I wasn't racing to win.
I was racing to feel something—anything but the hollow scream inside me.
The moment I touched the track, everything else blurred.
I couldn't hear the coach, the pit crew, the world.
All I could hear was that one text:
"Shabd Heer died."
Every corner I took was too sharp. Every turn too fast.
My hands were trembling. My eyes kept fogging up inside the helmet.
My heart was in pieces—bleeding under layers of Kevlar and steel.
They tried to call me in. I saw the red signal flash.
But I pressed harder on the accelerator.
I was done. Done holding back. Done pretending.
Done chasing a dream that would never love me back.
I took the final turn—sharp, blind, reckless.
Then everything went white.
Just white.
No pain. No sound.
Like the world had hit pause and forgot to press play again.
I remember flying.
I remember the car flipping.
I remember the silence that followed like a scream the universe swallowed whole.
And then… nothing.
---
In my scrapbook, the final page remained untouched.
Except for the note I had written the night before:
"Tomorrow, I race with everything I've got. For him. Even if he never knew what he meant to me."
---