i forget you aren't mine - lando norris - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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"this goodbye felt worst of all"
the last night didn't feel like the last night.
he was stretched out on the floor of her apartment, one arm crooked under his head, the other draped across her ribs like he was holding something fragile. his fingers made lazy shapes against the fabric of her old t-shirt, the one he always stole to sleep in. it smelled like lavender and dust and him. the windows were cracked open, letting in the cold london air, and the playlist they'd made together two summers ago was still humming low from her phone speaker, even though neither of them had said a word in twenty-seven minutes.
she should've said something. anything.
but all she could do was lie there and count the breaths between them, willing herself not to cry.
lando looked peaceful, eyes half-closed, lashes brushing the curve of his cheek. he always looked like this when he didn't know how to talk about something—calm on the outside, chaos quietly leaking from the seams.
"you're thinking too loud," he murmured finally, not looking at her.
she swallowed. "sorry."
"don't be." a beat passed. "i just... wish you'd tell me what's actually going on in there."
her throat burned.
because how do you explain to someone that loving them hurts now? that something that used to feel like sunlight has started to ache under your skin?
she sat up, legs folding underneath her, blanket falling from her shoulders. she didn't know where to start. how to say i don't think i know how to be your person anymore.
lando mirrored her, slow and soft, the way he always was when she got like this. he looked at her like he was trying to memorize something.
"lando—"
"i know," he said before she could finish.
and that made it worse.
because he didn't know. not really.
he didn't know how her chest clenched every time he left for another race, how she felt like she was always waiting, how she was scared the version of herself that loved him so easily had started to fade into someone she didn't recognize.
"i need..." she started, then stopped.
he didn't push her. just waited.
finally, she let the words fall. "i think i need space."
his face didn't change, not really. just the smallest shift. like a thread pulled loose in the corner of a carefully stitched quilt.
"okay," he said, voice too even.
"okay?"
lando nodded. "if that's what you need."
god, he was always so good.
always giving her what she needed, even if it broke something in him.
and somehow, that made it hurt more.
"it's not that i don't—"
"love me?" he asked quietly.
she looked away.
the silence came back then. louder this time.
when he finally stood to go, it felt like a dream. his hoodie was half-zipped, and his curls were messy from where she'd run her hands through them earlier. he looked like a version of home she didn't know how to come back to.
"will you call me?" she asked, suddenly terrified of the emptiness her flat would feel like when the door closed behind him.
lando paused in the doorway.
"i don't think i can," he said softly. "not if we're doing the whole space thing."
she wanted to scream. that's not what i meant. i don't want to lose you. i just want to figure out who i am without drowning in you.
but she nodded.
because sometimes silence is safer than the wrong words.
and then he left.
and that was that.
she didn't cry until she found his toothbrush in her bathroom the next morning.
seven years is a long time to stitch your life around someone.
it's even longer to unthread them from everything after.
his toothbrush.
his spotify login still on her tv.
his initials on the post-it notes stuck to the fridge—remind me to buy oat milk, xo LN.
his scent in her bedsheets.
his damn formula 1 cap, the one he never wore but always left on her bookshelf like it meant something.
she tried to box it all up, but some things didn't fit.
some things lived in her.
in the back of her mind, in the muscle memory of reaching for her phone to text him about her day, in the way she still made coffee for two every morning for a week before realizing she was alone.
by the second week, her best friend took her out for wine and greasy chips and told her she looked like a ghost.
"you need a rebound," ella declared, pouring more wine into her glass like that could fix anything.
she laughed, dry and tired. "you can't rebound from lando."
ella didn't argue.
she ran into him three months later.
not on purpose. it was one of those too-warm spring days that made london feel like a different place—sunnier, softer, almost like a memory itself. she was in soho, grabbing a coffee after a shoot, sunglasses sliding down her nose, hair a mess. she looked like someone else entirely.
and there he was. lando. across the street. hoodie, jeans, talking to someone she didn't recognize. laughing.
his laugh hit her like a slap.
because she hadn't heard it in so long, and it still sounded like home.
he didn't see her.
she didn't cross the street.
in july, she saw him in a photo with another girl.
not famous. just normal.
the kind of girl who wore soft linen skirts and cropped sweatshirts and seemed so casual in his world.
she didn't cry.
she just stared at the photo for too long, heart twisting in that quiet, bitter way.
you asked for space, she reminded herself. this is what space looks like.
but space wasn't supposed to feel like this.
space was supposed to be room to breathe, to figure things out.
not this aching vacuum.
every sunday night still felt hollow.
they used to call them their reset nights. after a race weekend, after travel, after chaos. they'd come home, curl into each other on the couch, order takeaway, and just be.
now, sunday nights were empty.
she didn't even bother turning the tv on anymore.
months blurred together. seasons shifted.
sometimes she'd draft a message.
hi. just checking in. hope you're okay.
did you see that dumb movie we talked about?
miss you.
come back.
she never sent them.
her drafts folder became a graveyard of what-ifs.
one night, she opened her notes app and typed:
it's been 273 days since you left.
i still check the weather in wherever-you-are just to feel close to you.
i wonder if you still drink your coffee with too much sugar.
i wonder if you still think of me when you see lavender.
i wonder if it's easier for you.
she didn't save it. just stared at the words until the screen dimmed.
and then one night in october, her phone lit up at 2:03am.
lando 🏁: you up?
the last night didn't feel like the last night.
he was stretched out on the floor of her apartment, one arm crooked under his head, the other draped across her ribs like he was holding something fragile. his fingers made lazy shapes against the fabric of her old t-shirt, the one he always stole to sleep in. it smelled like lavender and dust and him. the windows were cracked open, letting in the cold london air, and the playlist they'd made together two summers ago was still humming low from her phone speaker, even though neither of them had said a word in twenty-seven minutes.
she should've said something. anything.
but all she could do was lie there and count the breaths between them, willing herself not to cry.
lando looked peaceful, eyes half-closed, lashes brushing the curve of his cheek. he always looked like this when he didn't know how to talk about something—calm on the outside, chaos quietly leaking from the seams.
"you're thinking too loud," he murmured finally, not looking at her.
she swallowed. "sorry."
"don't be." a beat passed. "i just... wish you'd tell me what's actually going on in there."
her throat burned.
because how do you explain to someone that loving them hurts now? that something that used to feel like sunlight has started to ache under your skin?
she sat up, legs folding underneath her, blanket falling from her shoulders. she didn't know where to start. how to say i don't think i know how to be your person anymore.
lando mirrored her, slow and soft, the way he always was when she got like this. he looked at her like he was trying to memorize something.
"lando—"
"i know," he said before she could finish.
and that made it worse.
because he didn't know. not really.
he didn't know how her chest clenched every time he left for another race, how she felt like she was always waiting, how she was scared the version of herself that loved him so easily had started to fade into someone she didn't recognize.
"i need..." she started, then stopped.
he didn't push her. just waited.
finally, she let the words fall. "i think i need space."
his face didn't change, not really. just the smallest shift. like a thread pulled loose in the corner of a carefully stitched quilt.
"okay," he said, voice too even.
"okay?"
lando nodded. "if that's what you need."
god, he was always so good.
always giving her what she needed, even if it broke something in him.
and somehow, that made it hurt more.
"it's not that i don't—"
"love me?" he asked quietly.
she looked away.
the silence came back then. louder this time.
when he finally stood to go, it felt like a dream. his hoodie was half-zipped, and his curls were messy from where she'd run her hands through them earlier. he looked like a version of home she didn't know how to come back to.
"will you call me?" she asked, suddenly terrified of the emptiness her flat would feel like when the door closed behind him.
lando paused in the doorway.
"i don't think i can," he said softly. "not if we're doing the whole space thing."
she wanted to scream. that's not what i meant. i don't want to lose you. i just want to figure out who i am without drowning in you.
but she nodded.
because sometimes silence is safer than the wrong words.
and then he left.
and that was that.
she didn't cry until she found his toothbrush in her bathroom the next morning.
seven years is a long time to stitch your life around someone.
it's even longer to unthread them from everything after.
his toothbrush.
his spotify login still on her tv.
his initials on the post-it notes stuck to the fridge—remind me to buy oat milk, xo LN.
his scent in her bedsheets.
his damn formula 1 cap, the one he never wore but always left on her bookshelf like it meant something.
she tried to box it all up, but some things didn't fit.
some things lived in her.
in the back of her mind, in the muscle memory of reaching for her phone to text him about her day, in the way she still made coffee for two every morning for a week before realizing she was alone.
by the second week, her best friend took her out for wine and greasy chips and told her she looked like a ghost.
"you need a rebound," ella declared, pouring more wine into her glass like that could fix anything.
she laughed, dry and tired. "you can't rebound from lando."
ella didn't argue.
she ran into him three months later.
not on purpose. it was one of those too-warm spring days that made london feel like a different place—sunnier, softer, almost like a memory itself. she was in soho, grabbing a coffee after a shoot, sunglasses sliding down her nose, hair a mess. she looked like someone else entirely.
and there he was. lando. across the street. hoodie, jeans, talking to someone she didn't recognize. laughing.
his laugh hit her like a slap.
because she hadn't heard it in so long, and it still sounded like home.
he didn't see her.
she didn't cross the street.
in july, she saw him in a photo with another girl.
not famous. just normal.
the kind of girl who wore soft linen skirts and cropped sweatshirts and seemed so casual in his world.
she didn't cry.
she just stared at the photo for too long, heart twisting in that quiet, bitter way.
you asked for space, she reminded herself. this is what space looks like.
but space wasn't supposed to feel like this.
space was supposed to be room to breathe, to figure things out.
not this aching vacuum.
every sunday night still felt hollow.
they used to call them their reset nights. after a race weekend, after travel, after chaos. they'd come home, curl into each other on the couch, order takeaway, and just be.
now, sunday nights were empty.
she didn't even bother turning the tv on anymore.
months blurred together. seasons shifted.
sometimes she'd draft a message.
hi. just checking in. hope you're okay.
did you see that dumb movie we talked about?
miss you.
come back.
she never sent them.
her drafts folder became a graveyard of what-ifs.
one night, she opened her notes app and typed:
it's been 273 days since you left.
i still check the weather in wherever-you-are just to feel close to you.
i wonder if you still drink your coffee with too much sugar.
i wonder if you still think of me when you see lavender.
i wonder if it's easier for you.
she didn't save it. just stared at the words until the screen dimmed.
and then one night in october, her phone lit up at 2:03am.
lando 🏁: you up?
End of i forget you aren't mine - lando norris Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to i forget you aren't mine - lando norris book page.