#formula 1

Los Angeles was loud. The sun cut across the city in sharp gold streaks, palm trees bending lazily in the breeze, traffic humming a constant undercurrent of life. LA introduced a different kind of rhythm. One that she was still learning to move in.

After the accident, after the crash of noise and flashing lights and adrenaline that had defined her world for so long, LA felt like a slow exhale. Adam and Behati’s house sat on a remote hill, tucked away from the worst of the city noise. From the outside it looked like glass and pale wood stacked into the slope, sunlight pouring through wide windows. Inside, there was always music somewhere. A record spinning faintly in the living room. Someone humming in the kitchen. A piano key struck absentmindedly and left to ring out.

Her fingers moved with careful precision across the violin strings.

The bow slid over them smoothly, drawing out a long, clear note that hung in the air like a thin ribbon of glass. She followed it with another, and another, the melody slowly assembling itself beneath her hands.

Her therapist had suggested music early on.

Keep her busy with the things she already loves, they had said. Let her rebuild focus somewhere safe.

Louise had taken that suggestion literally.

Her posture was exact. Shoulders loose but alert, chin resting lightly on the instrument. The room smelled faintly of varnish and polished wood, sunlight pouring through the tall windows and catching the dust floating above her music stand.

Tiny specks drifted through the beam of light like suspended stars.

She followed the sheet music carefully, but not rigidly. Her playing had always been precise—almost mathematical in its clarity—but now there was something softer threaded through it. Something exploratory.

Like she was relearning how to move inside sound.

Downstairs, the front door opened.

She didn’t stop playing, but her ear tilted toward the sound instinctively for a second.

Behati’s voice was warm and easy. A second voice followed it, lighter and curious.

“…So how is she holding up?” Taylor asked, settling onto the sofa.

“Better,” Behati replied gently. “She’s… trying. The music helps. She finally started actually talking to her teacher this week.”

There was a small pause.

“That’s good,” Taylor said softly. “Really good.”

For a moment, there was a pause, a soft shuffle of papers, the careful adjustment of a throw pillow. “I… I hope it’s okay that I came over. I just wanted to check in. See how you’re all doing.”

Behati’s laugh was quiet but warm.

“You never need permission. I’m glad you’re here.”

Upstairs when the lesson ended, Louise finished the piece slowly, the final note stretching out into silence. She set the violin down carefully, loosening the chinrest and wiping the strings with a cloth.

The familiar routine steadied her.

When she was done, she padded down the staircase.

Halfway down, she stopped.

Taylor was sitting on the couch.

Louise froze for a fraction of a second, fingers curling into the sleeve of her hoodie.

Behati noticed immediately.

“Lou,” she said gently, turning slightly. “Come here, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

Louise descended the last few steps slowly.

She stopped beside her, just behind the line of her shoulder, as if Behati’s presence formed a small shield between her and the room.

Taylor looked up.

Her smile was bright but unassuming, the kind that didn’t demand anything in return.

“Hey,” she said easily. “Hi, Louise. How are you?”

Louise’s lips moved before she fully decided what to say.

“I’m… okay.”

It wasn’t much.

Not a conversation. Not even really an answer.

But it was honest.

Taylor nodded like that was exactly the response she’d expected.

“Okay is good.”

She didn’t stand. Didn’t lean forward or close the distance. She simply stayed where she was, giving Louise the quiet space to exist in the room without pressure.

After a second, Taylor tilted her head slightly.

“What were you playing upstairs?”

Louise hesitated.

Her eyes stayed fixed somewhere near the floor, but she answered.

“Clair de Lune.”

Taylor’s eyebrows lifted.

“Oh wow.”

A small silence followed.

Louise shifted her weight.

“I… keep messing up the third part,” she added quietly.

Taylor smiled.

“That’s my favorite part of every song.”

Louise glanced up for just a fraction of a second.

“Messing up?”

“Yeah,” Taylor said. “That’s usually where the interesting stuff happens.”

Louise didn’t respond.

But the corner of her mouth twitched faintly.

—

Taylor started coming by more often after that.

Not in a way that felt scheduled or formal.

Sometimes she arrived with tea. Sometimes with a board game she claimed was “life-changing.” Sometimes with absolutely no plan at all.

She didn’t ask Louise a thousand questions.

She didn’t press for stories or explanations.

She simply existed in the same space long enough that Louise stopped feeling like she needed to disappear from it.

At first Louise hovered near the edges of rooms, lingering beside Behati or quietly retreating upstairs after a few minutes.

But little by little, that changed.

One afternoon Taylor appeared in the doorway with car keys swinging loosely from her fingers.

“Donut run,” she announced.

Louise blinked at her from the couch.

“I—”

“It’s important,” Taylor added seriously. “Very time-sensitive donut business.”

Behati hid a smile behind her coffee mug.

Louise hesitated.

“…Okay.”

—

After a few months, the dynamic shifted again. Louise began to go over to Taylor’s house, sometimes for the day, sometimes for a sleepover if Adam and Behati were out of town.

Taylor’s kitchen became a regular destination. Flour dusted the marble island like fresh snowfall as Taylor carefully folded sourdough dough over itself. Louise sat perched on the counter nearby, sleeves pushed up, hands already coated in flour.

“This part is patience,” Taylor explained, pressing the dough down again.

Louise watched carefully.

“You talk to it?” she asked quietly.

Taylor looked up, amused.

“Sometimes.”

“…Why?”

“Because it’s alive,” Taylor said with mock seriousness.

Louise considered that.

Then she leaned forward and poked the dough once with one flour-covered finger.

Taylor laughed.

—

Music was another constant.

Taylor played the piano the way some people doodled—absently, half-formed melodies spilling out while she searched for something that felt right.

One evening she kept repeating the same progression over and over.

And over.

And over.

Louise sat on the couch, listening patiently at first.

Then less patiently.

Taylor hit the wrong note again.

Louise exhaled quietly.

She stood.

Walked across the room.

And without saying a word, gently nudged Taylor’s hands aside.

Then she played the sequence herself.

Perfectly.

Taylor stared at her.

“Well,” she said after a moment. “You’re getting a writing credit on the next album.”

—

Game nights were another revelation. One evening, Travis joined, dice clattering across boards, cards fanning out in neat, deliberate chaos. Louise had won two rounds already, the triumphant smirk tugging at her lips. On the third round, just as she was about to claim another victory, Travis scooped her up mid-laugh, shaking her gently.

“You’re cheating!” he shouted dramatically, grin wide, eyes sparkling.

Louise shrieked—a high. It spilled from her, loud and fearless, filling the room with a warmth she hadn’t realized she’d been holding back. For a split second the room froze.

Then the sound that came out of her wasn’t shock.

It was laughter.

Real laughter.

Loud and bright and completely unguarded.

Everyone in the room paused just long enough to register it.

Louise caught her breath, cheeks flushed, hair loose around her shoulders, hands dusted with board-game tokens. “I… I didn’t…” she stammered, still giggling.

“Too late,” Travis said, still shaking her slightly. “Cheaters always get caught.”

She laughed again.

—

Over time, Taylor became something unexpected in Louise’s life.

Not a mentor exactly.

Not a guardian.

More like the kind of older sister you ended up with when life rearranged things unexpectedly—someone ten years ahead but somehow still operating on the same wavelength.

Protective when necessary.

But mostly just… there.

Someone who stole you for donut runs.

Someone who let you sit in flour-covered kitchens.

Someone who didn’t mind when you corrected their piano chords.

And for Louise, who had spent months carefully reconstructing herself piece by piece, that quiet, peer-like closeness became another kind of rhythm.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just steady enough that she began to feel something unfamiliar again.