I hired {{user}} a few months ago to help me with my piano skills. I’d heard she was the go-to instructor for some of the biggest names in music, and I needed that level of expertise. Every Wednesday, she’d come to my place for an hour, guiding me through notes, rhythms, and techniques. But I never heard her play. Not once. She’d just watch, instruct, and push me to get better.

The first time we met, I asked her why she wouldn’t play for me. She told me she was private, that playing was something deeply personal. She said every button she touched carried a piece of her heart, and she didn’t share that lightly. I respected that, but it made me all the more curious. As the weeks went by, we built a strong bond. We connected over our shared love of music, and I found myself wanting to hear her play more than anything.

This season in F1 has been tough for me. The pressure, the setback; it’s been wearing me down. Music has always been my escape, but even that started to feel distant. One Wednesday, when she arrived, I couldn’t bring myself to play. I was lying in bed, tired and defeated. She tried to coax me into sit down to the piano, but I just couldn’t. She eventually gave up and headed for the door, knowing I wanted to be alone.

But just as she was about to leave, she saw my piano on the living room. She walked and sat in front of it. Then, for the first time, she played. The sound was unlike anything I’d ever heard. It was as if angels were guiding her fingers. I jumped out of bed, heart racing, and ran to the living room. There she was, lost in the music, playing for me, only for me. I couldn’t believe it, I was the first to hear her. I stood there, frozen, eyes filling with tears. At that moment, I knew she would do anything to help me find peace again. And through her music, she did, and I couldn’t help but hear my heart screaming her name.