i forget you aren't mine - lando norris - Chapter 7: Chapter 7

"it's impossible to acclimate / every time we talk, we understate..."
he wins.
lando norris takes the checkered flag, and the world erupts.
his name fills the air like smoke. the radio buzzes with static joy — his engineer shouting, the team screaming, someone crying. probably his race strategist. again.
he should be thrilled.
and he is, sort of.
but somewhere under the adrenaline, there's a hollow space.
a tiny echo where her voice should be.
proud of you
knew you could do it
she always used to say it first.
the podium's a blur.
sparkling wine in his eyes. applause like thunder. max ruffling his hair, carlos patting his back.
lando smiles. he waves. he plays the part.
but his mind?
it drifts.
it drifts to a hotel room in monaco.
a quiet night after a race where he didn't even place.
she made pasta in her socks, music playing off her phone speaker.
"don't need a podium," she said, "you're still mine."
he wonders if she still believes that.
if she ever did.
he watches his phone screen light up with hundreds of messages.
teammates. fans. old friends.
people who didn't text him once in the off-season.
not her.
and it guts him in the kind of way that ruins a celebration.
back in his hotel, the silence hits harder.
he tosses his fire suit. strips down to his boxers. crashes onto the bed.
his hair's still damp from the podium shower. the champagne clings to his collarbone.
he doesn't care.
he scrolls mindlessly — mentions, headlines, replays.
and then he does it.
he opens their old chat.
last message from him:
miss you, always
no reply.
she read it, though.
he knows.
he always knows.
he thinks about calling.
just to hear her voice.
just to say i did it. without you. but i hated every second of it.
but what's the point?
she asked for space.
or maybe he did.
it's blurry now — who said what, who left first, who gave up.
all he knows is that neither of them fought hard enough to stay.
lando lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"you told me you felt the same," he whispers.
"but maybe that was a lie."
he doesn't mean it in anger.
he just means... maybe she tried. maybe she didn't. maybe she was as scared as he was.
and maybe neither of them had the words.
he replays the end like it's on a loop.
the night she left.
how she kissed his jaw, not his lips.
how she didn't say i love you.
how he didn't chase her.
he pulls out his phone again. opens her contact. thumbs shaking.
i won today.
it didn't feel right without you.
he stares at it. deletes it. types again.
i miss you.
i thought space would help. it didn't.
deletes that too.
he ends up typing nothing.
just watching the blinking cursor like it might say something for him.
someone knocks on his door — probably his trainer.
he ignores it.
lets the celebration happen without him, like everything else lately.
lando closes his eyes.
he sees her in the stands. even though she wasn't there.
he hears her laugh. even though it's been months.
he remembers how she used to cup his face after a bad race and say,
"you're more than the result."
but tonight, with a trophy in his hands and no one to hold,
he feels like he's only the result.
he drifts off with her name on his tongue.
not loud. not proud.
just like a prayer.
soft.
hopeful.
lost.