i forget you aren't mine - lando norris - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

"if you thought to call me, i would answer every time"
it's 2:03am when the message comes through.
she sees the screen light up before she registers the name.
lando 🏁
you up?
three words. two months of silence.
and suddenly it feels like her chest isn't big enough to hold her ribs anymore.
she doesn't answer. not right away.
she just stares, lying in bed in a t-shirt too big and socks she doesn't remember putting on, covers kicked down to her ankles because her skin's too hot and her thoughts are too loud.
it's been months.
he hasn't reached out. not since that last time she saw him across the street in soho, not since the picture of him and that linen-skirt girl made its way to her explore page.
she'd told herself he was gone. fully. finally.
and now, just like that—you up?
like they're still them.
her thumb hovers over the screen.
she could say yeah.
she could say what do you want?
she could ignore it. delete the thread. pretend she never saw it.
instead, she opens it. and types:
her: i am now.
three dots appear. then stop.
start again. stop.
and god, that alone feels like a conversation.
finally:
lando 🏁: couldn't sleep
lando 🏁: thought about you
she sits up in bed like the words physically moved her.
thought about you.
her chest aches.
her: you do that often?
lando 🏁: more than i should
she closes her eyes. presses her fist to her mouth like that could stop her from feeling.
her: you drunk?
lando 🏁: no
lando 🏁: just lonely
she types something, then deletes it.
types again. deletes.
finally lands on:
her: you're not alone though
lando 🏁: i am
lando 🏁: trust me
and maybe that's what cracks her open a little.
because she knows that version of him. the one who smiles for the cameras and makes everyone laugh but can't sleep when the hotel room's too quiet. the version of him that would rather be exhausted than alone with his thoughts.
she curls tighter around her knees and rests her forehead on them.
her: lando what are we doing
lando 🏁: i don't know
lando 🏁: i just missed you
she swallows the lump in her throat and tries to remember how to breathe.
her: i missed you too
lando 🏁: then why does this feel worse than before
her: because we're not supposed to be talking
lando 🏁: yeah but you answered anyway
she doesn't respond to that.
because he's right.
because some part of her is always going to answer him.
the next morning, she rereads the thread ten times.
it's not long. barely twenty lines.
but it takes up all the space in her head.
she doesn't text him again.
he doesn't either.
it's like it never happened.
but it did.
the following sunday, she finds herself at the café where they used to go after bad races. the one with the uneven tables and burnt coffee and that dumb croissant he liked.
she orders it. doesn't know why.
sits in their old spot. back corner, by the window.
waits for her heart to slow down.
it doesn't.
lando's name echoes in her chest the whole time.
ella notices. of course she does.
"he texted, didn't he," she says bluntly over facetime that night, hair piled in a bun, face half-covered in a clay mask.
"what?" she deflects, badly.
"you have that face. your 'lando texted and now i don't know what's real' face."
she groans. flops back on the couch.
"it was nothing. just a late-night message. he was lonely."
"and?"
"and i was stupid and replied."
ella's face softens. "you're not stupid. you're in love."
she doesn't say anything.
because in love doesn't even feel big enough for what she feels.
it's more like grief. like part of her still belongs to him, even though she has no right to say it.
that night, she dreams about him.
not the real him. not the public him.
the version only she knew—barefoot in the kitchen at 2am, dancing with a spoon in his mouth, humming badly to old 80s songs.
in the dream, he tells her, i'm sorry.
and she asks, for what?
and he says, for letting you go when all i wanted was to stay.
she wakes up crying.
monday is worse.
she thinks she sees him twice.
once in the street, but it's just some guy in a hoodie who walks the same way.
once in a voice on a podcast—same rhythm, same soft british lilt.
she almost calls him.
but then she thinks about how she'd sound.
how it would come out wrong.
how they'd just end up on opposite sides of the same aching silence again.
so she doesn't.
by friday, she's written four drafts of a message.
none of them feel right.
the final one just says:
her: i can't keep pretending we're not still tangled up in this. whatever this is.
she doesn't send it.
another sunday.
another empty night.
she lies on the couch, the tv playing some comfort show she's not really watching, a blanket tucked under her chin, and the scent of rain drifting through the open window.
her phone stays silent.
no 2am texts. no i miss you.
she tells herself that's good.
that distance is healing.
that space is working.
but then she remembers what he said. i just missed you.
and it's like someone's sitting on her chest.
at 2:34am, she opens her notes app and writes:
do you still think about that time in monaco?
you let me drive your car even though you hate giving up control.
i kept looking over at you because i couldn't believe i got to have you.
and you just smiled like you already knew.
she closes it.
doesn't save.
somewhere, he's probably asleep.
somewhere, maybe he's thinking of her too.
but he's not here.
and she forgets, again,
he isn't hers anymore.