Chapter Text
Chapter 28: Take me back to the night we meet
They say that in the final moments—when death is close—the brain plays the greatest hits of a lifetime. The best memories. The ones that matter.
But these final seconds aren't about money or fame they aren't about the endless trophies you collected on your shelf. You could win one thousand times, and still these seven minutes wouldn't be about that. Because that's not what makes you happy, what brings you joy. Family, friends, and love do. That's because life is not about how much you have; it's about how much you give. And Carlos gave a lot, sometimes more than he had.
So for Carlos, as the seconds fractured and stretched thin, as the wall came closer and closer with every heartbeat, every breath, it wasn’t the roar of the crowd or the weight of silver in his hands that came back to him.
It was a warm feeling.
A small kitchen. Light pouring in through the windows of the family home in Madrid. He was barely tall enough to reach the table, standing on tiptoes, fingers sticky with flour. His mother’s hands were soft on his, guiding him as they stirred something together. He didn’t remember what they were making. That didn’t matter. What mattered was the way she smiled at him—like he was the whole world. The sound of her laughter. The way she wiped his cheek with the corner of her sleeve. The simple, unshakable certainty of being loved.
The memory shifted. The air smelled like gasoline and dust. They were standing at the edge of a dirt road, a rally car waiting in front of them. He remembered the exact feeling of his small hand gripping his dad’s, looking up at him as the engine roared to life. His father's voice, low and steady, told him, “This is what we do, Carlos.”
And something lit inside him right then and there.
That was the moment—long before Formula 1, long before the pressure, the fame, the headlines—that he knew. This is what I’m meant to do. He could still feel the gravel under his feet. The wide-eyed wonder of a boy seeing his future.
Then laughter.
Pure, breathless laughter—him and his sisters running through a garden under a blazing Spanish sun. He didn’t remember why they were chasing each other or who had started the game, but it didn’t matter. It was freedom. Bare feet on grass. Arms outstretched. The weightlessness of childhood before the world got heavy. The memory pressed soft against his heart—his sisters’ voices, calling after him, giggling until they collapsed together, red-cheeked and breathless.
And then—
Lando.
It was in a paddock somewhere. He could see it like it was yesterday. They were younger then, just two kids pretending to be men, draped in racing suits, talking rubbish between sessions. Lando was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, leaning on Carlos’s shoulder, tears in his eyes over something so stupid neither of them could have retold the story if they tried.
It wasn’t about the joke.
It was about the way it felt—effortless. Like the whole world could fall away, and it wouldn’t matter because they had this. Because in that moment, they were just friends. Just alive.
And at the end, the very, very end
It was Charles.
Not the arguments, not the tension, not the heartbreak.
Just the way they looked at each other in the quiet.
The way they held onto one another like they were made to fit. Like they were destiny.
A glance that spoke of forever.
That was it. Those were the moments that mattered. Not the victories. Not the speed.
Love.
In those final seconds, when everything else was stripped away, that’s all that remained. Love, and the people who made him who he was.
And in that last heartbeat—
Carlos didn’t feel pain.
He didn’t feel fear.
He didn’t feel regret.
And then the world went black.
Carlos Sainz died on December 7th at 15:58. Not minutes later in a medical tent. Not hours later under machines. Right then, on impact. The helmet cracked. The heart stopped. The story ended.
The race went on. The crowd kept cheering. The world kept turning.
But for Carlos, everything that ever mattered had already come and gone.
And the last thing he felt wasn’t speed or fear or glory.
It was love.