Chapter Text
1
"Truth is so rare, it is delightful to tell it." — Emily Dickinson
POV Max:
Today was December 8, 2029, which meant it had been exactly five years since I left Formula 1. It felt like time couldn't possibly have moved that fast. It felt like only yesterday that I announced it on stage at the FIA Prize Giving ceremony, not half a decade ago. I still remember the shock in everyone's eyes.
No one could fathom why a four-time world champion would want to walk away at the peak of his career—at a time when it seemed so many more victories and titles were within reach. And I knew it well: if I wanted to, I could have had more championships. I could have continued to surprise the world.
But after I won the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix in 2024, I felt a strange duality. On one hand, I was satisfied—I had won another title, after all. On the other, when I finally got back to my hotel room and was finally alone, I realized I no longer felt that "taste of victory" in my blood. Usually, it lasted for days, sometimes longer. In that moment, I just felt empty, exhausted, and devoid of the fire that used to fill me.
That was the version of me people remembered. Then, I suddenly realized it didn't make sense anymore. Despite having four world championships, 61 Grand Prix wins, and 40 pole positions over a nine-year career, I knew my decision would seem strange and wrong to others. At the same time, I knew my rivals would be glad to see a "bastard" like me leave the sport.
I was never "pleasant." To the world, I was angry and egocentric. But I knew I couldn't be any other way. From childhood, I was taught not to feel emotions. On the track, they didn't exist. The only emotion allowed was anger.
It fueled me. Largely because my father was a man of difficult character and my first life teacher. Despite everything, he taught me everything he knew, and thanks to him, I achieved all my victories. But I never knew the kind of love I actually wanted from him.
God, I even envied Lance at one point. Despite our arguments, I envied him in a "good" way. He didn't have to earn his father's love through victories—for me, that was the only thing my father wanted.
You always have to be first. Surpass yourself. Prove to him that you are worth something more than just being a truck driver, as he liked to say. My father constantly pushed me forward when I fell, and I could never allow myself a moment of weakness.
His world consisted only of wins. I had no right to lose. I couldn't even permit the thought. Over time, this became the law of my life: on the track and off it, there was no room for doubt.
The only person who gave me real love was my mother. Near her, I didn't feel cruel or angry. I was gentle, even sentimental at times. Despite my defeats, she always made me feel like I was worth something, that I was a great athlete, and capable of more. She believed in me—and for that, I am still grateful.
Despite what happened later, she supported my decision, and we have a great relationship now. However, over the years, the pressure and internal pain had built up to an impossible level. The only thing it gave me was the realization that I could defeat everyone except myself.
I became stubborn. I couldn't stand losing. I didn't know how to rest without guilt and self-destruction. My whole life was like a bolide accelerated to an impossible speed.
And that’s why, after Abu Dhabi, after that final championship, I felt a true, bone-deep weariness. Weariness of everything.
It seemed all those victories no longer meant anything to me. The fact that I had them no longer made my blood boil. Even though I had some acquaintances among the drivers, for the most part, I had enemies—because of my character and behavior.
Strangely enough, among all the people around me, Kelly understood me best. Even though I didn't have romantic feelings for her—and she knew it perfectly well—she always knew how to support me with words. She endured my anger—the kind that made most people run. She stayed. If I were in her shoes, I wouldn't have put up with me.
Despite that, we had been a "couple" for four years. A PR relationship. In private, we weren't total strangers, but we weren't a real couple either.
Publicly, however, we were a masterclass in romance. We had no restrictions in public, but between us, there was only one rule: no cheating. At the minimum, because of a massive fine in the contract. At the maximum, because then everyone would realize those four years meant nothing.
I didn't want the reputational hit. Kelly didn't either. So, if we wanted to satisfy our needs, we did it with each other. There was a second rule: safety. We restrained any desires for others to avoid health risks. I respected that. I truly did. We never had problems with that.
After the post-race events ended, I finally exhaled. No more nagging journalists. Finally, I could just be a human, not the "Devil in a Bolide" as they called me behind my back.
I felt the fatigue filling me from head to toe. Everything around me seemed gray and uninteresting. People looked the same, and I felt like an ant among them. On one hand, that was fine. On the other, I wanted to feel like I wasn't alone. And even though Kelly was there, I knew I wouldn't get the kind of support I actually needed from her.
To be honest, despite her incredible beauty, I only ever felt a friendship toward her. And though people constantly pressured me with questions like, "Isn't it time to marry her? You've been together four years. A child wouldn't hurt, would it?" I never knew how to answer.
Actually, it was my father who said those things. What could I tell him? "Sorry, Dad, but I don't love her. She's just a friend."?
I knew exactly what his reaction would be. Even though I was a thirty-two-year-old man with four world titles, I was still terrified of his reaction. He never understood my needs. Even now, standing next to him, I felt like that little boy he once told would be anything but a Formula 1 driver.
So, virtually no one in my circle knew that my "love" for Kelly meant nothing to me. Except for one person.
Daniel.
Or, as I called him, Dany.
Despite his sometimes annoying manner, he never tried to crawl into my soul without permission. He didn't ask unnecessary questions. My comfort around him wasn't just because of that, but it was one of the reasons it was easier with him than anyone else.
However, in that moment, I couldn't think of Daniel or anyone else.
The hallways were dim; it was long past midnight. Only faint lights flickered to keep one from tripping. And tripping was exactly what I wanted to do—just fall. The silence wasn't calming; it was deafening. Dammit, I was used to the sounds of the track: the roar of engines. Silence was a foreign, alien sound that my body didn't know how to process.
Stumbling toward the room—though I wasn't drunk—I knocked. I knew Kelly was already there. I’d had a mountain of media appearances where I had to smile and say how "wonderful" the race was, how "happy" I was to take another title.
Inside, I felt a void. I suppressed it because I knew if it showed, I’d have to tell the truth. I stood at the door, unable to believe the day was finally over. That I wouldn't have to see those faces who smile to your face but call you a "rude copy of your father" behind your back. I didn't think I was, though I knew his upbringing had left its mark.
I waited a few minutes and heard soft footsteps. Kelly opened the door. She started with a light smile, but when she saw my empty, hollow expression, the smile vanished.
"Max, are you okay? What happened? You don't look like yourself..."
I walked past her into the room without a word. I went to the minibar, pulled out a bottle of expensive whiskey—the kind I always hated. Tonight, I wanted to drown in it.
When I turned around, her face was frozen in shock. she closed the door and knelt beside me.
"Max... you hate whiskey. You said it was disgusting."
I gave a bitter smirk. "I like it now. What's the difference?"
I went to open it, but Kelly gently caught my hand.
"Tell me what happened. You know I’ll listen."
I looked away. Part of me wanted to dump all the filth on her—the exhaustion, the emptiness, the rage. The other part was afraid. Afraid she’d see just how broken I actually was.
She put a hand on my shoulder. "I won't tell anyone."
That’s why she was always there. She didn't push. She didn't judge. She just stayed.
I took a deep breath. "I’m tired..." my voice betrayed me, cracking. "I want to leave Formula 1."
She froze. "Are you joking? That's not funny, Max."
I looked at her, dead serious. No irony. "No. I’m serious."
She was silent for several seconds, trying to gather her thoughts. "But why? You have everything. Wins, titles... You're at the peak. What happened?"
I ran a hand through my hair. "I don't want to prove anything to anyone anymore. I’m a four-time champion. What's next? Every race is like a prison sentence. The same faces. The same questions. Everything is gray. I win, and I feel nothing."
I took her hands in mine. "I’m empty inside, Kelly. I want silence. A simple life. No speed, no constant pain. Maybe it's selfish. But I can't lie to myself anymore."
She looked at me for a long time, then squeezed my fingers. "Even champions have the right to be tired," she said softly. "Yes, it’s a shock. Но if this is what you want... I won't hold you back. I'm with you."
A faint smile touched my lips. "Why are you always here, hm?"
She laughed softly. "You know why."
"No, say it."
She looked me in the eye. "Because you've become family to me. And... I don't want to be with anyone else. Even though I know you don't love me."
Something inside me shifted. Like a door I’d kept locked for years finally creaked open. I touched her cheek. Carefully. Slowly. Her breath hitched.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn't thinking about racing. I wasn't thinking about titles. I was only thinking about her.
"Kelly..." I whispered, leaning in. "Forgive me for being a fool. You were always there. You gave me the support I lacked. I’m only realizing it now."
I looked into her eyes as if I were afraid she’d disappear if I looked away.
"I love you."
A moment of silence, and then I kissed her. Hungrily. As if she were the air I’d been gasping for all these years. For the first time, I felt that winning wasn't everything. Because the real victory was in my arms.
I couldn't believe five years had passed since that night. It felt like yesterday. At first, after I left F1, I missed the racing. I’d watch the new generation. I did it for one person at first... someone who always seemed to be right there, but someone I’d seemingly traded for another. That’s what happened that night five years ago.
Do I regret it now? Yes, I’d turn back time just to avoid what turned my life upside down. That night, I gave myself to Kelly like never before. Sometimes I still dream about it—blurry, but there. At that moment, I thought it was right, even if Kelly wasn't the only one who found out about the story.
Three years of therapy taught me to value my life and happiness. Now, no one interferes, no one turns it into hell or makes me want to run away from more than just the sport. And now I realize what was always stopping me—what was keeping me afloat.
Unexpectedly, a few days ago, I received an email:
Subject: What remains between the lines
Hello, Mr. Verstappen.
You probably don't know me, but I know you well, which is why I'm writing. It will soon be five years since that strange Grand Prix in Abu Dhabi when you announced you wanted to leave Formula 1 forever. Most people would have forgotten within months, but I still hear talk about you outside the paddock. A four-time champion and a sudden decision to leave—no one expected it, but everyone understood.
However, there are moments in your story that are difficult to explain logically. For the last six months, I have listened to conversations about you, re-watched old interviews where you weren't entirely honest, and I have several testimonies from people who were with you that season.
Where am I going with this? I don't want to force you to explain every step. I want to understand what made you make that decision at the end of the season. I want an honest answer. You value honesty, don't you? Perhaps it's time to be frank.
P.S. Forgive my bluntness. If you're ready to answer, write back. One sentence can sometimes put everything in its place.
Regards, Sandra
When I saw the subject line, I almost laughed—it seemed so overly dramatic. I didn't think curiosity would win, but it did. I opened it and read carefully. The first paragraph made my eyebrows knit together, and my fingers tightened on the mouse.
I had so many questions for the author: how did she find my email (only my manager knew it)? Why did she write my surname so precisely? How could she know about that specific Grand Prix—the one where my thirst for racing died? Only two people knew that. Now, apparently, others did too.
Was I angry at Sandra? No. I always valued honesty. I could smell a lie instantly. But the letter was unsettling: she wrote as if she had been there, as if she knew the real reason I left. On the other hand, it’s been five years. Maybe it's time to be honest with myself.
I also realized: if I agreed, I’d have to open up about everything happening in my life now. Even after five years, I couldn't breathe freely or talk about it openly. Only my mother and sister knew—the ones I trusted more than my father.
I closed the laptop, rubbed my face, and sat staring at the wall of the empty room. It was a feeling of... relief. Like I finally needed to be honest. I didn't hesitate. I typed:
Subject: Re: What remains between the lines
Sandra,
To be honest, I didn't expect to hear from you. I appreciate the sincerity in your words, though it's strange that someone is interested in what happened five years ago. So many new drivers have come along... It's almost funny—most have forgotten, and I'm used to no one asking. But you sat down and wrote—no fluff, no dramatic headlines. And that... struck a chord.
Right now, I can say one thing I’ve kept inside for a long time: leaving wasn't an escape, but an attempt to understand myself. It’s funny now to remember how dramatically I took small things that seemed like giant problems back then.
I can't promise I’ll tell you every detail. Even for me, it's hard to process it all. But I can share what I felt and what was important then and now. If you're ready to listen—let's try.
Regards, Max Verstappen
POV: Sandra
I sat at my laptop, re-watching another Verstappen interview while scribbling in my notebook. The habit of analyzing systems, drilled into me in the engineering faculty, never left. I dissected his answers like car blueprints: looking for weak points in logic, contradictions, pauses. I wanted to craft questions that wouldn't just surprise him but reveal a different side of him—and, honestly, surprise myself.
But my brain was refusing to cooperate. Information was blurring. I decided to restart my laptop and leaned back. In the dark screen, I saw my reflection: a strand of blonde hair escaping my bun, a tired, unfocused gaze.
Even in the dim desk lamp light, my blue eyes looked too serious—my mother always called it our "family seal." Despite everything, I was grateful for this job: it was a place to hide my own emotions, which hit me like waves from time to time. The darkness around me was frightening in its emptiness, but it allowed me to dissolve, to hide the parts that hurt.
I rubbed my eyes—they were dry as a desert—and checked the clock. 3:30 AM.
Damn. Mom always told me not to sit at the computer so late; it would ruin my health. Back then, in our cozy apartment in Delft, her words sounded like nagging care. Now, the silence was different—hollow and painful.
She wasn't there to scold me for working late or to see me exhausting myself. I knew that. But right now, this was my only comfort. Because I had buried her only recently.
She died so suddenly... I still only remember that day in a blur.
Everything felt foreign, like I was in someone else's body. Like it was happening to someone who looked like me. Time stopped; the world bloomed outside, but I was rotting inside, consumed by the silence. It was a strange peace—a weight that made me feel like a tiny ant, alone in the universe.
Sometimes, even when I wasn't tired, I wanted to dial her number just to hear about her day. But the void inside hurt more than any physical wound. There was guilt, sadness... but the most painful part was how quickly my brain was adjusting to her absence.
It had been six months since her death. My heart was still heavy, but I’d learned to keep it inside so I wouldn't shatter. I tried to remember the moments that made me smile. But I wasn't "living." The fear that I might forget her voice, her laugh, her strictness—it stayed with me.
I held on for her and for myself, for my dream of journalism. Mom wouldn't have let me destroy myself—skipping sleep, forgetting to eat. I remembered how she joked about my eyes always giving me away, no matter how hard I tried to hide my state.
This documentary about Verstappen was my life raft. My engineering mind, raised on blueprints, now dissected his career, looking for logic where others saw only luck. It helped me not think about what I felt. Running from yourself is a bad idea, but it’s better than drowning in depression.
It was hard to maintain the mask of normalcy even to myself. But I was calm—maybe not happy, but existing. Yawning, I prepared to get a few hours of sleep to survive another day of guilt and suppressed emotions that had sat in me for six months like physical pain.
The phrase "time heals" turned out to be a lie. Time didn't heal; it just dulled the emotions I used to sob over. My soul's wound remained open. Mom was always the one who supported me, even when others told me to give up journalism. Her advice was my sanctuary.
I used to be an optimist. Now, I was quiet and cautious. I was polite but closed off; the mask of a strong woman was the only thing saving me. Her things—markers of the past—were what kept me going.
This documentary was my survival. It let me drown out thoughts of her. When I let out a soft curse, startled by a notification on my laptop, I saw it: "Max V."
I hadn't expected him to answer. He’d barely spoken to the media in five years. I re-read the sender's name several times—it was real. My fingers trembled over the keyboard; my heart hammered against my ribs. Joy, fear, and confusion swirled together. He replied.
When I finally opened the letter, I was wound tight like a string. I read, amazed by his sincerity—a sincerity no one expected from a man who closed himself off from the world.
Sitting there, the screen light turned my hair almost white and my eyes glassy. I looked at his reply and thought: "Is this really happening to me?" A mix of lightness and fear. If I go further, there’s no turning back. It’s all just beginning...
I could barely fall asleep, knowing I couldn't respond adequately yet. Health comes first. Yawning, I finally shut the laptop. I hoped to rest, because lately, I looked like a zombie. Six months without proper sleep; thoughts of Mom wouldn't let go.
I wasn't myself. I felt like a stranger in my own skin. She was closer to me than anyone, and only her understanding allowed me to be myself for a moment. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I headed for bed, desperate to fall into sleep and feel some relief.
But then I tripped. I fell on my knee, and everything from the box spilled out. My hair fell over my eyes. Startled, I began gathering the items: the sweater I’d started knitting for her, the photo album, the perfume with her scent of sea breeze...
And finally, I noticed a photo. Mom, young and serious, hair blowing in the wind, the sea and sun behind her.
But something was wrong. The photo had been cut. A silhouette of an unknown man was gone—the cut line was straight, surgical, and intentional. My sleepiness vanished. My thoughts whirled in chaos as I turned the photo over. On the back, in my mother’s familiar handwriting:
"Me, our daughter under my heart, and my love. Monaco, April 1995..."
The end: chapter 1...