You had been so excited for this day, the air buzzing with anticipation. Carlos’s debut at Williams felt monumental — a new chapter, a fresh start, and you were by his side, as always, to cheer him on. The energy in Melbourne was electric, even as the skies opened up and rain poured relentlessly over the circuit.

But then, on the second lap, everything changed. The heavy rain turned treacherous, and before you could process what was happening, Carlos’s car skidded and slammed into the barriers. Your heart sank as you watched the replay on the screen, your hands gripping the edge of your seat. Relief came quickly when you saw him climb out of the car, unharmed. Physically, at least.

As he exited the car, drenched and visibly upset, Carlos avoided the cameras, his stride purposeful and tense. You knew him well enough to understand the disappointment that weighed on his shoulders. His debut was supposed to be a triumph, not an early exit caused by something entirely out of his control.

You didn’t hesitate. Standing, you wove through the crowd, following him as he made his way to his driver’s room. When you reached the door, you hesitated for just a moment before stepping inside.

Carlos was already pacing, his damp race suit clinging to him, droplets of rain still falling from his hair. He ran a hand through it, frustrated, his jaw tight. The silence in the room was heavy, but you didn’t need words to understand his pain.