#screaminginthequiet

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

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴅᴏᴡɴ & ɢʀɪᴇꜰ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ & ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛ

ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ

ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ / ɪɴꜰɪᴅᴇʟɪᴛʏ

ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴠᴇʀʙᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴄᴏʟʟᴀᴘꜱᴇ

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴏʀɢɪᴠᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ

The descent into Washington was slow, almost reverent. As the jet sliced through the bruised underbelly of the clouds, Lando stared out the window, taking in the muted palette of earth and sky. The Seattle-Tacoma International Airport came into view, an architectural testament of glass, metal, and rain-soaked tarmac. The sky wept with a steady drizzle, as if mourning something unseen.

His boots met the ground with a soft thud as he exited the terminal. A suited chauffeur stood nearby, holding a placard bearing his name. A few fans craned their necks, doing double-takes, but he moved briskly, head down, uninterested in the world recognizing him in this state. The man opened the car door, and Lando slipped inside, welcomed by the subdued warmth of leather and the quiet hum of solitude.

The drive to Forks was long, over four hours, and stretched through roads winding like threads of silk across moss-covered mountains. Lando watched intently. Towering evergreens lined the highway, brushing the sky like cathedral pillars. Rain tapped gently against the windowpane, falling in rhythm with his heartbeat. Mist curled along the treetops like whispered secrets, and brooks sang softly in the underbrush.

It felt otherworldly, primitive in its beauty, untouched by the clamor of his world. There were no flashing cameras, no roaring engines, no interviews or simulation tests. Just the breath of the Pacific Northwest and the ache of hope clutching his ribcage.

When the chauffeur finally murmured, "We’ve arrived," Lando leaned forward. Forks stretched before him, quiet, drowsy, and ethereal. The town slumbered beneath a silvery sky, with its wooden cabins and rain-glossed sidewalks, its sleepy diners and single-story shops. The air was thick with petrichor and pine.

He was taken to a modest lodge tucked behind a line of tall cedars, the windows warm with amber light. From the balcony of his room, Lando marveled at the world below, how the fog moved like breath between houses, how the trees bowed in prayer with the wind. He’d never known such stillness.

But he hadn't come for stillness.

The next day, his search began.

He walked the town on foot, tracing every street that matched her descriptions in the book. The local bookstore, the little flower shop with hanging pots of blue lobelia, the creaky bridge that crossed the Sol Duc river. He even stopped by the diner mentioned once in a footnote, ordered coffee, and waited.

Nothing.

The second day was the same. His boots were muddied, his coat damp, his hope fraying. The receptionist at the lodge began to recognize his patterns: out by eight, back by dusk, always alone, always exhausted. He asked a few shopkeepers, described her vaguely, never using her name.

No one knew. Or they were protecting her.

Then came the third day.

The forest swallowed him in silence. Only the crunch of pine needles and the rustle of wings disturbed the stillness. He had returned to a trail hinted in the book, a path lined with moss-covered logs and ferns taller than his waist. Sunlight fractured through the canopy in dappled gold.

And then he saw her.

A figure, cloaked in a wool cardigan, standing just ahead. Her hair was longer now, messily tied back. She was kneeling beside a patch of wild mushrooms, a basket in hand. For a heartbeat, he thought he was hallucinating.

But then—

She turned.

Her eyes found his across the clearing. Wide, startled, fragile.

For a moment, everything held its breath.

(Y/n) froze, the basket of wildflowers slipping slightly in her grasp. Time seemed to slow, stretching taut between them like a thread that had never quite broken. The shadows of the trees dappled across her face, but he’d know that expression anywhere, soft shock, warring with old grief.

Lando took a tentative step forward.

Then another.

Like he was approaching something sacred, or something that could vanish with the wrong breath. His movements were careful, reverent, almost afraid. But when she didn’t move, didn’t run, he broke.

His body surged forward, feet pounding the damp earth beneath him, and she stood frozen in place, unmoving, as if her heart had forgotten how to beat.

He reached her.

Crashing into her, arms wrapping tight around her waist, he buried his face in her shoulder as if trying to disappear inside her. The basket tumbled from her hands, scattering petals across the mossy ground. His knees gave out beneath him, pulling her with him, and together they fell to the forest floor, cushioned by moss, by pine needles, by the unbearable weight of everything they hadn’t said.

And then he broke.

The sob that tore from him was not clean or graceful, it was guttural, shattering, the sound of a man unraveling. His tears soaked through her sweater, hot and desperate. His hands clung to her, trembling as they gripped the fabric at her back, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he loosened his grip.

His cries were feral, ragged with shame.

Apologies fell from his mouth in a steady stream, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t see. I was wrong.

Each word dropped like rain off a broken gutter, messy, constant, unstoppable.

And (Y/n) said nothing.

She just sat there, silently.

She let him fall apart in the only place that had ever felt like home, her.

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself mourn.

Not for what he lost.

But for the version of him who let it go.

After an hour, when the storm in his chest quieted into hiccups, she spoke, her voice soft and brittle.

"How did you find me?"

He pulled back, red-eyed and pale. "The letter. In the book. The one you gave Lily."

She closed her eyes. "So she gave it to you."

"No," he whispered. "She didn’t. I just... found it."

A tired sigh escaped her lips. Then she stood, brushing moss from her coat.

Without a word, she started walking away.

Panic bloomed in his chest. He stood quickly, stumbling after her. "Wait, please—don’t disappear again."

She didn’t respond.

He followed her like a ghost, keeping a step behind. They emerged from the forest and crossed a gravel road. She didn’t speak until they stopped in front of a small diner with misted windows and fairy lights strung along its edge.

She turned.

"Go away," she said quietly. "Go back to Europe. I’m at peace here. I’m happy."

He shook his head, desperation blooming in his throat. "I can’t."

Her shoulders slumped. She opened the diner door.

They ate in silence. The waiter, a local teen with wide eyes, stared for a moment too long at Lando before scurrying away. (Y/n) sipped her coffee. Lando picked at his food, unsure of what he was tasting.

Afterward, she walked home. He followed.

Near the porch, she stopped abruptly, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths. Then she turned, eyes blazing, and snapped through gritted teeth, “Stop following me already. Go back to the whore.”

The words landed like gunfire, sharp, loud, final.

Her voice cracked at the last syllable, splintering under the weight of everything she’d been holding in. Her posture, once rigid with anger, faltered. Her shoulders trembled. And then she broke.

Right there in the dirt, she collapsed to her knees as if her body could no longer carry the ache. Sobs tore from her chest, raw, guttural, unrestrained. The kind that made the night itself seem to still in sorrow.

Lando was at her side within seconds, dropping beside her like he couldn’t bear the distance. He didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, desperately, pulling her against him like he was afraid she might dissolve into nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, over and over, voice thick with remorse. “I’m sorry. I was stupid. I was blind.”

He pressed his forehead to the side of her head, her hair damp from tears and night air. His hands trembled as they held her, but he didn’t let go, not even when she beat her fists weakly against his chest, not even when she sagged against him, wrecked and silent.

Because there was nothing left to defend.

And everything left to lose.

"Why wasn’t I enough?" she whispered.

He cried again, helplessly. "You were. You were everything. I just... I lost myself. I lost everything."

They sat in silence until the stars blinked into view above the trees.

Eventually, she stood.

It wasn’t graceful. Her legs were unsteady, her movements stiff, like grief had settled deep into her bones. She wiped at her face with the sleeve of her sweater, smearing the tears but making no effort to hide that they’d been there. Her eyes were swollen, rimmed with red, but there was a flicker of something steadier behind them now, resolve, or maybe exhaustion masquerading as strength.

Lando rose with her, slower this time, as if afraid that one wrong move would send her spiraling again. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. Just stood there, watching, waiting, hands clenched at his sides like he wanted to reach for her but knew he hadn’t earned the right.

She looked away, gaze fixed on the gravel beneath her feet. When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse, the words scraped raw from crying.

"Not now," she said, voice steel again. "Give me time."

He nodded.

He didn’t leave.

In the days that followed, he stayed in Forks. He didn’t crowd her. Didn’t beg. He just existed nearby. Helping at the local garden she volunteered at. Walking the same trails. Eating at the same diner. Once, she saw him get irritated when a local named Jasper flirted with her. That territorial glint hadn’t changed.

But he didn’t intervene.

Not yet.

He waited.

Because some love needed silence to grow back. And he would wait as long as it took.

To be continued...🧡

✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 10: ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ✒️

📝 Note from the Author: So… funny thing. This post should’ve been labeled 18th day on Tumblr, not 17th. Yeah, I totally skipped a day somewhere along the way, and then scheduled this thinking it was Day 16, but that was already the 17th. Honestly, Tumblr’s dashboard doesn’t help and my brain was clearly on airplane mode. Long story short: welcome to Day 18 of this emotional rollercoaster I've been calling a series. 🎉

And what a chapter to land on.

Based on the piece where Lando descends into the damp, brooding skies of Washington like some kind of grief-worn romantic hero, yeah, that one, this story really came for my throat. It's a love letter to solitude, to mistakes we wish we could undo, and to the unspoken pull that draws you back to someone you once called home. If moss, rain-soaked trails, and a heartbreak reunion in the forest are your thing? Buckle up.