Pole Position: Between Logic and Passion

I didn’t even remember closing my eyes.

One minute, I was trying to argue that I could stay awake, that I just needed to get patched up and go back to the garage. The next, everything faded into a kind of darkness that didn’t feel like sleep—more like slipping underwater with no intention of resurfacing.

When I woke up, the world felt... wrong. Heavy. Blurred. The sterile white ceiling above me was too bright, and my head pulsed with something sharp and nauseating. Every part of my body ached in a different way, and when I tried to move, I couldn’t stop the sound that escaped my throat—half gasp, half groan.
I wasn’t at the factory anymore.

That realization sank in slowly as the hours passed—this wasn’t the med bay. The white walls were too clean, the beeping machines too quiet, and the smell of disinfectant wasn’t mixed with the scent of oil and metal I’d gotten so used to. This was a hospital. A real one.

There was a clock on the far wall. I couldn’t read it without squinting, my head pounding in protest, but the light outside the window had changed. Evening? Night? I’d lost track completely.

My throat burned for water, but I didn’t want to move. Not yet.

Instead, I lay still, letting the numb ache spread through my body while my mind spiraled into memories I didn’t want to revisit—flashes of light, the scream of the engine, the snap of metal and carbon fiber, the moment the world flipped upside down. The silence right after the crash. The sound of my own breathing. And then…

The yelling. The radio. Charles’ voice.

My chest tightened.

I wondered if they told him where I was. If he’d even landed back in Europe. If he was—

The door creaked open, pulling me from the thought. A doctor came in.

“You’ve been out for several hours,” he said gently. “It’s important you don’t try to move too much just yet.”

I licked my lips, which felt dry and cracked. “How bad?” I rasped.

He didn’t sugarcoat it.

“You suffered a significant concussion,” he began. “A serious one. You’ve got three broken ribs, a fractured ankle, second-degree burns on your left shoulder and forearm, deep lacerations on your leg and upper back... and there was a piece of glass embedded dangerously close to your kidney. We managed to remove it, but it was... not small.”

I just stared at him. Silent.

“You were lucky,” he added after a pause. “Very lucky. Another centimeter and the glass would’ve punctured an organ.”

I looked down at myself as much as I could, seeing the layers of gauze, the tight wrapping on my ankle, the IVs in both arms. My head throbbed with every beat of my heart. Breathing hurt. My mouth tasted like metal and regret.

“Okay,” I whispered eventually.

He adjusted something on the IV, made a few notes, then hesitated before adding, “There’s been a lot of noise from your phone. Someone named Charles has called... multiple times."

I closed my eyes. Not because I didn’t want to hear it, but because it hurt to feel it.

“Could you… hand it to me?” I asked quietly.

He nodded and brought the phone from the side table. I took it with shaking fingers.

Ten missed calls.

Five voicemails.

Dozens of messages.

I scrolled past most of them, not ready. Not yet. But one unread message hovered at the top, timestamped maybe an hour ago.