A Second Life
That was it. All this time I had taken my family’s sacrifices for granted simply because I possessed a talent for going a little faster than everyone else.
And what did I have left now? Nothing. The gift that had made me special was gone.
So I would have to live like someone without talent. Like any other ordinary person.
Stop whining.
Only after hearing my younger sibling’s blunt advice did I realize I was digging myself deeper into a hole. It was a pointless exercise.
If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.
The driver in me was dead. If I could not turn back the clock to the moment before the crash, then I had to let that self go. That was how you stepped into a second life.
Once my sibling finished the hard words and left the room, I finally came to my senses.
So what am I supposed to do with myself now?
I began thinking about a second life only after the fire was already under my feet, like someone who wakes up far too late.
Besides going fast, what else can I do? How am I going to eat?
Reality finally came into focus—and with it the immediate truth that rehabilitation had to come first, long before any career plans.
Until then I had treated the community physiotherapist’s visits with the half-hearted indifference of someone who had already given up on the world. More than once I had simply sent the therapist away, claiming I was in no mood for treatment.
After I snapped out of it I threw myself into the sessions. I even borrowed books from the library and spent hours diagnosing my own body.
Gritting my teeth through workouts that felt as if every bone were shattering was something I had done every day as a driver. Once the will returned, my body recovered with startling speed—fast enough that I could soon go to the hospital for outpatient care on my own.
When my condition finally settled onto a stable track, I began thinking seriously about a future.
What other talent do I have besides driving…?
Everything I had polished to a razor edge was useless now.
The one small mercy was that, unlike most drivers, I had never completely abandoned my studies while racing. In the past I had finished high school through a British online international program. My parents—typical Korean immigrants who valued education—had insisted on it. At the time it had felt like a nuisance; I never imagined it would save me later.
From the moment I regained my footing I threw myself into studying, determined to catch up with ordinary people. I worked as if I were trying to forget a first love that had ended in catastrophe, putting as much distance as possible between myself and the world I had left behind.
The effort paid off. The following year I was accepted into the physiotherapy department of a university renowned in the field.
Immersing myself in rehabilitation had naturally drawn my interest toward physiotherapy. Years as an athlete had given me an intuitive feel for the human body, so the coursework never felt especially hard. Luckily the curriculum suited me. I never shone the way I once had behind the wheel, but steady work produced steady results.
Even the best physiotherapist in the world would never earn the kind of money an F1 driver does.
In my first life—when I was still racing—I had spent my parents’ money without a second thought, as freely as a gambler who already knows he will win it all back. I had been certain I could repay them.
And now?
A hundred years of work wouldn’t even come close.
I chased scholarships. To keep the burden on my parents as light as possible I also took part-time jobs related to my major—assisting patients or sports trainers in hospitals and care homes. Fortunately I managed to keep the academic excellence scholarship for all three years.
Very slowly, the life of an F2 driver who raced around the globe faded, as if it had belonged to a previous incarnation. And physiotherapy brought unexpected joys of its own.
Once the clinical placements began I discovered real pleasure in turning theory into practice. Watching accident patients like myself improve filled me with quiet satisfaction; restoring an athlete’s body and seeing their condition climb again gave me pride.
I actually like taking care of people.
Through the study of physiotherapy I gradually recognized the qualities of a supporter in myself. It was never as electric as racing, yet the second life was gently good. That the work I had chosen simply to survive also suited my temperament felt like a small stroke of luck.
Because the university was highly regarded in the field and my grades were strong, I landed a position after graduation at a large sports research institute in London.
Britain is a country that loves its football, rugby, cricket, and golf; there was never a shortage of work. Athletes from every discipline came through our doors seeking better conditioning or rehabilitation. Facing them every day—fellow competitors who had retired from the same brutal arena, even if not the same sport—was never easy. It would be a lie to say it did not hurt. Honestly, I envied my clients.
But I no longer dug holes out of despair. The job gave me a decent salary, a stable life, and rest.
Working in London meant independence came naturally. The city’s cost of living was murderous, yet I earned well for a physiotherapist, and I even began to think this life was, all things considered, not bad.
Of course, if I could return to the moment before the crash even now, I would hand almost my entire lifespan to the devil. But who ever gets to live exactly as they wish? Only the special few—the chosen—get everything they want.
And I, regrettably, was no longer special.
It’s fine. Living like this isn’t so bad.
Like any ordinary person, my days grew steadily more monotonous. The fierce competition that once set my blood on fire had vanished from my life.
Every morning I arrived, changed into my work clothes, checked the notes on each client’s condition, and drew up a treatment plan. Then I chatted with whoever walked through the door and delivered tailored care. That was the whole of a day.
Food, too, had changed. I simply ate whatever was at hand when hunger struck. There was no longer any need for the strict diet of a driver, yet I still could not truly enjoy meals. Taste and smell had never fully returned after the accident.
Still—better than being fed through a gastrostomy tube, wasn’t it? I had learned to be content with what I was given.
In any case, just as I had forgotten the old world, that world forgot me with equal speed.
Right after the crash the interview requests had poured in, but the sports world has always been cold to those who fall. Even when I first entered university, people occasionally recognized me—the school was famous not only for physiotherapy but for supplying more aerodynamicists to Formula 1 than any other institution on earth.
By now, though, I was simply an East Asian physiotherapist who wore her bangs long enough to hide her left eye.
That day was no different from any other. I had just finished treating a rugby player who had been injured mid-match and was stepping out when a colleague stopped me.
“Hanna, the consultation manager is looking for you. She wants you in her office.”
“Me? Why?”
Our teams’ duties were clearly divided; there was no reason for her to call me. When I asked, my colleague only shrugged—she had no idea either. I scratched my temple.
“Angela, it’s Hanna. You wanted to see me?”
I knocked on the consultation manager’s door. Her bright, canary-like voice told me to come in.
She was not alone.
When I opened the door I saw a blond man seated in the place of honor—the single armchair of the large, deep sofa that dominated the room. With eyes trained by years of professional observation I took him in at a glance.
He did not carry the heavily pumped muscle of the rugby players I currently treated, yet his long frame was laced with elastic, well-defined muscle—like a gazelle’s. I would need him out of his clothes to be certain, but the body already surpassed that of an ordinary fitness enthusiast; he was clearly a client of the institute. I narrowed my eyes.
Long-distance runner? No… looking at the neck, a boxer?
On closer inspection, muscles a pure runner would never need were layered here and there—especially around the neck. MMA fighters develop necks like that to absorb the shock of a high-speed punch to the face.
Lightweight… no, welterweight?
I tilted my head, wondering if he was Angela’s client, and turned my gaze toward her—only for the man to call my name out of nowhere.
“Hello, Hanna.”
The greeting was startlingly familiar. When our eyes met he looked straight at me and smiled.
“It’s been a while.”
He spoke as if we were old friends, yet the face meant nothing to me.
Who…?
Even though his looks were the kind that drew the eye like a rose—vivid, almost extravagant—I still could not place him.
Instead of answering the greeting I simply wore a puzzled expression and looked back at Angela. I had no idea what was happening.
When I silently asked for an explanation she rose from her seat, flustered.
“Hanna, this is Mr. Harold Devlin. He’s the F1 driver who just became a five-time World Champion this year. He says the two of you were friends—don’t you remember?”
And then, at last, the memory returned.