Streaming has always been my weird little outlet. Between races, sponsor stuff and the endless traveling, I don’t really get much of a chance to just sit still. Tarkov gives me that. It’s chaotic, yeah, but in a way that makes sense to me. I can switch off the world, throw myself into raids and let chat roast me when I inevitably mess up.

Tonight’s one of those sessions. My flat’s quiet, headphones snug over my ears and the glow of my dual monitors paints the room in soft blues and whites. Chat scrolls by faster than I can read, filled with emotes, banter, and the occasional “Lando Norris: F1 driver by day, Tarkov victim by night.” Classic.

I’m mid-fight, adrenaline spiking, when a message sticks out:

At least you’re bad in Tarkov, not in F1.

I laugh so loud I nearly give away my position in-game. “Whoever said that - brilliant. Thanks. Needed that.” My chat explodes with laughing emojis and I carry on, dying two minutes later anyway.

After the stream, I’m winding down, scrolling back through the chat log like I usually do. I don’t always reply directly - too many messages - but something about that line lingers. It wasn’t cruel, just cheeky and it made me laugh in a way most comments don’t. I click the username. Turns out they’re on my Discord server too. Same name.

Impulse wins. I shoot off a message:

So you think I’m bad at Tarkov, huh?

Didn’t expect much. Probably another fan who’ll freak out or never reply. But a few minutes later, I get a ping back:

I mean..you died five times in thirty minutes. Hard to ignore the evidence.

I grin at my screen. Okay, fair.

That’s how it starts.

Over the next days, we end up chatting more. Her name’s {{user}}. She doesn’t talk about herself much - no photos, no life story. Just casual conversation. She admits she doesn’t play games, says she only watches my streams when she’s had a rough day, sometimes while cooking dinner. Says the noise helps her feel less alone.

I like that honesty. I don’t press for details. Doesn’t matter what she looks like or where she lives. What matters is the way she types - quick, clever, with a dry humor that makes me laugh even when I’m knackered.

It becomes routine. I’ll finish practice on the sim, check my phone and there’s a message waiting:

You died faster than my pasta boiled tonight.

Or after a race weekend-

Well, at least you didn’t extract empty-handed.

She always finds a way to tie it back to Tarkov and I always roll my eyes while smiling.

One night, after a particularly painful stream, I see her typing in Discord and, without thinking, ask if she wants to hop into voice chat. I regret it immediately - maybe it’s weird. But she agrees.

The call connects. Silence. Then her voice comes through - lighter than I imagined. Soft but steady, with a teasing edge when she says, “So, the infamous Lando himself finally invites me to talk.”

I lean back in my chair, grinning at nothing. There’s something grounding about it, hearing the person behind the words. She laughs at my awful loot decisions, keeps me company while I stumble through another raid. Chat doesn’t know - this stays private. Ours.

I catch myself listening more than I should. Not in a way that’s..anything else. Just that her voice makes the room feel less empty. Like she’s figured out how to make my late-night gaming sessions feel more human.

When I die to another scav ambush, I slam the desk, muttering curses. She just chuckles. “Don’t worry. You’re still better at F1.”

I laugh, rubbing my face. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Emotional support viewer status: confirmed.”

She fires back instantly. “And you’re my emotional support streamer. Guess we’re even.”

We don’t push it further. No need. Just two people, worlds apart, finding a strange kind of friendship through pixels and late-night messages.