Forgotten on the Grid

Lap 17.

I'm in his DRS.
Right there. In his mirrors. Breathing down his neck.
I move left—he covers. I move right—he slams the door. Every time.

Arvid is clinical. Precise. Annoyingly fast.

But his defending?

It's borderline.
He jinks late, brake-checks mid-corner, pushes me toward the edge on corner exit—again and again.

Rose comes over the radio. "He's moving late, Lydia. We've logged it."

"Great," I snap. "But it doesn't help me now."

There's silence. No penalty. No investigation. No support.

Just Arvid. Still ahead.

Final lap. I'm still there—on him. But it's over.

He crosses the line in P2. I finish P3.
My first podium in Formula 3... and I can't feel it.

He parks ahead of me in parc fermé. Helmet off, grinning, high-fiving the mechanics before his feet even touch the ground.

Someone from the team wraps an arm around him. He's surrounded. Loud. Praised.

I pull into my box. Climb out. No one rushes over.
Serena's there. Rose gives me a quiet nod. That's it.

I tug off my gloves and glance at Arvid.

He doesn't even look my way.

No apology. No explanation. Just a smug little smirk like he meant every shove, every block.

The cameras are all on him. His name is on everyone's lips.

I'm a podium finisher. But I might as well be invisible.

Again.

—————-

The motorhome door slams behind me hard enough to make the walls tremble. I don't care. I want the whole paddock to hear it.

I rip my gloves off and launch them across the room. They hit the table, bounce off, land somewhere under the couch. Good.

Seb's already sitting by the window, one leg crossed over the other, arms relaxed—but his eyes are sharp. Watching me.

I start pacing. My boots echo on the floor.

"I'm so sick of this," I spit. "Every time. Every single bloody time. He shoves me off-track, drives like a lunatic, and what do they do? Give him a bloody standing ovation."

Seb doesn't respond. That just makes it worse.

"In the debrief, I tried—I tried—to bring it up like a professional. I told them Arvid moved under braking, twice, maybe three times. And you know what I got? Rene raised an eyebrow like I was being dramatic. Like I was some overemotional rookie who can't handle a bit of pressure."

I pace faster. My hands are shaking. My brain feels like it's on fire.

"They were all crowded around him, laughing, clapping him on the back, like he didn't nearly put me in the wall. Like he's the second coming of Schumacher."

I stop and turn to face Seb. "He cut me off. He nearly caused a crash. And they celebrated him for it."

Still nothing from Seb. Just calm eyes and silence. The way he always is. But right now? It feels like I'm screaming into a void.

"I qualified P2!" I shout. "I held my own. I fought back to the podium. And no one—no one—even said 'well done.' Not one engineer. Not one word from management. They barely even looked at me."

Seb leans forward slightly, like he's about to say something, but I keep going.

"I could win the damn race next time, and they'd still find a way to make it about him. 'Look how well Arvid defended, look how Arvid handled the pressure, look how Arvid didn't lose the lead.' I'm right there, Seb! Right behind him! But I'm invisible."

The words hit a wall in my throat and suddenly my voice isn't sharp anymore. It's thin. Barely holding together.

"I'm so tired," I whisper. "I keep thinking if I just drive a little better, push a little harder, maybe they'll finally see me. But they don't. They see his number. His name. His smile. And I'm just—just background noise."

I drop onto the edge of the couch and bury my face in my hands. My skin's hot. My chest's tight. I hate this—I hate crying—but the tears are there, blurring everything whether I want them or not.

"I gave everything today," I say, my voice muffled. "Every part of me. And it still wasn't enough."

Seb doesn't come closer. He just speaks, steady and quiet. "It was enough. It always has been."

I laugh bitterly, wiping angrily at my eyes. "Then why doesn't anyone care?"

He doesn't answer right away. The silence stretches long enough to break me open even more.

I lean back and stare at the ceiling, blinking fast. "And then there's Mum," I murmur.

Seb looks up.

"I got the usual update before the race. 'She was calm.' That's it. Calm. Like she's a weather forecast." My jaw trembles. "They didn't say if she was happy. Or if she smiled. Or if she even looked at anyone."

My voice gets smaller.

"She doesn't know who I am anymore. She looks at me like I'm a nurse or a neighbour or... nothing at all."

Seb finally stands, walks over, and sits beside me. Not too close. Just enough.

"I try to talk to her. I tell her where I am, what I'm racing in, what I'm fighting for... and she just stares. Like the words don't land."

I pull my knees up, hugging them, swallowing the knot in my throat. "I don't even know if she remembers she has a daughter."

Seb's voice is quiet now. Measured. "Lucia would be proud of you."

I shake my head.

"You don't know that."

"Yes," he says gently. "I do. She raised a fighter. And even if she can't say it now, she felt it—every bit of who you are."

I let that sit. Let myself feel it for just a second.

"I just want her to know I'm trying," I whisper.

"She does," he says. "Somewhere in there... she does."

And for a moment, I let myself believe it.

Just long enough to breathe