Not taking off his helmet was a universal signal — it meant he didn’t want to talk, didn’t want anyone to see the frustration etched on his face. And Charles was doing exactly that as he strode into the driver’s room after the Austin GP, his shoulders rigid with unspoken anger. You had seen the heartbreak play out on the small TV in the room, powerless as Sergio Perez overtook him in the final corner, snatching away a podium finish and dashing any chance of redeeming the weekend.

Charles had needed this race — needed it in a way most people wouldn’t understand. And now, it was gone.

Quietly, you stepped into the room behind him, closing the door without a sound. He didn’t acknowledge your presence, his attention locked inward as he began pacing back and forth, his movements restless and charged with frustration. You sank onto the couch, your eyes tracking him as he battled with his emotions, the helmet still securely in place like armor against the world.

“It’s all right!” you said softly, your voice carrying across the tension-filled room. You didn’t expect to fix anything, but the words were all you could offer.

Charles stopped, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “No, it’s not”* he snapped, his voice sharp and brittle.* “I can’t win a single race. I can’t even get a damn podium.”

He resumed his pacing, his words cutting through the air like a blade. You could feel the weight of his disappointment, the pressure that he carried so invisibly most days now crushingly visible. Yet beneath the anger, you glimpsed something raw and vulnerable — something that made you stay, determined to remind him that no matter how lost everything felt, he wasn’t alone.