#leavinghim

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ + ʀᴇᴅᴇᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀᴍᴀᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ɪɴꜰɪᴅᴇʟɪᴛʏ

ɢʀɪᴇꜰ, ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ

ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴏɴꜱᴇꜱ

ɪꜱᴏʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴇxɪʟᴇ

ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ, ᴅᴇꜱᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴅᴏᴡɴ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ/ᴠᴇʀʙᴀʟ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴛᴇ ɪɴᴠᴇꜱᴛɪɢᴀᴛᴏʀꜱ

ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀʀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏʟɪᴛᴜᴅᴇ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏɴᴇʟɪɴᴇꜱꜱ, ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇɢɪɴɴɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ

The wheels of the private jet screeched softly against the tarmac, the engines humming their final lullaby as the aircraft settled into stillness. (Y/n) stood, slender hands tightening around the handle of her suitcase. Her gaze was distant, hollow, as if the skies she flew through were still inside her, thunderclouds brooding beneath her ribs.

She didn’t speak to the pilot.

Didn’t look back.

When the car picked her up and took her home, she moved like a ghost through the house that once held warmth. Every step she took echoed too loud against marble floors, floors they used to dance across with bare feet and drunk laughter. The photographs that hung on the wall, vacations, weddings, celebrations, glared at her like traitors.

Her fingers brushed over one frame.

It was from France.

Lando had kissed her cheek while she laughed mid-bite into a croissant. She looked happy.

She was happy.

And he destroyed it.

With quiet precision, (Y/n) began packing. Drawer by drawer. Hanger by hanger. No hesitations. No second thoughts. She folded her shirts with robotic neatness, zipped each case, unplugged chargers, collected the journals beneath the bed, the ones no one ever knew existed. Including him.

By nightfall, the house was stripped of her. No trace left behind. No scattered earrings on the dresser. No scarf looped over the coat rack. Not even the familiar scent of her lavender oil lingered in the air.

She didn’t leave a note.

She didn’t owe one.

Lando entered the house the next morning expecting silence.

He didn’t expect emptiness.

“(Y/n)?” he called out, setting his keys on the hallway table, voice tight with nerves. “I’m home…”

His words floated into the void.

No soft reply from the kitchen. No clatter of mugs. No humming from upstairs.

He moved through each room like a man possessed, bedroom, bathroom, closet, office, panic rising with every absence. Her makeup was gone. Her clothes. Her laptop. Even the pillow she always hugged was missing.

He stumbled into the living room and sank onto the couch, heartbeat drumming a war beneath his ribs.

“She left,” he whispered to himself.

She really left.

His hand trembled as he picked up his phone. He dialed her original number, then her second one.

Straight to voicemail.

He tried again. Still voicemail.

Desperation clawed at him as he switched to texting. Please. Let’s talk. Please.

The message sent. Blue.

Then green. She had already blocked him again.

Frantic, he tried her mother. “Hi, I—I need to know if (Y/n)’s with you. Please.”

Her mother’s voice was tired. “She’s not.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“She didn’t tell us.”

“Can you—can you let me know if she contacts you?”

There was a long pause.

Then, curtly, “No.”

Click.

He tried her father next. Her brothers. Her sisters. A cousin.

All the same.

No one knew where she was.

Or if they did, they weren’t going to betray her trust.

He dropped the phone to the floor with a hollow thud, then bent forward, sobbing into his hands. The sound that tore from his chest was raw, broken, the kind of grief that cracked through bone and echoed in places he didn’t know could hurt. His shoulders shook uncontrollably, each breath shuddering, each inhale a battle against the emptiness swelling inside him.

He didn’t know what hurt more, the regret of what he had done, the guilt of never stopping it, or the brutal truth that he had lost her. The only person who ever truly saw him. Not the fame. Not the wins. Not the polished smile he wore like armor. She had seen the boy beneath the helmet, the man behind the curtain. And still, she had loved him.

And he destroyed it.

With one choice. One weakness. One mistake he would never stop paying for.

Later that evening, Lando packed a small bag with trembling hands. He didn’t think, didn’t plan. He just moved. Like a man underwater, going through the motions because it was the only way to keep from drowning. A pair of jeans. A hoodie. The cologne she once liked. He threw them into a duffel and called for the jet.

He didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

Didn’t answer Zak’s calls. Ignored Andrea’s texts. Oscar had already said all he needed to.

The car that took him to the airport felt too quiet. Every streetlight they passed cast long shadows that reminded him of her. He kept his forehead pressed against the window, watching the city blur into countryside, the ache in his chest matching the hum of the tires beneath him.

When the jet finally lifted off the runway, Lando sank into the leather seat and stared out at the darkness beyond the glass. The stars were pinpricks in the sky. Silent. Cold. Indifferent. He tried to close his eyes, but all he could see was her face when she saw him with Clara. That moment. Frozen in time. A shard in his soul.

He didn’t touch the drink the stewardess offered.

Didn’t move the entire flight.

By the time they landed, the countryside was cloaked in night. Dew had already begun to form on the grass, silvering the landscape like frost. The air smelled of wet earth and memory.

The house hadn’t changed much, red-bricked and sloped-roofed, the kind of place that smelled like rosemary and childhood. He hadn’t called ahead. He didn’t know what to say.

His mother opened the door before he could knock. She didn’t gasp. She didn’t ask, “What happened?” She simply took one look at his eyes, red, swollen, sunken, and stepped aside.

“Come in.”

He collapsed into her arms like a child.

No bravado. No walls. Just the raw, aching version of himself that no one ever saw. His tears soaked her cardigan, the same one she used to wear on cold mornings when she made hot chocolate and read by the window. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. She held him tightly, arms wrapped around his broken frame, as if trying to hold the pieces together.

She stroked his hair gently, the same rhythm she’d used when he scraped his knee at seven, when he lost his first karting final at twelve, when he came home defeated and too proud to say he needed comfort.

“I ruined everything,” he choked, voice hoarse, breath hitching against her shoulder.

“I know, darling,” she whispered into his curls.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said again, as if saying it enough times might make it true, or at least make it matter.

“I know.”

The hallway light flickered as footsteps echoed softly from the kitchen.

His father was already seated at the table. Arms folded. Jaw tight. He didn’t rise. He didn’t offer a hug or even a hand.

“I’m not proud of you,” Adam Norris said quietly. His voice was steady, but the disappointment ran deep.

“I raised you better than this.”

Lando stayed in his mother’s arms, shame flooding his face, chest caving in.

“I know,” he murmured.

“But I’m still your father,” Adam added after a long pause. “And I know you’re hurting more than you can admit.”

Lando nodded, unable to look him in the eye. Too ashamed. Too hollow. The weight of what he’d done, what he’d lost, pressed harder with every word.

“I never thought she’d actually leave,” Lando admitted quietly, a broken confession to the room. “I thought—she always forgave me. Always came back.”

His mother pulled away just enough to look at him. Her eyes were gentle, but resolute.

“Then maybe this time,” she said, “you pushed someone too far. And they finally chose themselves.”

He bit down a sob.

His mother guided him toward the kitchen table, toward the silence that followed truth. They sat without appetite, without speech. Just the three of them—son, mother, father—surrounded by the echoes of a home that had once felt safer, warmer. A home that now carried the silence of someone who should’ve been there.

Later, at 2 a.m., his younger sister found him sitting in the darkened kitchen, a cold mug of tea untouched before him. He didn’t look up when she entered.

“Lando,” she whispered, voice laced with hurt, “why?”

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

No excuse was enough.

So he simply said, “I wish I could go back.”

She sat beside him.

FORKS, WASHINGTON

The plane landed on a rain-kissed runway framed by thick woods and foggy skies. Forks was small, remote, nearly forgotten by time. Tall evergreens loomed like guardians over the winding roads. The town’s heartbeat was slow, steady, and indifferent to the chaos of the world beyond.

(Y/n) chose it because no one would look for her here.

The town welcomed her not with open arms, but with an aloof kind of peace. Nobody asked too many questions. No one stared too long. It was a place where everyone had secrets, and no one wanted to know yours.

She rented a cabin at the edge of the forest, tucked between moss-covered trees and the soft lull of a river that sang in the distance. The home had creaky floorboards, a wood-burning stove, and a wraparound porch. She’d never lived in quiet like this, but it suited her now.

She bought groceries at the tiny general store, where the cashier simply nodded.

She took long walks in the mist, camera slung around her neck, her fingers gloved and chilled. Each photograph she took held silence: a raven on a mailbox, a fog-wrapped tree, the sun cutting through the clouds like a knife.

And in the evenings, she wrote.

The world still heard her voice, just not in the way they thought.

Under her pseudonym, she submitted new articles to the major journals. The Atlantic, Der Spiegel, Le Monde, The Guardian. Her name, well, not her name, was quoted in op-eds, reposted across social media, discussed on panels she refused to attend.

She started writing her next novel, too.

A woman who vanishes after betrayal.

A man who finally understands, too late.

The words poured out of her like a flood, unforgiving, visceral, powerful.

And in Forks, she became the kind of ghost who built her own cathedral.

Meanwhile, across the ocean, Lando began to wither.

Not physically. He was still lean, still fast, still fit. The world still saw a driver at the peak of his game. But those who knew him, truly knew him, could see it in his eyes. The glint, the boyish mischief that once sparkled behind every smirk, was gone. His eyes had dimmed. Hollowed. As if some vital part of him had been scooped out and never returned.

He smiled less. He laughed only when prompted, on camera, during press conferences, for the sake of sponsors. Empty, rehearsed laughter that didn’t reach his eyes.

And whenever someone mentioned (Y/n), or anything that even sounded like her name, he shut down. Like a system overloaded, his expression would blank, jaw tight, breath held. If they noticed, they didn’t push. Most had learned not to.

He trained harder than ever, punishing his body as if exhaustion could drown out guilt. Endless laps. Weight sessions past midnight. Diets stricter than before. He was always moving, always chasing, but never what he really wanted.

He refused to return to the house they once shared. That house was a mausoleum now. Every room haunted. The memory of her curled up on the couch, of her laughter echoing through the kitchen, of lavender lingering on his pillows—it gutted him. So he stayed at his family home, surrounded by familiarity, but not warmth.

He tried to find her.

He hired private investigators, all sworn to discretion. But they came back empty. No leads. No sightings.

He flew to her favorite cities—Paris, Kyoto, Florence. Places she once spoke of like lovers. He wandered through bookstores, cafes, museums, hoping for a glimpse of her face in a passing crowd. He’d stand outside galleries for hours, watching people go in and out, pretending she might walk out, brush past him, say his name again.

Nothing.

Desperation turned him to her written words.

Late at night, alone in his old room, he’d reread her old work. Her essays, her novels, her poetry, even the things she never meant to publish but once read aloud to him in bed, under low lamplight and drowsy affection.

He devoured every sentence, hoping to decode her, to understand where she went or how deeply she hurt. But every word felt like a dagger. They dripped with brilliance. With pain. With a voice he had once been allowed to love and silenced.

He followed her pseudonym’s bylines obsessively, tracking new articles across international outlets. He’d scroll through hundreds of comments, hoping for a hint. A clue. A crack in the mask.

But she had disappeared with precision.

He had never known heartbreak could last this long.

But it did.

And so, at 3 a.m., in the echo of a quiet kitchen lit only by the fridge light, he would sit, unmoving, exhausted, shattered, waiting for a redemption that might never come.

And in Forks, beneath the cedar trees, the woman he broke began to heal.

Without him.

To be continued...🧡

✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴡʜᴏ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ✒️

📝 Note from the Author: Fifteen days already? Time flies when you’re bleeding your heart out in prose 😭 Thank you so much for every reblog, message, and like you’ve all left, especially my dear Alarwynnites 🥹 You’ve made this space feel like a home I didn’t know I needed.

I'm sorry I couldn’t post much today, or in the next few days either. Real life has crept in again (university said “plot twist!”), and I’ve got lectures breathing down my neck 😩 I’ll try to schedule a few things tonight for tomorrow, but no promises, okay? Hahahaha forgive me in advance 😭

Thank you for sitting in that silence with me. Thank you for feeling the ache. Goodnight for now 🕯

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ + ʀᴇᴅᴇᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ɪɴꜰɪᴅᴇʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ

ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ ᴇʀᴀꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ɪꜱᴏʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴅᴇᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɴɢᴇᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ

ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ

ᴀʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇ/ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ʀᴇᴄʟᴀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴍᴇʟᴀɴᴄʜᴏʟʏ ᴀᴛᴍᴏꜱᴘʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛʀᴏꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ꜱᴏʟɪᴛᴜᴅᴇ

The rain had fallen in Forks since before sunrise, a soft, almost reverent drizzle that wrapped itself around the evergreens like an old lover. It moved through the forest like a whisper, soaking bark and moss and pine needles until the world itself seemed steeped in melancholy. Water clung stubbornly to the windowpanes of the small cabin at the forest's edge, blurring the outside into a palette of greens and grays, distorting the view into something oil-painted and dreamlike, soft, impressionistic, untouchable.

Inside, (Y/n) stood in the kitchen barefoot, the chill of the wooden floor grounding her in a way nothing else could. A chipped mug of chamomile tea rested between her hands, cradled like something precious. The steam rose in slow, silent curls, the heat curling gently beneath her fingers, reminding her she was still here, still breathing, still real. The silence inside the cabin was not empty, but full. Full of unsaid things, of things no longer needed.

Six months.

It had been six months since she vanished from the life she once knew. Not disappeared in the theatrical sense, not in running or fleeing, but in erasing, in retreating, in finally choosing herself. A life that once glittered with grandeur, with applause and champagne and private flights and stolen kisses in hotel elevators. A life full of love that bloomed beautifully on the surface but quietly decayed underneath, roots tangled in betrayal. A love that smiled in public and broke in private.

She no longer recognized that version of herself, the one who clung to that life, the one who stayed too long in rooms where her name was only remembered when it served someone else’s story. That woman had died quietly. Without ceremony. Just faded.

The cabin was hers now. Not borrowed. Not rented. Hers.

Not a temporary refuge, but a deliberate choice. A permanent escape carved out in damp soil and silence. It wasn’t much, two bedrooms, a wood-burning stove, a kitchen that overlooked the trees, but it was enough.

And she had paid for it in full. Cash. No paper trail that could be traced back to the girl who used to sit on pit walls and smile for the cameras. She hadn’t taken much from her old life, but what she did take, she converted into freedom.

Her real lawyer, the one no one knew about, not even Lando, had handled everything. Quietly. Discreetly. With the same precision she had once admired in engineers and race strategists. The papers were filed under a different name, a name she hadn’t spoken aloud in years but had kept tucked away just in case.

A gift from her younger self’s paranoia.

A contingency plan created long before she ever had reason to need one.

And now, it had become her saving grace.

She liked this place. No paparazzi. No sharp, probing eyes. No whispers about "that woman." No headlines. Just the gentle drip of rain onto mossy roofs, the distant howl of wolves, and the rustle of ancient trees murmuring secrets through the mist.

Her mornings began with silence.

She woke before the sun, not out of necessity, but ritual. She lit a single candle in the reading nook by the window and wrote longhand in her journal, thoughts, metaphors, scraps of future novels. She cooked her own meals now. Real ones. With spices and soft music playing from the old radio perched on the shelf. Her hands, once accustomed to typing a thousand words a minute, now knew the slow grace of kneading dough and slicing fruit.

Outside, the world grew lush. Spring had kissed Forks, and wildflowers bloomed recklessly between the pines. Buttercups, bleeding hearts, columbines. (Y/n) walked every trail she could find, sometimes alone, sometimes with a dog she borrowed from her neighbor, a retired forest ranger named Agnes who had a laugh like dry thunder, and joints that clicked like old door hinges.

Agnes became her first friend here. She didn’t pry. She didn’t ask who (Y/n) was or why she arrived with nothing but a suitcase and eyes too old for her age. She simply brought over blueberry pie and advice on how to keep raccoons out of the compost bin.

Then came Jasper, the barista at the only decent coffeehouse in Forks. He was tall and lean, with poetry tattooed down his forearms in looping script that peeked out from beneath his sleeves whenever he reached for a mug or wiped down the counter. There was something quietly intentional about the way he moved, like someone who had long ago made peace with solitude. He had a tendency to hum old French songs, soft and melancholic melodies from another time, when the café was quiet, when there was no line at the register and the rain tapped gently against the windows.

Jasper noticed her by her second visit. By the third, he had memorized her order. A lavender oat milk latte. Always the same. No sweetener, extra hot. He never asked twice. He didn’t write it down. Just nodded once with a small, knowing smile and got to work. No fuss. No small talk unless she offered it first. Just an unspoken understanding passed over the counter, along with her drink.

And in a town as small and watchful as Forks, that kind of quiet grace felt like a gift.

“You’re not from here,” he said one morning, his voice soft as the fog outside.

She offered a half-smile. “Is it that obvious?”

“You don’t have the tired Forks look yet. Give it time.” Alarwynn: Wait! Is that code for "you don’t look like a vampire yet"? JK HAHAHA okay sorry, back to the story.

And just like that, she had another friend.

There were others, Ellie from the bookstore, who ran a secret book club for misfits; Gabe, the fisherman who sold smoked salmon at the Sunday market and told stories of losing a toe to a snapping turtle (no one knew if it was true).

They became her patchwork of quiet companionship.

No one knew who she really was.

Not the best-selling author behind half the opinion columns shaking up Europe’s intellectual elite. Not the ghost of a Formula One world.

Just (Y/n), the quiet woman who walked barefoot in the river and took too many photos of mushrooms.

On the first warm morning of June, she stood outside on the porch in a linen dress, hair loose, eyes lifted to the sky where the clouds finally parted after weeks of grey.

The sun touched her skin like an apology.

She tilted her face to it and closed her eyes.

Peace was a muscle, she learned, something you had to build, stretch, and fight for. It did not come from running. It did not come from revenge.

It came from choosing yourself every single day.

Still, there were nights when her hand reached across the bed out of habit.

Still, there were songs she skipped on the radio before they could hurt.

But she no longer cried when she remembered him. That was something.

That afternoon, she visited the bookstore. Ellie had saved her a first edition of a poetry collection she adored. On her way out, a little boy bumped into her, breathless and wild from laughter.

“Sorry, miss!” he said, wide-eyed.

She knelt to his height. “It’s okay, little man. Just watch where you’re going.”

His mother, red-faced and apologetic, came chasing after him. They exchanged polite smiles.

A simple moment.

Ordinary.

It meant the world.

(Y/n) wandered into the café next, where Jasper had her drink ready without asking. He slid it across the counter with a smile.

“You look lighter today.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Like someone who finally forgave herself.”

She blinked.

That hit harder than she expected.

“I’m trying,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s all any of us can do.”

She took her drink, sat in the back corner, and opened her journal. Pages filled with ideas, fragments of a second novel that her publisher didn’t even know she was writing. Her pseudonym remained untouchable, a fortress. They only received her drafts and collected their awards.

She liked it that way.

She was finally hers again.

Later that evening, she returned to the cabin, lit a fire despite the summer air, and curled into her favorite armchair with a blanket and a book. Outside, the rain returned, soft, rhythmic, like a lullaby written just for her.

This was what healing looked like.

Not dramatic revelations.

Not thunderclaps of closure.

Just the slow, persistent work of stitching yourself together in the quiet.

She didn’t know what tomorrow held.

But tonight, she was safe.

MEANWHILE

In a mansion that echoed like a mausoleum, Lando Norris sat alone in what used to be their bedroom. The air was stale, embalmed in time, as if the very walls had sealed themselves against the living. Shadows stretched across the floor like scars, the curtains unmoved since the day she left. Nothing had been altered, no fresh linens, no rearranged furniture, not even a new bulb in the lamp that had burned out weeks ago. Everything remained as it was, as though the room itself mourned her absence.

It smelled more like memory than life now, a haunting blend of lavender, old wood, and the remnants of a perfume that had once clung to her skin. It was the scent of something sacred, something lost.

Lando’s fingers trembled as he reached for the drawer of her nightstand. The wood creaked faintly as it slid open, a familiar sound that sliced through the quiet like a blade. He stared into the hollow space inside.

Still empty.

No ring.

No letter.

Just the cruel expanse of nothingness, like the silence that had settled between them in those last few weeks. A silence that begged to be broken but never was.

With a shaking breath, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew the one fragment of hope he still clung to, a worn, creased photograph from their wedding day. The edges were frayed, like his resolve, soft from too much handling. He stared at it for a long time.

In the photo, she was leaning into him, her head resting gently against his chest as though she could hear the rhythm of his heartbeat and trusted it more than the world around her. His arms were around her like he feared she'd slip through his fingers if he let go.

And her eyes, God, her eyes.

She looked at him like he was her future. Like he was more than just a man; he was her promise.

But now, no matter how hard he tried to conjure the warmth of that gaze, it slipped from his mind like water through clenched fists. He could remember the way she laughed, how her hand would find his beneath the table, how she used to hum when nervous—but that look? That unwavering belief?

Gone.

And with it, any belief he once held in himself.

The candle flickered on the desk beside him, its flame dancing in defiance of the stillness. Wax had pooled around the base, hardened and cracked like the fault lines running through his soul.

Lando bowed his head, the photograph cradled in both hands as though it were something fragile, holy. He brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss against her image.

“Please,” he whispered, barely able to finish the word as emotion clawed at his throat. “If there’s any god, any cosmic force out there… please, just show me where she is.”

Nothing replied. Not the wind. Not the walls. Not even the hollow ache inside his chest.

A minute passed.

Then two.

Still nothing.

Just the ticking of the old clock down the hallway.

Just the ragged, uneven sound of his own breathing, sharp, broken, lonely.

But somewhere far away, in a place he couldn’t yet reach, a thread began to stir.

The answer would come.

Not as a miracle.

Not as a sudden knock on the door or a voice from the heavens or a text message that would rewrite the silence she left him in.

No.

It would come in the quietest way. As answers often do, when you're not looking for them, not truly.

To be continued...🧡

✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀꜱ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀɢᴇꜱ ✒️

📝 Note from the Author: Sweet sixteen! I can’t believe it’s already been 16 days of heartbreak, healing, and haunting prose here on Tumblr. Thank you, always, to my beloved Alarwynnites for staying with me through every update, every cliffhanger, every soft moment of quiet ache. You are the rain to my emotionally-wrecked forest cabin 😭🌲

Now…

“She no longer cried when she remembered him. That was something.”

This chapter felt different. Softer. Not necessarily lighter, but earned. It’s a chapter about the long, slow work of choosing yourself after destruction. Of finding yourself in silence instead of in screaming. Of collecting ordinary moments like they’re gold—because they are.

And okay… LET'S ADDRESS THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM:

JASPER???

Yes. I see what I did. YOU see what I did. We ALL see what I did. HAHAHAHAHAHA

Was that name choice intentional? Was it subconscious Twilight-core seeping into my veins? Or was it just a barista with poetry tattoos and a name that felt oddly familiar? We’ll never know. (We know. We so know.)

And speaking of Twilight, why Forks? Why not Forks?

It’s gloomy. It’s damp. It’s where people go when they want to disappear but secretly hope someone follows. And yes. I absolutely thought of Bella Swan walking into the forest in a cardigan, and I said, “Yup. That’s the vibe.” Forks is the perfect place for women who are tired of being known. Where trauma breathes moss and healing smells like woodsmoke.

This is her “I live in a cabin now and make bread with my bare hands” era. This is me writing her cathedral out of grief and mushrooms.

So again, thank you for sticking with me. Thank you for your tags, your comments, your screaming in the inbox. This story has taken on a life of its own because you kept breathing into it.

Until next time (or next breakdown),