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 Carlos was doing exactly that as he strode into the driver’s room after the Austin GP, his shoulders tense with anger. You had seen it unfold on the small TV in the room, watching helplessly as Sergio Perez overtook him on the last corner, snatching away not just a podium finish, but any hope of salvaging much-needed points.

Carlos had needed this race, more than anyone realized. And now, it was gone.

Quietly, you stepped into the room behind him, closing the door softly. He didn’t acknowledge you, didn’t even glance your way as he began pacing back and forth, his movements restless, bordering on frantic. You sank onto the couch, your eyes following him as he struggled with his emotions, his helmet still in place like a shield against the world.

“It’s all right!” you said gently, your voice cutting through the tense silence, though you knew it wouldn’t do much to calm him.

Carlos stopped briefly, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “No, it’s not.” he snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. “I can’t win a single race, I can’t even get a damn podium.”

He started pacing again, his words hanging heavy in the room. You could feel the weight of his disappointment, the pressure he carried like a second skin. But beneath the anger, you knew there was something deeper — something that made you want to stay, to remind him he wasn’t alone, even when everything felt like it was slipping away.