i forget you aren't mine - lando norris - Chapter 10: Chapter 10
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"seven years will cut through / other people like a knife..."
she doesn't expect to see him.
not like this. not here.
in a random café, halfway across town from the usual places they used to go.
she's nursing a cup of coffee she doesn't really want.
the kind of coffee that reminds her of missed mornings — ones spent rushing, ones spent hoping for a call, a message, anything to close the distance.
a teammate she recognizes. someone she's met a few times, though the name escapes her.
but it's not him she's looking for, anyway.
it's the ghost of him in the seat across from her.
his absence is like an ache in the air, making the space feel too big.
but there's a familiarity in the way his teammate laughs, in the way he talks about the race.
and for a second, it feels like she hasn't lost him at all.
she tries to ignore it.
tries to focus on the book she pretends to read.
but she's not fooling herself. she knows exactly what she's doing.
she's pretending to be fine, while the world outside moves on without her.
his teammate waves over to her.
she smiles back, though it feels like a reflex — not real, not her.
"hey, it's good to see you," he says, sliding over a little.
"how've you been?"
she pauses, not expecting to be asked the question.
not like this. not when the silence between her and him is still so loud.
"uh, good. you know, same old."
"and you?" she adds. tries to sound normal. tries to feel normal.
he talks about the race. the strategy. the endless chatter of a sport that has no place for feelings, no time for emotions.
but then he says something that makes her stop breathing for just a second.
"lando's been working himself to the bone, though."
"you've gotta be proud of him, right? first win of the season after all that?"
it's like the world spins for a moment.
like time stops.
he says it so casually. like it's nothing.
but to her, it's everything.
because the first win of the season wasn't hers to share.
it wasn't hers to celebrate.
there's a pause.
she looks down at her cup, feeling the heat against her fingers.
feeling the tightness in her chest.
"yeah," she says, forcing the words out, "i'm proud of him."
but it feels like she's lying. like he didn't deserve the pride she's pretending to feel. because deep down, she knows it's not just about the race. it's about him.
it's about how he's been so wrapped up in his schedule — his world — that he's barely had time to breathe, let alone think of her.
his teammate shifts a little.
there's an awkwardness in the air that neither of them knows how to handle.
and then, like a punch to the gut, he says:
"you know... he still talks about you sometimes. like, every now and then. i don't know if you're still in touch, but i know he misses you."
the words hit like a thunderclap, even though he says it so casually.
she blinks, then laughs without meaning to.
it's not a real laugh. just a dry, bitter sound.
"yeah," she says, looking out the window, her voice tight.
"he misses me. sure."
there's a long silence after that.
the kind that makes you feel small. makes you feel like everyone in the room is watching and waiting for you to break.
but she doesn't break. not yet.
instead, she grabs her bag, throwing it over her shoulder.
"thanks for the coffee," she says quickly.
"i should get going."
his teammate seems confused, but nods.
"of course. see you around."
she walks out of the café.
the door closing behind her feels like a door on their whole damn relationship.
we miss each other, she thinks. but we're too busy for anything to change.
she walks down the street, head low, trying not to cry. trying not to feel the distance that's grown between them, even when they're both still breathing the same air.
her phone buzzes.
one new message.
it's from him.
it's simple.
just one word.
hey.
her heart skips. she stops walking.
just one word and everything inside her screams for the conversation she never thought would happen again.
but she doesn't reply. not yet.
instead, she pulls up the old thread.
the one with the hundred almost-sent texts.
and she types:
i saw your teammate today. he said you miss me.
she doesn't send it.
she deletes it.
wipes the screen clean.
instead, she types:
i miss you, too.
and presses send.
this time, she doesn't regret it.
she doesn't expect to see him.
not like this. not here.
in a random café, halfway across town from the usual places they used to go.
she's nursing a cup of coffee she doesn't really want.
the kind of coffee that reminds her of missed mornings — ones spent rushing, ones spent hoping for a call, a message, anything to close the distance.
a teammate she recognizes. someone she's met a few times, though the name escapes her.
but it's not him she's looking for, anyway.
it's the ghost of him in the seat across from her.
his absence is like an ache in the air, making the space feel too big.
but there's a familiarity in the way his teammate laughs, in the way he talks about the race.
and for a second, it feels like she hasn't lost him at all.
she tries to ignore it.
tries to focus on the book she pretends to read.
but she's not fooling herself. she knows exactly what she's doing.
she's pretending to be fine, while the world outside moves on without her.
his teammate waves over to her.
she smiles back, though it feels like a reflex — not real, not her.
"hey, it's good to see you," he says, sliding over a little.
"how've you been?"
she pauses, not expecting to be asked the question.
not like this. not when the silence between her and him is still so loud.
"uh, good. you know, same old."
"and you?" she adds. tries to sound normal. tries to feel normal.
he talks about the race. the strategy. the endless chatter of a sport that has no place for feelings, no time for emotions.
but then he says something that makes her stop breathing for just a second.
"lando's been working himself to the bone, though."
"you've gotta be proud of him, right? first win of the season after all that?"
it's like the world spins for a moment.
like time stops.
he says it so casually. like it's nothing.
but to her, it's everything.
because the first win of the season wasn't hers to share.
it wasn't hers to celebrate.
there's a pause.
she looks down at her cup, feeling the heat against her fingers.
feeling the tightness in her chest.
"yeah," she says, forcing the words out, "i'm proud of him."
but it feels like she's lying. like he didn't deserve the pride she's pretending to feel. because deep down, she knows it's not just about the race. it's about him.
it's about how he's been so wrapped up in his schedule — his world — that he's barely had time to breathe, let alone think of her.
his teammate shifts a little.
there's an awkwardness in the air that neither of them knows how to handle.
and then, like a punch to the gut, he says:
"you know... he still talks about you sometimes. like, every now and then. i don't know if you're still in touch, but i know he misses you."
the words hit like a thunderclap, even though he says it so casually.
she blinks, then laughs without meaning to.
it's not a real laugh. just a dry, bitter sound.
"yeah," she says, looking out the window, her voice tight.
"he misses me. sure."
there's a long silence after that.
the kind that makes you feel small. makes you feel like everyone in the room is watching and waiting for you to break.
but she doesn't break. not yet.
instead, she grabs her bag, throwing it over her shoulder.
"thanks for the coffee," she says quickly.
"i should get going."
his teammate seems confused, but nods.
"of course. see you around."
she walks out of the café.
the door closing behind her feels like a door on their whole damn relationship.
we miss each other, she thinks. but we're too busy for anything to change.
she walks down the street, head low, trying not to cry. trying not to feel the distance that's grown between them, even when they're both still breathing the same air.
her phone buzzes.
one new message.
it's from him.
it's simple.
just one word.
hey.
her heart skips. she stops walking.
just one word and everything inside her screams for the conversation she never thought would happen again.
but she doesn't reply. not yet.
instead, she pulls up the old thread.
the one with the hundred almost-sent texts.
and she types:
i saw your teammate today. he said you miss me.
she doesn't send it.
she deletes it.
wipes the screen clean.
instead, she types:
i miss you, too.
and presses send.
this time, she doesn't regret it.
End of i forget you aren't mine - lando norris Chapter 10. Continue reading Chapter 11 or return to i forget you aren't mine - lando norris book page.