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Esteban is alone, and he feels lonely.
When he was younger and still learning English, he couldn’t quite grasp the difference between the two.
But now, sadly, he does.
Being alone is a state of being like standing in an empty room or walking through a quiet forest. It’s the absence of others, but not necessarily the presence of sadness. Sometimes, being alone feels peaceful: a chance to breathe and exist without expectation.
Loneliness, though, is a feeling. It’s yearning for connection and not finding it. It’s being in that same room, or that same forest as before, but this time feeling the weight of the silence pressing down and reminding you that no one is there to share it with.
Now, Esteban is sitting on the balcony with a bottle of beer (the zero alcohol ones, he is not getting addicted just because these alpine people are awful) as his only companion and keeps thinking about his years with Alpine and how they ended in the most disrespectful way possible. He has never felt more betrayed.
It hurts to know that he had given his best and yet it was never enough to be celebrated. Not even enough to be respected. He offered the people around him the finest version of himself, he outperformed his machinery. As if he wasn’t their only race winner, the driver with the most podiums for them, the one always proudly connected to them, the "Frenchman on the French team."
And they decided to kick him out with just one race left.
He had prepared himself for this final race long ago. He had thought about what he would say when crossing the line, whether he finished P20 or, funnily enough, P2, like he did just a month ago.
“Thank you, everyone, for all these years. Thank you to every mechanic and every engineer. Thank you for the win, the podiums, the highs and the lows. Thank you, Enstone.”
He had debated whether he should end with one last “Allez les bleus! Allez Alpine!”, just as he did in Hungary back in 2021, after his first win, their first win.
He was such a fool that he had been debating it, when they didn’t even give him the chance to say goodbye properly.
Alpine, it seems, didn’t believe Esteban deserved any closure after everything.
It felt almost ironic to be treated this way after Brazil. For a moment, Esteban was convinced they were on good terms again. He was even on better terms with Pierre now. They had their history, sure. But when miracles happen, you have to acknowledge them. And that’s exactly what Esteban did.
He put on his brightest smile and celebrated the hell out of that double podium, even if it came too late.
But Alpine didn’t care much about miracles. Their ultimatum left no room for Esteban.
“Do you want to do the test with Haas, kid? Because if you do, we need you gone before Abu Dhabi.”
Esteban couldn’t believe his ears. At first, he innocently thought it was a joke. A cruel, absurd joke. Because they couldn’t possibly mean it.
Not after Brazil. Not after everything.
They knew it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t finish the Qatar race, it was a racing incident. They knew he’d tried his best. They knew him too well after all these years.
But they weren’t joking. Not even a little.
Now, Esteban finds himself drowning.
Was it ever really his choice to make?
He couldn’t pass up the chance to test with Haas. This team was his future, his opportunity to lead the midfield, to rebuild. But it hurt even more to accept that Alpine was now just his past. That it was reduced to a memory in his F1 career, a collection of old Instagram posts, and a cabinet of pretty trophies.
He still couldn’t believe they made him choose. That they kicked him out as if he had never mattered to the team.
The blue graphic had burned itself into his brain: “Esteban Ocon dropped for Abu Dhabi.”
He had felt bad back in 2018 when he lost his seat at Force India. Of course he did. But at least then, he’d seen it coming. This? This felt different. Now, he felt unappreciated and humiliated by the very people he’d given his best to.
He didn’t have the courage to look at the comments. Not now. Not when he could already hear the jokes in his head, the mocking captions, the pity disguised as analysis.
(Later, much later, he would discover that the public had been on his side all along. No one had mocked him. In fact, they had rallied behind him and for the first time in his career, people were starting to take him seriously.)
But right now, Esteban just sits on the balcony alone and lonely, while his phone buzzes beside him, the screen lighting up with Max’s name.
For a moment, he considers ignoring it. What was there to say? Explaining the situation would only make him feel worse. Pathetic, even.
The phone buzzes again, another message from Max.
“Saw the news”
“You alright?”
Esteban sighs, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He types, deletes, and retypes before finally settling on a short response:
“Yeah, fine.”
Seconds later, Max replies:
“I’m at your hotel. Let me up.”
Esteban hesitates. The last thing he wants is pity or concern, especially from someone as successful as Max. The guy literally won the championship and the last race. Let’s be realistic here.
But the thought of sitting with his spiraling thoughts for another minute feels unbearable. With a deep breath, he sends the room number.
After a few minutes, a knock on the door pulls Esteban from his thoughts. He briefly considers ignoring it and pretending he never sent the number, but another knock follows, louder this time. Typical Max.
Esteban drags himself to the door. He opens it to find Max casually leaning against the doorframe, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his expression unreadable.
"Hey," Max says, his tone light but firm.
Esteban steps aside without a word, and Max strides in, his gaze sweeping over the disheveled sofa.
"Classy," Max remarks, eyeing the beer bottle. "You still choose the no alcohol stuff even when you're upset?"
Esteban shoots him a tired glare but can’t suppress the slight twitch of his mouth. "I wasn’t expecting company."
Max shrugs. "You should’ve been. Thought you knew me better by now."
Esteban sighs, closing the door and walking to the balcony. He leans against the railing, the cool night air washing over his face. Max follows him a moment later, standing beside him without a word. The silence between them is strangely comforting.
Finally, Max speaks. "You’re pissed. I get it."
"You get it?" Esteban snaps, his voice sharper than he intends. He gestures at Max. "You’ve been at the top for years. You’ve got the best car, a team that loves you. And even if they ever stop worshipping you, which I find impossible, there are always nine other teams waiting for you. How could you possibly get it?"
Max doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans on the opposite railing and looks at Esteban. "You think I’ve never felt like I wasn’t enough? Like I was just another piece to be used and discarded by my team? Trust me, I’ve been there. It doesn’t matter how many trophies or championships you have."
Esteban looks away, the knot in his chest tightening.
Max’s voice softens. "But sitting here, sulking? That’s not you. You’re better than this."
Esteban lets out a bitter laugh. "Am I? Because right now, it doesn’t feel like it."
"You are," Max says firmly. "And if Alpine can’t see that, screw them. You’ll prove them wrong. Haas is there, and they’ve been strong this year. With you behind the wheel? That car will fly." He smiles, the sincerity in his eyes breaking through the tension.
For the first time that evening, Esteban feels a flicker of something other than anger. Gratitude, maybe, or just relief that someone is here, refusing to let him sink further.
Esteban exhales slowly. "I wish it were that simple. I gave them everything, Max. Years of my life, my career. I gave them everything I had. And they just..." He trails off, swallowing hard. "It’s not even about the race. It’s how they did it. Like I didn’t matter."
Max studies him quietly for a moment, his expression unreadable.
"You matter," Max says, his voice steady. "At least to me, you matter."
Esteban turns to him, caught off guard. For all Max’s bluntness, he hadn’t expected that. "To you?" he echoes, a weak attempt at sarcasm to deflect the weight of the moment.
Max doesn’t take the bait. "Yeah. To me. You’ve always mattered, even when we were ready to kill each other on track." His lips curve into a faint smile. "I might’ve hated you back then, but I never stopped respecting you. And now..." He shrugs. "I guess I don’t hate you anymore."
Esteban chuckles, though it’s shaky. "Well, that’s reassuring."
"You’re stronger than you think," Max says softly. "But you don’t have to be strong all the time, you know."
For a moment, the weight in Esteban's chest feels a little lighter.
"You really believe that? I didn't expect something like that from you." Esteban asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I do, no one can avoid vulnerability" Max says, and the sincerity in his voice makes Esteban’s heart stutter.
The space between them feels smaller now and Max tilts his head slightly, his gaze flicking to Esteban’s lips for just a moment before meeting his eyes again.
Esteban’s breath catches. He feels like should pull back, crack a joke, do anything to break the tension. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in, hesitantly at first, and then bolder when Max doesn’t move away.
Their lips meet, soft and unsure. For a moment, everything else fades away and there is only their fragile moment that feels both impossible and inevitable.
When they pull apart, Max’s face breaks into a small, lopsided grin. "Well," he says, his voice light but his eyes warm. "That wasn’t bad."
Esteban lets out a shaky laugh, his cheeks flushing. "Not bad, huh? That's all you have to say after kissing me?"
Max shrugs, the grin still lingering. "Better than Brazil 2018, at least."
Esteban groans, shoving him playfully. "You just had to bring that up."
And for the first time in what feels like forever, Estaban smiles. He realizes that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind being alone with Max.