Forgotten on the Grid

The paddock at Imola hummed with familiar energy—engines ticking over in garages, radios crackling, team personnel hustling past in crisp uniforms. It should've felt like home. But today, it just felt... heavy.

I walked beside Serena, our boots clicking against the pavement, the badge around my neck bobbing with every step. My Prema suit was tied at the waist, and the air felt deceptively cool on my arms.

"Alright?" Serena asked, handing me a water bottle without looking. She was always in motion, scanning the paddock like she could intercept stress before it found me.

"Yeah," I said. Lying, obviously.

We turned the corner into the F3 section, the familiar sea of junior teams, transporters, and hustle. But I stopped cold.

There they were.

Max Verstappen.

And Arvid Lindblad.

Max freaking Verstappen—three-time world champion, the man who crushed records and redefined domination—stood casually outside the Red Bull hospitality unit, laughing like he had all the time in the world. Next to him, Arvid was relaxed, comfortable, talking with his hands, eyes sharp. Like he belonged there.

They were deep in conversation, close enough to know it wasn't some fanboy moment. Max was listening. Actually listening. Nodding. Smiling. Like Arvid had something important to say.

And maybe he did.

My stomach turned.

It wasn't jealousy, not really. I didn't want Max Verstappen's approval. But seeing Arvid—my teammate—talking to him like they were equals lit something cold and bitter in my chest.

He had people. The Red Bull ladder, the support, the hype machine. They all had his back.

And me?

I had Serena. Rose. Seb, if he wasn't being mobbed by fans. But I was still fighting for space. For oxygen.

Arvid hadn't even noticed I was standing there, just across the paddock. Or maybe he had and didn't care. That seemed more likely.

"Breathe," Serena said under her breath. She followed my line of sight, and her tone shifted. "You don't need him. Or that."

"I know." But my voice was stiff.

I couldn't look away.

Because for one sharp second, I felt it again—that clawing, ugly feeling I hated.

I felt useless.

I was a Ferrari junior, for god's sake. P2 in Bahrain. Strong again in Jeddah. But here I was, standing like a background extra while Max Verstappen laughed with the guy who chopped me off at Turn 1 and celebrated like I didn't exist.

And maybe I didn't. Not to them.

I clenched the bottle in my hand until the plastic creaked.

I'd been here before. Overlooked. Underrated. Forgotten.

But it didn't mean I was going to stay that way.

Not this weekend.

——————-

We ducked into the Prema garage, the buzz of the paddock fading just a little behind the walls. Mechanics were already prepping my car, tyre blankets humming, screens flickering with data. But Rose was waiting.

She stood with her arms folded across her chest, her headset pushed up like a crown, watching me approach with that unreadable look she always wore when something was off.

"You're stiff," she said, skipping the hello. "What happened?"

I flopped down onto the little couch in the corner, pulling my suit up properly and zipping it halfway. Serena passed me a protein bar I had no interest in.

"Arvid," I said. One word. That was all it took.

Rose's expression barely changed. "What about him?"

"Talking to Verstappen," I muttered. "All smiles. Like they're best mates. Like he's already halfway to F1 and I'm just some rookie filling a grid slot."

Serena crouched beside me, fixing the leg of my suit with quiet precision. "You don't need Verstappen to validate you, Lydia."

"I know," I snapped. Then sighed. "I know."

But it still stung. That casual kind of acceptance. That silent understanding among the 'chosen ones.'

Rose sat down across from me. "Listen," she said, voice even, firm. "Do you want my honest opinion?"

I nodded.

"Arvid's good. Really good. And yeah, Red Bull will give him more attention than anyone else until he screws it up. But that doesn't change what you are."

"What am I?" I asked, before I could stop myself. It came out quieter than I meant it to.

Rose leaned forward. "You're fast. You're thinking three corners ahead while others are still reacting. You're consistent, disciplined, and when it matters—you're relentless."

My chest tightened, just a bit.

"I don't care who's talking to Verstappen in the paddock," she continued. "I care about what happens in thirty minutes when the lights go out. So get your helmet on, get in the car, and show them why you're here."

"And when you win," Serena added, grinning now, "we can watch the footage back and make fun of Arvid's post-race interview."

I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped me.

Rose stood. "Five-minute call. Let's go."

I stood up too, the weight in my chest not quite gone—but lighter. It wasn't a big speech. It wasn't cameras or applause or Max Verstappen.

But it was real.

And it was enough.

For now.