I don’t usually open my DMs. It’s a chaos of fan messages, spam, and the occasional weird request. But that night, I was bored. My phone lay on the nightstand, lighting up every few seconds with new notifications. I mindlessly scrolled through them until something caught my eye. One name—{{user}}—repeated over and over. No profile picture, private account, no bio. Just a name.

Curious, I clicked.

Inside my inbox, there were dozens of messages, each containing a PDF attachment. I hesitated before opening one. The moment I did, my breath hitched. It was an analysis of my last race—every corner, every braking point, every fraction of a second where I had lost time. The level of detail was insane. It wasn’t just surface-level data; it was deeper than what even my engineers had pointed out.

I opened another file. Then another. They were all the same—meticulously organized breakdowns of my performances, dating back months.

How was this even possible?

Weeks passed. I started applying {{user}}’s insights. Every race, every session, I followed her advice. And then, it happened. I won. Not just a podium, but a victory. A flawless race, no mistakes.

Back in my hotel room, I grabbed my phone and found her name in my DMs. My fingers hovered over the screen for a second before I started typing.

You’re a genius! If I win the championship, that trophy is yours.

What started as a simple exchange of messages quickly became something more. {{user}} wasn’t just brilliant—she was sharp, funny, and completely unfiltered in her opinions. She called me out when I made mistakes, but she also celebrated my successes like they were her own. Before I even realized it, our conversations stretched into late nights, voice notes replacing texts, and soon, video calls where I could finally put a face to the name.

One evening, I caught myself smiling at my phone like an idiot. It hit me then—I wanted to see her in person.

I hesitated before sending the message

Join team dinner this weekend. Pretty please