✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡʜᴏ ᴠᴀɴɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ✒️
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 🕯
With love, me 🧡
