🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɢᴏ🛏️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏꜱꜱ
ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ / ɢʜᴏꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴘᴀʀᴀʟʟᴇʟꜱ
ꜱᴜᴘᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ
ᴄᴏᴘɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴍᴜᴛɪɴɢ/ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇꜱ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅᴇᴛᴀᴄʜᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴜʀᴇ
ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ
It was the silence that did it.
Not the sharp, sudden kind that follows a fight, nor the muffled quiet of someone too busy to reply. This was different. It was the kind that stretched long and thin across days, heavy with unanswered questions, until it no longer felt like waiting—it felt like grieving.
Lando had counted them all, even when he told himself he wasn’t. Even when he promised he had let it go.
At first, he kept looking for signs. Maybe she’d post something—an Instagram story, even just a reposted quote. Maybe Madam Cho’s studio would drop a teaser from one of their new collections, and he’d see (Y/n) in the background, hunched over a design table, alive and well.
Her feed went dark. Her profile stayed untouched. Her inbox sat quiet. It was as if the world had swallowed her whole.
He filled his time with everything else. He buried himself in simulator sessions, media shoots, interviews, sponsorship events. Zak noticed the extra polish in his answers, the extra focus during meetings. He even scored a podium in Bahrain.
Everyone thought he was doing better.
But Lando was just performing—smiling on cue, laughing when required, nodding when expected. At night, when the noise faded and the rooms emptied, he found himself returning to the same thought.
She didn’t even say goodbye.
Oscar tried to lift his mood, cracking jokes and dragging him out for dinner more often. The team praised his form, unaware that the clarity came not from joy—but from heartbreak.
And one morning, in a hotel room that smelled like fresh linen and nothing else, he sat at the edge of his bed and stared at her name one last time.
No ghost of her lingering in the void.
So he exhaled. A long, shallow breath. The kind people take before a plunge. Or a surrender.
He pressed down on her thread. Held it until the menu appeared.
He didn’t delete her. He couldn’t. That would feel cruel, final. But he needed to breathe again. He needed to stop waiting for something that wasn’t coming.
It hurt. More than he expected. Like losing something he never even had a name for.
He simply closed his phone, set it aside, and told himself that it was okay. That she must’ve had her reasons. That maybe she found someone else, or simply outgrew what they had.
People move on. That’s life.
That’s what he told himself.
And outside the walls of that hotel room, life did go on.
The world kept spinning. The season marched forward—Saudi Arabia, Australia, Japan. Flights blurred into each other. Circuits blended. He racked up points, nodded through press conferences, and posed beside Oscar, who was quietly dominating the championship again.
And through it all, (Y/n) remained a ghost in the back of his mind. A question left unanswered. A melody that no longer played.
Some nights, he still thought about her. The way she had looked that first evening—standing on that hill, fire in her voice, fury in her hands as she pulled him back from the edge. The way she spoke like she knew pain. Like she had danced with despair and lived to tell the tale.
And maybe that was why it hurt so much. Because she had saved him when he was at his lowest. And he would’ve done the same for her, without hesitation.
At least, that’s what he told himself when he stood before a crowd in Melbourne, champagne drying on his race suit, flashes from cameras burning bright in his periphery. He smiled. He answered questions. He laughed.
And when he returned to his hotel that evening, he scrolled past her name like it didn’t matter anymore.
🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴛʜᴇ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴏᴍ🛏️
