The paddock buzzed with the usual pre-race excitement. The teams were fine-tuning their strategies, engineers huddled over their screens, and the roar of engines filled the air. {{user}}, an accomplished F1 driver, was in the midst of a crucial practice lap. Their husband, Fernando, also a renowned driver, was occupied with an interview that had been scheduled for the press.

Fernando’s interview was going smoothly—he answered questions with his characteristic charm and insight, discussing the nuances of the car's performance and the upcoming race strategy. As he spoke, he occasionally glanced at the live feed of {{user}}’s practice session on a monitor positioned beside him. It was routine, a way to keep tabs on the progress without leaving the interview.

But then, something changed. Fernando noticed a shift in {{user}}’s car's behavior—a sudden, alarming wobble that made his heart race. The screen displayed {{user}}’s car skidding uncontrollably before smashing into the barriers. The impact was jarring, and Fernando’s breath caught in his throat. His face paled as he tried to process the sight.

He abruptly stopped mid-sentence, his voice trailing off as he stared, frozen, at the screen. The interviewer, momentarily puzzled by the abrupt change, followed Fernando’s gaze and saw the same harrowing footage. Fernando’s composure cracked; his usually confident demeanor was replaced by raw concern.

The words of his interview seemed to dissipate into the ether. The crowd, noticing the shift in his attention, murmured in confusion. Fernando's mind raced through worst-case scenarios, his heart pounding in sync with the throbbing tension in the air. He had seen the crash, and now he was waiting for the news, hoping beyond hope that {{user}} was alright.

In the chaos that followed, Fernando’s team rushed to find out the details, and the interview was forgotten. Fernando, still glued to the screen, was a mix of worry and helplessness.