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I knew i wasn't going to race in F1 next year, I didn't want to accept it, but deep down I knew. What I didn't expect was to be dropped in the middle of the season.
To say that I'm hurt is an understatement, becase I want to scream, fight, cry; everything, all at once, but at the same time I want it to stop.
I think about 13 year old me, saying he wants to leave a legacy in the sport, wanting to be the best of the best, I feel sorry for him, for myself, and I wish I hadn't let him down.
I think about my parents, who sacrificed everything so I could achieve my dreams; my brother, who dropped me off at the airport so i could get a better chance in Europe, something the US couldn't give me, and I think about Oscar, who is getting everything I ever wanted and more.
Oscar, my best friend, or at least that's who he used to be. We haven't talked in a while now, but I don't blame him, he's out there, fighting for podiums and wins, he's fourth in the championship, while I'm getting sacked 9 races before the season ends.
I wonder if he'll miss me, I doubt it tho, he has new friends who are better than what I'll ever be. Friends who won't abandon him when things get rough, friends who are worth his time, friends who aren't as weak as me.
I think about my teammate, Alex, the guy who tried his best to guide me through this sport, the sport that took away every part of me and left me with nothing, not even myself. He has a new teammate now, much younger than me, fresh flesh, eager to learn. I wonder if I looked like him once.
I think about James, how he sees Franco in a way that he never saw me. I know how the sport works, I know it's all about money, popularity and talent, I bring none of those to the team. I'm just a burden, something they couldn't wait to toss out like trash, still, I wonder if things could've gone differently.
It doesn't matter anyway, at least not anymore, I'm gonna leave and they'll forget about me, like I never existed. I think it's for the better, no, I know it's for the better.
I never should've stepped a foot on there, they just destroyed everything I ever thought I was. But I'm not going to give them that, if I'm leaving, then I'm leaving on my own terms.
That's why I grab my pen and pad, scribbling some words while tears run down my face. I tell them that I'm sorry and that I can't go on anymore, I can't keep lying to myself and to others. I'm broken.
I'm a mess, sitting in the middle of my living room, the ironic part is that I don't plan on living for much longer. I always wondered what death might feel like, if there's something at the end of the tunnel, or if it's just pitch black for the rest of eternity, either way, I can't wait to find out.
After I finished writing my letter, I fold it and tuck it inside a white envelope, with no name on it, because I don't have anyone to address this letter to. I didn't even want to write one, feeling the need to leave this place as quiet as possible, but something inside me wanted that closure, so I did.
I stand up, leave the letter in the small coffee table and walk to the bathroom, I give one last look at myself, the mirror reflecting someone I no longer recognize.
I open the bottom drawer and grab the bottle of pills, I thought about all the ways I could do this, weeks ago and I landed on the old fashioned overdose, thinking that was the most peaceful way, not wanting to cause more trouble than needed, just wanting to end it once and for all.
I head to my room next, change into my favorite clothes and lay in bed. I grab the pills before giving it a second thought, not wanting to think much about it in case I regret it. So I did, I opened the bottle and took them, almost choking. God, even for that I'm useless.
As I lay there, silence engulfing me and a knot forming in my stomach, I wonder one last time if I'm doing the right thing, which doesn't matter anyway because it's done. I'm finally leaving this place.
But of course, life hates me, so before I fully lose consciousness I hear the front door open and a voice, calling out for me. I hear the shuffling of someone taking out their shoes and leaving a key in the coffee table, the same coffee table I left my letter in.
The next thing I know, someone's sprinting up the stairs and the door of my room opens. It's Oscar, my beautiful Oscar. I'm too weak to open my eyes, but I hear him crying, and I feel his hands on my body, shaking me and begging me to wake up.
Soon enough I hear him calling for an ambulance, but it's too late now, nothing there to do. I don't hear much any more, I can barely make out some sniffs and 'please don't leave me's, but just as everything is becoming pitch black I hear it.
"I love you, Logan"
I wish I was strong enough to answer, but I'm not. So the 'I love you too, Oscar' remains unsaid, forever waiting to arrive, but never doing so.