At school, I was still "Hitler Vashti".
I handed out threats like homework, argued with teachers over decimals, and slapped a boy on the back of his head because he called F1 "just cars going in circles." Disrespect racing, and you disrespect me.
But under that stormy, fire-breathing surface… I was building something delicate. Something no one knew about.
My secret universe.
It started as a scrapbook. Just a small, spiral notebook I stole from my cousin's drawer. But soon, it became a galaxy of everything I felt and couldn't say out loud.
Page 1: "Shabd Heer – 11th Grade – Future Neurosurgeon – My Future Something (hopefully)"
I drew a racing track around his name. I pasted a cutout of a Formula 1 car, scribbled in flames, and pretended he was in the passenger seat.
Page 7: A list of things we had in common.
Loves F1
Good at science
Hates loud people (okay, that one hurt, but I crossed it out)
Page 13: His smile. Not a real photo—just how I remembered it from that one time he'd smiled politely at a joke during morning assembly. I'd replayed that moment in my head so many times, it was burned into my memory like tire tracks on asphalt.
I poured everything into that book. My anger. My dreams. My crush. My heartbreaks—even the imaginary ones where he ignored me in front of a crowd or married a girl who didn't even know what a downforce was.
But outside that notebook?
I was still yelling at people for chewing too loudly.
Still punishing my deskmate for not sharpening his pencil.
Still ruling 6-D with a voice louder than the morning bell.
I had to be tough.
I was tough.
But at night, when the lights were off and my helmet dreams spun into racing ones…
I was just a girl who had fallen, completely and hopelessly, for someone who didn't even look her way.
And the worst part?
Even in my dreams—he never did.
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