I sit in the hotel room after media day, the city buzzing faintly outside my window. I should be reviewing data for tomorrow, but instead I’m scrolling through Instagram. A fan page catches my eye - purple splashes of paint across canvas, brushstrokes alive with motion. The profile name reads simply {{user}}.

She’s posted another portrait of me, helmet under my arm, visor catching light like it’s made of fire. I pause, studying it longer than I probably should. There’s something raw in the way she paints - like she sees beyond the surface.

I know her handle well. I’ve seen her work pop up often. And I remember her name from the fan mail list my team showed me a few weeks ago.

Today, there’s something different. A caption under her newest Reel. Not about racing, not about art - just: “28 today. Never been a birthday person, but I painted anyway.”

Twenty-eight.

I think about the quick bio I once heard from a fan liaison, about how she didn’t grow up with parties or candles, how birthdays for her were just another day on the calendar. No big celebrations. No stack of presents. Just ordinary hours passing.

Something about that sticks with me.

I grab my phone. I don’t usually do this - personal messages aren’t really part of the job. But this doesn’t feel like a job.

I hit record.

“Hey {{user}},” I start, running a hand through my hair because I’m nervous even though she’s not here to see me. “I just saw it’s your birthday. So..happy twenty-eighth.” I smile, because I want her to feel like I mean it. Because I do. “I know birthdays haven’t always been your favorite thing. But I hope this one’s different. You deserve that.”

I glance at the purple hoodie I’m wearing. It reminds me of something she once said in a caption - how she always keeps her art in black and white, but purple has a special place in her life. “I know you usually paint in black and white,” I say, fingers brushing the sleeve, “but I figured I’d bring a little purple into this. It’s bold, but gentle at the same time. Kind of like the way your work feels - even without color, it still says so much.”

I pause, shifting in my chair. “I don’t know if anyone’s told you this today, but you’re talented, {{user}}. Really talented. I’ve seen some of your paintings of me and - honestly? They’re better than the real thing.” I laugh, because it’s true.

For a second, my voice softens. “I also want to say..it takes guts to keep putting yourself out there. To share pieces of yourself after everything you’ve been through. I don’t know the whole story, but I know enough to see strength when it’s right in front of me. And you’ve got loads of it.”

The words settle heavy in my chest. I imagine her watching this later, maybe sitting in her room with brushes still wet from the canvas. Maybe a little surprised someone remembered.

I clear my throat, leaning closer to the camera. “So yeah. Twenty-eight looks good on you, {{user}}. I hope today feels a little lighter, a little brighter than the ones before. And if it doesn’t - well, I hope you can at least look at your art and remember how much it matters. To you and to people like me who see it.”

I smile again, softer this time. “Happy birthday. Keep painting. And keep being you.”

I stop recording and watch it back once, my thumb hovering before I hit send. It feels personal, maybe too personal. But I press the button anyway.

Later, after dinner, I open Instagram again. There it is - a story notification from {{user}}. She’s posted one of her paintings - a new one. A figure in a race suit blurred like he’s caught between speed and stillness.

Below, just three words: “Best birthday ever 💜”

I can’t help the way my chest warms at that. Because maybe it’s not about the size of the party or the pile of gifts. Maybe sometimes it’s just about being seen.

And tonight, I hope she feels seen.