i forget you aren't mine - lando norris - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
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"when i told you how i needed space / but i think it was a lie..."
he can't sleep.
the hotel bed feels too big. the room too cold. everything sterile and quiet and wrong.
lando lies on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might answer a question he hasn't dared to ask out loud yet.
he told her he needed space.
and at the time, it felt like the right thing. the smart thing. he was tired. distracted. losing focus.
but now?
now it just feels like a lie he wrapped in logic.
he didn't want space.
he just didn't know how to stay.
he thinks about texting her again.
thumb hovering. screen glowing in the dark.
typing. deleting. typing again.
can't sleep
thinking about you
fuck, i'm sorry
but nothing feels right.
because what's he even apologizing for?
for leaving?
for coming back in bits and pieces like some ghost she never asked to haunt her?
or maybe it's for pretending he could walk away and not carry her with him every damn day.
he swipes to her instagram.
hasn't liked anything in months, but he watches her stories like it's religion.
today it's coffee. sun through the window. a book he knows she's read before — she rereads when she's sad.
she's not in any of them, but he can feel her. in the angles. the lighting. the silence.
it hits him in the chest.
she's still soft. still thoughtful. still hers.
but he's not part of that anymore.
he doesn't know how to be just a viewer in her life.
lando thinks about the last time he saw her.
in person. in full color.
she wore his hoodie. her eyes were puffy. they didn't say much. just held each other like they were trying to memorize the shape of goodbye.
he remembers her hand in his.
how tightly she held on, like she didn't believe he was really going.
neither did he.
but then he did.
and now he regrets it more than anything.
training felt easier after they ended.
his mind was clearer. his schedule tighter.
everyone said he looked more focused.
faster. sharper. more locked in.
but he wasn't better.
he was just empty.
success doesn't feel the same when there's no one to text at the end of the day.
he replays her messages in his head.
how soft her words were. how careful.
more than i should
just lonely
you answered anyway
she's always been the one who held him together.
even now, months later, she still knows how to disarm him with a single sentence.
and that scares him.
because it means she still owns part of him — the part no one else gets to touch.
lando gets up and splashes water on his face.
the mirror doesn't lie.
he looks tired. too pale. eyes rimmed with shadows.
he leans against the sink. tries to breathe.
it's been months.
he's dated other people. flirted. smiled on camera.
but no one makes him feel the way she did.
not even close.
he paces.
checks his phone again.
nothing.
it's stupid — he was the last one to text her. she's waiting for him to figure it out.
and he doesn't blame her.
because what's he even offering now?
a late-night message from a hotel room?
a maybe? a miss you that comes with no guarantees?
she deserves more than that.
she always did.
he opens his notes app and types:
i think i made the biggest mistake of my life.
you weren't a distraction.
you were the calm in the chaos.
the thing that made it all mean something.
and i threw you away because i thought i had to choose.
but i should've chosen you.
every time.
i should've chosen you.
he doesn't send it.
just saves it. rereads it. feels it settle like a weight on his chest.
lando knows tomorrow he'll get in the car.
put on the suit. the helmet. the smile.
he'll race like he's fine.
because he has to.
but tonight?
tonight he lets himself fall apart.
he plays the song she used to love — the one she said felt like how falling for him felt.
it wrecks him.
he presses his forehead to the cold window and lets the night swallow him whole.
space isn't distance.
distance isn't forgetting.
and forgetting? impossible.
he whispers her name in the dark.
soft. broken.
like a secret he's still not ready to let go of.
"i'm still yours," he says to no one.
"even if you're not mine."
he can't sleep.
the hotel bed feels too big. the room too cold. everything sterile and quiet and wrong.
lando lies on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might answer a question he hasn't dared to ask out loud yet.
he told her he needed space.
and at the time, it felt like the right thing. the smart thing. he was tired. distracted. losing focus.
but now?
now it just feels like a lie he wrapped in logic.
he didn't want space.
he just didn't know how to stay.
he thinks about texting her again.
thumb hovering. screen glowing in the dark.
typing. deleting. typing again.
can't sleep
thinking about you
fuck, i'm sorry
but nothing feels right.
because what's he even apologizing for?
for leaving?
for coming back in bits and pieces like some ghost she never asked to haunt her?
or maybe it's for pretending he could walk away and not carry her with him every damn day.
he swipes to her instagram.
hasn't liked anything in months, but he watches her stories like it's religion.
today it's coffee. sun through the window. a book he knows she's read before — she rereads when she's sad.
she's not in any of them, but he can feel her. in the angles. the lighting. the silence.
it hits him in the chest.
she's still soft. still thoughtful. still hers.
but he's not part of that anymore.
he doesn't know how to be just a viewer in her life.
lando thinks about the last time he saw her.
in person. in full color.
she wore his hoodie. her eyes were puffy. they didn't say much. just held each other like they were trying to memorize the shape of goodbye.
he remembers her hand in his.
how tightly she held on, like she didn't believe he was really going.
neither did he.
but then he did.
and now he regrets it more than anything.
training felt easier after they ended.
his mind was clearer. his schedule tighter.
everyone said he looked more focused.
faster. sharper. more locked in.
but he wasn't better.
he was just empty.
success doesn't feel the same when there's no one to text at the end of the day.
he replays her messages in his head.
how soft her words were. how careful.
more than i should
just lonely
you answered anyway
she's always been the one who held him together.
even now, months later, she still knows how to disarm him with a single sentence.
and that scares him.
because it means she still owns part of him — the part no one else gets to touch.
lando gets up and splashes water on his face.
the mirror doesn't lie.
he looks tired. too pale. eyes rimmed with shadows.
he leans against the sink. tries to breathe.
it's been months.
he's dated other people. flirted. smiled on camera.
but no one makes him feel the way she did.
not even close.
he paces.
checks his phone again.
nothing.
it's stupid — he was the last one to text her. she's waiting for him to figure it out.
and he doesn't blame her.
because what's he even offering now?
a late-night message from a hotel room?
a maybe? a miss you that comes with no guarantees?
she deserves more than that.
she always did.
he opens his notes app and types:
i think i made the biggest mistake of my life.
you weren't a distraction.
you were the calm in the chaos.
the thing that made it all mean something.
and i threw you away because i thought i had to choose.
but i should've chosen you.
every time.
i should've chosen you.
he doesn't send it.
just saves it. rereads it. feels it settle like a weight on his chest.
lando knows tomorrow he'll get in the car.
put on the suit. the helmet. the smile.
he'll race like he's fine.
because he has to.
but tonight?
tonight he lets himself fall apart.
he plays the song she used to love — the one she said felt like how falling for him felt.
it wrecks him.
he presses his forehead to the cold window and lets the night swallow him whole.
space isn't distance.
distance isn't forgetting.
and forgetting? impossible.
he whispers her name in the dark.
soft. broken.
like a secret he's still not ready to let go of.
"i'm still yours," he says to no one.
"even if you're not mine."
End of i forget you aren't mine - lando norris Chapter 5. Continue reading Chapter 6 or return to i forget you aren't mine - lando norris book page.