i forget you aren't mine - lando norris - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
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"it's been tough to leave you / every empty sunday night..."
sundays used to be theirs.
slow mornings. shared coffee. the kind of quiet that came with familiarity — with safety. the comfort of knowing there was nowhere else to be.
sundays used to mean him.
now they just mean silence.
she wakes up too early for no reason.
sunlight filters through the half-open blinds, streaking across her face like it's trying to warm a part of her that's already gone cold.
she stays under the covers. tries to trick her body into falling back asleep.
it doesn't work.
her apartment is too quiet. her heart too loud.
the coffee tastes bitter.
she forgot to buy her usual beans — the ones he used to grind fresh on sunday mornings, acting like a barista with something to prove.
"trust me," he'd say, "this'll ruin starbucks for you."
he was right.
she drinks it anyway.
sits on the couch in his hoodie. not intentionally. it just happened to be the first thing she pulled on.
funny how the body betrays before the brain catches up.
her phone is face down on the kitchen table.
she hasn't touched it since last night.
she's scared to.
not of what's on it — but of what isn't.
no call. no text. no missed voice note.
it's race weekend.
he won. she knows he did — because she still follows the fan pages. still watches the updates with the sound off, like she's trying not to get caught.
he looked good yesterday. tired. sweaty. beaming.
but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
or maybe she's just projecting.
she wanders around the flat, doing nothing.
tries to clean. gives up halfway through.
tries to read. can't focus.
tries to write. ends up doodling his initials in the margin of her notebook like she's fifteen again.
l.n.
l.n. + ?
she scribbles it out.
she used to love sundays.
the way time slowed. the way he'd always find some excuse to touch her — a hand on her knee, a kiss to the shoulder, a lazy arm wrapped around her waist.
she'd cook. he'd pretend to help.
he always did the dishes, though.
"you made it," he'd say, suds up to his wrists, "i clean it."
god, she misses him.
not the driver. not the public figure.
him.
the boy who cried when he saw her surprise him at spa.
the one who carried her to bed when she fell asleep on the sofa.
the one who danced with her barefoot in the kitchen, no music playing.
the one who loved her like she was the only finish line that mattered.
the thing is — they were happy.
they really were.
but happiness doesn't always save you.
sometimes, the cracks come in so slow you don't notice until the whole thing's caving in.
a missed call here. a passive comment there.
her loneliness piling up like laundry.
his exhaustion turning into distance.
and then came the space conversation.
"maybe we just need time to reset," he said, gently.
"are we breaking up?" she asked.
"no," he replied too quickly.
"not unless you want to."
she didn't.
but the silence that followed said maybe they already had.
she checks her phone around 2pm.
no message.
she scrolls instagram. he hasn't posted. hasn't liked anything in hours.
probably still doing press. probably celebrating.
probably not thinking of her.
stop checking, she tells herself.
you don't belong in his world anymore.
her best friend texts:
you okay today? want to get out of the house?
she types out yes, then erases it.
she doesn't want to put on makeup. doesn't want to pretend to be okay. doesn't want to make small talk about books or brunch or how he still lives rent-free in her chest.
instead, she says:
rain check. just having a slow one.
and the reply comes fast:
of course. i'm here when you're ready.
she watches an old movie they used to quote at each other.
the lines don't hit the same.
the lead actress kisses the lead guy and she feels it in her throat.
she remembers how he used to kiss her — not just with his mouth, but with his hands, his chest, his whole damn soul.
like he meant it every time.
she believed him. every time.
she orders takeout. the thai place he hated.
small acts of rebellion, right?
except she picks at it. pushes the rice around. ends up eating toast instead.
by sunset, she's lying on the floor of her bedroom.
not crying. not really thinking.
just... existing.
floating in the heavy quiet that only seems to land on sunday nights.
her heart aches in pulses.
not just for him.
for the version of herself that was loved. wanted. chosen.
the one who knew her place in his life.
she plays cedar on loop.
gracie's voice cracks like hers does — soft, strained, full of questions with no answers.
if you thought to call me / i would answer every time...
she would.
god help her, she would.
no matter how much it hurt.
no matter how long it's been.
if he called right now, her breath would hitch and her hands would shake and she'd answer.
because she never stopped hoping he'd call.
the worst part isn't the silence.
it's that she's getting used to it.
like grief that's gone stale.
like background noise you forget to notice.
by 10pm, she's in bed.
his hoodie still on. lights still off. mind still spinning.
her phone buzzes once.
her stomach flips — she grabs it too fast.
not him.
just a race update from the f1 app.
she throws the phone across the bed.
not even mad. just... tired.
in the dark, she whispers to herself:
"we should've fought harder."
and she wonders if he's lying awake in his hotel bed, thinking the same thing.
maybe space wasn't what they needed.
maybe they needed honesty. maybe they needed time. maybe they needed each other to say i'm scared, instead of pretending they were fine.
but it's too late for maybes.
all that's left is memory.
sundays used to be sacred.
now they're just slow and sharp.
a weekly reminder that she's still bleeding from something she can't stitch shut.
before she sleeps, she opens their old text thread one more time.
scrolls back to the beginning.
reads the dumb jokes. the blurry selfies. the late-night i miss yous.
seven years of love in black and white.
she types something.
i thought space would help too. it didn't.
but she doesn't send it.
she just stares at it.
then deletes it.
then closes the thread.
breaking up is funny.
she forgets he isn't hers — until sunday rolls around, and the silence screams louder than love ever did.
sundays used to be theirs.
slow mornings. shared coffee. the kind of quiet that came with familiarity — with safety. the comfort of knowing there was nowhere else to be.
sundays used to mean him.
now they just mean silence.
she wakes up too early for no reason.
sunlight filters through the half-open blinds, streaking across her face like it's trying to warm a part of her that's already gone cold.
she stays under the covers. tries to trick her body into falling back asleep.
it doesn't work.
her apartment is too quiet. her heart too loud.
the coffee tastes bitter.
she forgot to buy her usual beans — the ones he used to grind fresh on sunday mornings, acting like a barista with something to prove.
"trust me," he'd say, "this'll ruin starbucks for you."
he was right.
she drinks it anyway.
sits on the couch in his hoodie. not intentionally. it just happened to be the first thing she pulled on.
funny how the body betrays before the brain catches up.
her phone is face down on the kitchen table.
she hasn't touched it since last night.
she's scared to.
not of what's on it — but of what isn't.
no call. no text. no missed voice note.
it's race weekend.
he won. she knows he did — because she still follows the fan pages. still watches the updates with the sound off, like she's trying not to get caught.
he looked good yesterday. tired. sweaty. beaming.
but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
or maybe she's just projecting.
she wanders around the flat, doing nothing.
tries to clean. gives up halfway through.
tries to read. can't focus.
tries to write. ends up doodling his initials in the margin of her notebook like she's fifteen again.
l.n.
l.n. + ?
she scribbles it out.
she used to love sundays.
the way time slowed. the way he'd always find some excuse to touch her — a hand on her knee, a kiss to the shoulder, a lazy arm wrapped around her waist.
she'd cook. he'd pretend to help.
he always did the dishes, though.
"you made it," he'd say, suds up to his wrists, "i clean it."
god, she misses him.
not the driver. not the public figure.
him.
the boy who cried when he saw her surprise him at spa.
the one who carried her to bed when she fell asleep on the sofa.
the one who danced with her barefoot in the kitchen, no music playing.
the one who loved her like she was the only finish line that mattered.
the thing is — they were happy.
they really were.
but happiness doesn't always save you.
sometimes, the cracks come in so slow you don't notice until the whole thing's caving in.
a missed call here. a passive comment there.
her loneliness piling up like laundry.
his exhaustion turning into distance.
and then came the space conversation.
"maybe we just need time to reset," he said, gently.
"are we breaking up?" she asked.
"no," he replied too quickly.
"not unless you want to."
she didn't.
but the silence that followed said maybe they already had.
she checks her phone around 2pm.
no message.
she scrolls instagram. he hasn't posted. hasn't liked anything in hours.
probably still doing press. probably celebrating.
probably not thinking of her.
stop checking, she tells herself.
you don't belong in his world anymore.
her best friend texts:
you okay today? want to get out of the house?
she types out yes, then erases it.
she doesn't want to put on makeup. doesn't want to pretend to be okay. doesn't want to make small talk about books or brunch or how he still lives rent-free in her chest.
instead, she says:
rain check. just having a slow one.
and the reply comes fast:
of course. i'm here when you're ready.
she watches an old movie they used to quote at each other.
the lines don't hit the same.
the lead actress kisses the lead guy and she feels it in her throat.
she remembers how he used to kiss her — not just with his mouth, but with his hands, his chest, his whole damn soul.
like he meant it every time.
she believed him. every time.
she orders takeout. the thai place he hated.
small acts of rebellion, right?
except she picks at it. pushes the rice around. ends up eating toast instead.
by sunset, she's lying on the floor of her bedroom.
not crying. not really thinking.
just... existing.
floating in the heavy quiet that only seems to land on sunday nights.
her heart aches in pulses.
not just for him.
for the version of herself that was loved. wanted. chosen.
the one who knew her place in his life.
she plays cedar on loop.
gracie's voice cracks like hers does — soft, strained, full of questions with no answers.
if you thought to call me / i would answer every time...
she would.
god help her, she would.
no matter how much it hurt.
no matter how long it's been.
if he called right now, her breath would hitch and her hands would shake and she'd answer.
because she never stopped hoping he'd call.
the worst part isn't the silence.
it's that she's getting used to it.
like grief that's gone stale.
like background noise you forget to notice.
by 10pm, she's in bed.
his hoodie still on. lights still off. mind still spinning.
her phone buzzes once.
her stomach flips — she grabs it too fast.
not him.
just a race update from the f1 app.
she throws the phone across the bed.
not even mad. just... tired.
in the dark, she whispers to herself:
"we should've fought harder."
and she wonders if he's lying awake in his hotel bed, thinking the same thing.
maybe space wasn't what they needed.
maybe they needed honesty. maybe they needed time. maybe they needed each other to say i'm scared, instead of pretending they were fine.
but it's too late for maybes.
all that's left is memory.
sundays used to be sacred.
now they're just slow and sharp.
a weekly reminder that she's still bleeding from something she can't stitch shut.
before she sleeps, she opens their old text thread one more time.
scrolls back to the beginning.
reads the dumb jokes. the blurry selfies. the late-night i miss yous.
seven years of love in black and white.
she types something.
i thought space would help too. it didn't.
but she doesn't send it.
she just stares at it.
then deletes it.
then closes the thread.
breaking up is funny.
she forgets he isn't hers — until sunday rolls around, and the silence screams louder than love ever did.
End of i forget you aren't mine - lando norris Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to i forget you aren't mine - lando norris book page.