparkle in your eyes I knew before all this. Before travel, contracts, and speed tore us away from the starting line.

For a moment, the Spa paddock stopped being the paddock. There was no rain, no smell of fuel, no hum of engines.
Only you
I remembered every afternoon when you told me that my place wasn't just on the dance floor... and how I told you that I didn't know how to live any other way

I saw you smile—that smile that hasn't changed—and I wanted to tell you so many things. That I was back, that I was doing it for me… and maybe, even if I wouldn't admit it, for you too. But the words stuck in my throat.

I thought Saturday was the day to prepare for tomorrow… and yet, I realized I was late. That the Sunday I was looking forward to had already passed for us years ago.

I stood there, watching you walk through the awnings, knowing that the most important race of my life won't start tomorrow. It started a long time ago... and the checkered flag waved when I still thought I had more laps to go.