𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝘆𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝘆𝗲 — P.sh

Shadows of the past

Hello, I made this blog solely to publish this fan fiction I wrote because the idea for the plot has been tugging at the back of my mind for months. I tried requesting it from a few writers but since they didn’t write it I remained unsatisfied. Then I remembered I also do have the ability to write.

Pairing: Oscar x named!female character

Plot: Oscar's new relationship is strained by his family's constant reminders of his ex, Lily, and he fails to notice how this is affecting his girlfriend.

Tag: angst, hurt/no comfort, sad ending.

Word count: 2989

Disclaimers: english is not my first language - I feel like you could tell from my writing style - so I apologize if some of the sentences structures are off, or if I use outdated or inappropriate-for-the-context words, I used a synonym dictionary to try and stop myself from repeating the same words, I still did do that though. I also haven’t written any work of fiction since I was a teenager, so this could be bad, I just had a need to get this fan fiction out of my brain. And once I wrote it, it felt like a waste to keep it on my laptop.

The new girlfriend has a name as I wasn’t able to write this without a name, I apologize, I made it a shorter name so it can be skimmed over. There is no physical description of them.

I would like to explain that I do not think that Oscar's family would behave this way. This idea came from watching Nicole's interview in which she spoke highly about Lily and an unrelated conversation that day about families still speaking about and with ex-girlfriends.

Oscar sat in his motorhome, absentmindedly scrolling through social media notifications and posts. He wasn’t really paying attention to them. His mind was already on the track, anticipating the feel of the car and revising the strategies for the weekend. But, even as he tried to focus on the race ahead, something distracted him at the back of his mind. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on yet, something that had been running in his head for weeks.

Across from him, Mia sat quietly, going through her phone, though he knew it wasn’t holding her attention either. She hadn’t said much all day, her silence stretching thin between them like a thread on the verge of snapping. It wasn’t like her. At least, it wasn’t like how she used to be. When they first met, Mia had been a burst of energy, her laughter infectious, her smile like a safe heaven that had pulled him out of the chaos of being a public figure. But now… something had changed.

"Oscar, did you hear what I said?" Mia’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, her eyes searching his face for any sign that he had been paying attention to what she had been saying. But he hadn't.

Oscar blinked, eyes tearing away from his phone. "Sorry, darling. What did you say?"

Mia smiled, a small, strained smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "I was asking if you wanted to go out for dinner later. You know, somewhere quiet, just the two of us. I found this place…"

Oscar nodded absentmindedly, his attention already drifting away. "Yeah, sure. Sounds good."

Mia noticed his lack of attention, but she didn’t press the issue. She had grown used to his distracted responses over the past few months, so she just sat there, her fingers gripping her phone a little too tightly, and the silence between them growing heavier. It had been like this for a while now—Oscar lost in his racing, and Mia fading quietly into the background, unnoticed.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when his attention had been solely hers, when Oscar had looked at her with the kind of focus he reserved for the track. Lately, though, she had started to feel like she was slipping out of view, like she was losing her place in his world. And Oscar, so wrapped up in his career, didn’t see it. Not yet.

-----

It had started subtly, in ways Mia hadn’t been able to notice at first. When she had met Oscar, she knew this relationship wouldn’t have resembled her previous ones; she was stepping into a world of fame, pressure, and expectations. But she had been prepared for that—at least, she thought she had been.

The first time she had met Oscar’s family had been over a casual dinner. Nicole had been polite, her eyes studying Mia a little closely but never purely cold. And then there were his sisters, who seemed stuck between curiosity and indifference, their questions friendly but calculated.

It wasn’t until halfway through the meal that Mia first heard the name.

“Do you remember when Lily got us pizza in Monza?” Hattie had asked with a deliberate tone, her gaze flickering toward Oscar.

Mia had frozen for a second, her fork suspended midair. Lily. She had heard the name before, of course, Oscar had talked about her, the ex-girlfriend who had been with him through his early career. Mia hadn’t worried about her, assuming she was just part of his past.

“Oh, yeah,” Mae chimed in, laughing. “From that little family-run restaurant, right? God, I miss that place.”

Nicole smiled, her eyes lighting up. “Lily was always so thoughtful. She always knew how to make us feel at home, no matter where we were.”

Mia’s chest tightened, the casual and affectionate mention of Lily, compared to how she had been addressed throughout the evening, slicing through the conversation like a shard of ice. She forced herself to smile, to nod along, pretending it didn’t bother her. But it did more than she wanted to admit.

Oscar had shifted uncomfortably beside her, clearing his throat. “Yeah, Lily was great” he had said quickly, then tried to change the subject. But the damage was done. The ghost of Lily hung over the rest of the evening like a shadow, lingering at the edges of every conversation and Mia’s mind.

-----

As the months passed, Mia couldn’t shake the feeling that she was living in someone else’s place, that no matter how much Oscar claimed to love her, no matter how much she tried to integrate herself into his life, she was no comparison to Lily. It wasn’t that his family was blatantly rude towards her, they were kind, but there was a warmth in their voices when they spoke about Lily that they didn’t extend to Mia.

Every race weekend, every family gathering, even every private moment with Oscar was tainted in her mind by the weight of someone else’s ghost.

It wasn’t until one afternoon in Monaco, when Mia stumbled across the ring, that the full weight of it hit her.

She had been tidying the bedroom while Oscar was out, taking advantage of the free time to clean their apartment, cleaning up a drawer of old clothes when she found it—a small, velvet box. Her heart had skipped a beat as she opened it, revealing a stunning diamond ring.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She wasn’t unrealistic, Mia knew this wasn’t meant for her, her relationship with Oscar still too young to warrant a proposal. No. This ring wasn’t for her. It had been bought for someone else. For Lily.

Mia closed the box with trembling hands, her chest tightening as the realization washed over her. Oscar had been planning to marry Lily. He had been ready to propose, to make her his wife, to share his life with her in a way that as of lately Mia wasn’t sure he would ever want to with her.

She had never brought it up to Oscar. She couldn’t. How could she confront him about something like this? How could she admit that she had found evidence of a future he had once planned with someone else, a future that might have happened if things hadn’t fallen apart between them?

From that day on, the weight of it pressed down on her like a constant reminder. She tried to ignore it, to push the self doubt away, to remind herself it was all part of the past. But every time Oscar’s family mentioned Lily, every time they talked about her like she was still part of their world, Mia felt herself slipping further away from the confident, energetic woman she had once been.

-----

The Monaco GP was supposed to be a new start. Mia had somewhat convinced herself that her doubts were unreasonable, that her presence in Oscar’s life was concrete. She had been trying so hard to convince her mind, to smile through the subtle slights, to act as if Lily’s constant presence in conversations didn’t bother her. But Monaco was different. Monaco was where everything changed.

The paddock was buzzing with energy as usual, the yachts in the harbor reflecting the morning sun. Mia stood beside Oscar, her hand in his as they made their way through the crowd. Fans called out to him, snapping photos, but Mia barely noticed. Her attention was elsewhere—on the small group standing near the McLaren garage.

There stood Oscar’s family. And Lily.

Mia felt her heart skip at the sight. Lily was just standing there, laughing with Nicole, looking as comfortable and at ease as she had in all the stories Mia had had to listen to in the past months. She was so effortlessly beautiful, with an air of confidence that Mia had always admired but now found unbearable.

Nicole’s eyes found Oscar, lighting up as she waved him over. “Oscar, darling! Come say hello.”

Mia felt herself stiffen, her stomach twisting into knots. Oscar hesitated for a moment, glancing at Mia before offering her a quick, apologetic smile. “I’ll just be a minute,” he murmured, squeezing her hand before walking over to his family. To her.

Mia couldn’t bring herself to do anything but watch as he greeted them, his interactions with Lily casual but friendly, too friendly in her doubt filled mind. It was like watching him slip into an old role, a role he played with ease, with a counterpart Mia couldn’t quite replace.

They talked for what felt like hours, though it had only been minutes. Mia stood there, frozen as her heart pounded in her chest as she watched Oscar laugh at something Lily said, as his mother beamed at them, as if this was how things were supposed to be. As if Mia was the outsider, the intruder in a story that had never been hers to begin with.

-----

That night, the silence in their room was deafening.

Oscar had been talking about the race, but Mia hadn’t been able to focus. She hadn’t really said much all weekend, her responses short and her mind elsewhere.

“Mia?” Oscar called, his brows furrowed as he looked at her. “Is everything okay?”

She just stared at him for a moment, unsure of how to put her thoughts into words, unsure of how to explain the feelings that had made a home in her mind. “Oscar… Do you ever think about her?”

He frowned, confused. “Who?”

“Lily,” Mia whispered, voice barely audible. “Do you still think about her? About… what could have been?”

Oscar blinked, startled by the question. “Mia, no. Of course not. I’m with you now.”

She shook her head, as she fought her anxiety and tried to gather the courage to say what had been haunting her mind for months. "You say that, Oscar, but… it feels like I’m always competing with her, against her presence in your life. And I don’t know how to stop feeling like I’m constantly fighting against someone who’s not even here anymore."

Oscar’s expression softened as he stepped toward her, one of his hands reaching out to gently cup her face. "Mia, you are not. I don't think about Lily like that anymore. That part of my life is over."

"Is it?" Mia’s voice cracked, her eyes searching his for the reassurance she so desperately needed. "Because I’m not sure your family feels the same way. They still talk about her, still invite her to races. Nicole talks about her like she could still be a part of your life, like she is supposed to be a part of your life. And Oscar… I found the ring."

Oscar’s hand dropped from her face, his eyes widening in shock. "What ring?"

"The one in your drawer," Mia said, her voice trembling. "The engagement ring. The one you bought for her."

Oscar froze, his breath catching in his throat. "Mia… I didn’t mean for you to find that. I—I should have gotten rid of it a long time ago."

"Why didn’t you?" she asked. "Why didn’t you get rid of it if you had moved on? You kept it, Oscar, that has to mean something. And every time she is brought up, every time I notice her presence still somewhat in your life, I feel like I’ll never be good enough. Like I’m standing in her shadow, no matter what I do."

Oscar sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Mia, I didn’t keep the ring because I still have feelings for her. I kept it because… I never knew what to do with it. You are right, I did want to propose to Lily at some point, I couldn’t see that our relationship was dying, I was trying to deny it. But I didn’t propose in the end. I realized it wasn’t right. I never told you because I didn’t want to hurt you."

Mia hugged herself, staring at the floor. "But it does hurt now, Oscar. And it hurts every time they bring her up, every time they talk about how perfect she was, how much they loved her. It feels like I’m just… filling a spot that’s still meant for her."

Oscar stood up and reached for her again, his voice carrying an underlying urgency. "Mia, you’re not filling a space. I love you. I want to be with you. I thought you knew that."

"I thought I did too," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. "But… I don’t know anymore. And I feel like I’m losing myself trying to live up to the memory of someone I’m not while you didn’t even notice how much it’s been affecting me."

Oscar’s heart sank as he took in her words, the weight of his and his family’s actions finally settling on his shoulders. He had known that they still cared for Lily, but he hadn’t understood how much it had been hurting Mia. And he hadn’t noticed how distant she had become, how her bright light had started to dim under the constant comparisons.

He sat back down, hands resting in his lap as he stared at the floor. "Mia, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize… I didn’t know it was this bad."

Mia took a deep, shaky breath, tears staining her face. "You didn’t. I don’t know if I can keep doing this, Oscar. I love you, so much so that I have been willing to hurt myself to be with you, but I can’t keep feeling like I’m not enough. Like I’ll never be enough."

Oscar looked up at her, desperation in his eyes at the implications of her words. "You are enough, Mia. You’ve always been enough."

She shook her head, wiping her eyes. "If I was enough, your family wouldn’t still be holding onto Lily. They wouldn’t be talking about her like she’s still the one for you… They wouldn’t make me feel like I’m always in second place in a one person competition."

Oscar felt his throat tighten, his guilt and frustration rising to the surface. He had been so focused on his career, on the races, that he hadn’t noticed how much this had been affecting Mia. And now, standing in front of him, she looked so lost, so hurt, that he wasn’t sure how to fix it.

"I’ll talk to them," he said, his voice firm. "I’ll make sure they understand. They can’t keep doing this to you—to us. I’ll set boundaries. I don’t want to lose you, Mia."

Mia’s gaze softened for a moment, but the pain in her eyes was still there. "It’s not just about them, Oscar. It’s about how I’ve been feeling invisible, like I don’t matter as much in your life. I don’t know if talking to them will change how I feel about myself now. I don’t know if it’ll be enough to fix this."

Oscar’s heart clenched. He could see the cracks in their relationship now, the ones he had been too blind to notice before. And he realized, with a sinking feeling, that this wasn’t something he could just fix with a few words or promises. This was deeper.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked quietly, his voice almost breaking. "Tell me what I can do to make this right."

Mia stood there for a long moment, staring at him, the weight of the decision she had come to after months of suffering heavy on her shoulders. She loved him, she had given everything to this relationship, but the constant reminders of his past with Lily had killed her confidence, her sense of security.

"I think…" she began, her voice shaky, "I think I need some time. Time to figure out if I can keep doing this, if I can keep being in this relationship without losing myself further."

Oscar felt a chill run through him at her words. "Mia, please don’t say that. Don’t say you’re leaving."

"I’m not leaving," she clarified, though the look in her eyes betrayed her uncertainty of their future. "But I need space. I need time to think about what’s best for me, because right now… I don’t feel like I’m good for you. And I don’t feel like this is good for me."

Oscar’s chest tightened painfully as he stepped toward her, his hands trembling as he reached for hers. "I love you. I don’t want to lose you."

Tears spilled from Mia’s eyes again as she looked down at their hands. "I love you too, Oscar. But love isn’t enough if I don’t feel like I belong in your life. If I don’t feel like your family accepts me. Like I can accept myself."

He swallowed hard, fighting his own tears. "I’ll make them understand. I’ll fight for us."

She pulled her hands away gently, taking a step back. "I need to fight for myself first."

Oscar felt the floor drop from under him as Mia turned toward the door. She paused for a moment, her hand resting on the doorknob, before looking back at him with tears in her eyes.

"Please don’t hate them," she whispered. "I know they didn’t mean to hurt me. But… they did. And I don’t know how to fix that."

And with that, she slipped out of the room, out of the apartment, leaving Oscar standing alone, silence deafening around him. The weight of his family’s actions, of his own inaction, pressed down on him.

He had always thought he could balance everything—his career, his family, his relationship—but now, as the door closed behind Mia, he realized that he had been wrong. He had been so focused on winning races, on making his family happy, that he hadn’t seen the cracks forming beneath the surface of his relationship and in the heart of the woman he loved.

And now, he wasn’t sure if he would ever get her back.

when the lights dim — oneshot

PREMISE 𓃊 ❝ a love tested by silence and distance, where sunghoon’s presence is all you need to heal, but is it enough to mend what’s broken? ❞

박성훈 x fem reader ꣑୧ angst, unrequited love wc 3.5k

୨୧ when you love someone, you hold on — you fight, you stay, you endure. at least, that’s what you always believed. being with sunghoon felt like second nature, something you never had to question. but somewhere along the way, love turned into something quieter, something heavier. he started slipping through your fingers like sand, and no matter how hard you tried to hold on, he wasn’t reaching back. when does love stop being worth the fight? and more importantly, when is it okay to let go?

the thing about falling in love is that no one ever tells you how much it hurts when it starts slipping away.

you and sunghoon were never the type to have explosive fights. there was no dramatic screaming, no shattered glass, no slammed doors. instead, your love unraveled quietly — like a favorite sweater slowly coming apart at the seams, thread by thread.

you noticed it first in the way he held you. his arms used to be your safest place, warm and steady, but now they felt hesitant, almost reluctant. when you leaned into him, he didn’t lean back as much. when you kissed him, he still kissed you, but the passion felt… different.

less.

at first, you brushed it off. maybe he was stressed. maybe he was just tired. maybe you were overthinking.

but love wasn’t supposed to make you feel like you were begging to be wanted.

the change was gradual, like the slow fade of a once-vivid photograph. he started coming home later, staying out longer, answering texts with half-hearted responses.

“practice ran late”

“got caught up with the guys”

“too tired, maybe tomorrow”

excuses that tasted like lies, even if they weren’t.

you missed him. even when he was right next to you, you missed him.

but no matter how much you ached for him to hold you like he used to, to look at you like you were the best thing in his world, he never did.

one night, you tried. really, really tried.

you made his favorite dinner, set up a movie night, even put on the hoodie he once said you looked cutest in. you wanted to remind him — remind yourself — that you were still here, still fighting.

when he walked in, he barely spared you a glance.

“you’re home late,” you said, forcing your voice to stay light.

“yeah,” he mumbled, toeing off his shoes.

he didn’t ask about the dinner. he didn’t notice the way you had set up the couch just the way he liked it. he didn’t even kiss you hello, like how he used to.

you swallowed the lump in your throat. “i thought we could watch something together.”

sunghoon sighed, rubbing his eyes. “i’m really tired, y/n. can we do this another time?”

another time.

but another time never came.

you stayed for weeks, maybe months, in the limbo of waiting. waiting for him to come back to you, waiting for him to say i love you first, waiting for the ache in your chest to fade.

but one night, as you lay in bed beside him, staring at the ceiling while he faced away from you, it hit you.

you weren’t waiting for him.

you were waiting for the version of him that used to love you properly. the sunghoon who held your hand just because, who sent you texts filled with hearts and dumb jokes, who made you feel like you were the best thing to ever happen to him.

that sunghoon wasn’t coming back.

and loving someone shouldn’t feel like convincing them to love you back.

packing was the hardest part.

not because you had too much to take with you, but because everything in this space had traces of him. the hoodie draped over the chair, the half-used bottle of his cologne on the dresser, the polaroids of the two of you stuck to the mirror.

you stared at them for a long time.

then, carefully, you pulled them down.

“where are you going?” his voice was groggy with sleep, but the moment he saw the bag in your hand, he sat up.

your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “i can’t do this anymore, sunghoon.”

his brows furrowed. “what do you mean?”

you let out a breathy laugh, but there was no humor in it. “you know exactly what i mean.”

he didn’t say anything.

because he did know.

you waited. you waited for him to tell you to stay, to promise he’d fix things, to reach for you the way you had been reaching for him all this time.

but all he did was stare, lips slightly parted, eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

guilt? regret? relief?

whatever it was, it wasn’t love.

you nodded to yourself.

that was your answer.

walking out of that apartment, out of him, was the hardest thing you’d ever done.

but as the cold air kissed your cheeks and the weight of waiting was finally lifted from your shoulders, you realized something.

it hurt like hell. but for the first time in a long time—

you could finally breathe.

k: i hope this doesn’t flop TT

xoeus ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂃 ‎ ‎ ‎ TheXoeusArchive

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Secret Love Song

You never thought you could handle the pressure of dating an idol.

You've read the stories. How celebrities lost their years-earned career because all they did was love a person. You knew about the crazy fans that could rain hell if things went sideways in the slightest. And it terrified you with the thought that your boyfriend could be at the receiving end.

You knew that dating Jaeyun was going to be a challenge.

You were to be a couple that couldn’t be seen in broad daylight. That couldn’t be seen sharing a romantic dinner. Or can't even hold eye contact for anything longer than 5 seconds. That’s how careful you guys had to be.

But he reassured you that everything would be fine. That he would love you regardless of what happens. And what did you do? You believed him. You trusted him.

Now, loving your boyfriend was as easy as breathing. It was something that you didn’t think you could ever feel. It was liberating. It.. it felt so right. Like every piece of him just fits perfectly. Cause you loved him. And you swore that you would love him till your dying day. You tell yourself that he feels the same because he promised. He has to feel the same… right?

.

"I love you." "Let's break up."

Oh.

.

Everything flew by like a blur, too fast to process what was happening.

He's leaving.

He's leaving you.

“Jake, wait!” You cry out, voice faltering as your hands grasp onto the hem of his sleeve, frantically grabbing up his arm to keep him from walking any further. You held onto him as much as you could, because you feared that if you let him go, he would walk right out that door and never look back. And what’s scary is that he might really do that. 

“Don’t do this, y/n.” He mumbled.

His voice… When did it turn so cold? What happened? Why wasn’t there any trace of love behind his voice? Where did the soft-spoken voice that you loved so dearly go? The voice that could pull you out of the darkest days. He spoke to you like you were a stranger. Like you meant nothing to him. And in that moment, you swear you can hear your heart cracking.

He couldn’t even look at you. Why can’t he? It’s the least he could do for you right now.

“What?” you utter in pure disbelief. You were borderline baffled at what he had just said.

“No, you’re the one who’s doing this!" You emphasize by jabbing your finger into his chest.

And another tug at his sleeve finally makes him look back at you. 

You hoped for tears in his eyes. A pained look on his face. Or just anything to show an ounce of that he really cared. 

But all you saw was a blank stare. 

You felt your heart sink, and right then, you realized he no longer cared.

It was over.

You let him go. 

You could only watch him as he opened the door of your shared apartment and walked out. He walked out sparing no words. No goodbyes. Nothing. He left as if he was never there. 

You watched as his figure grew distant until he was out of your peripheral view. You remembered the memories, the moments, the joy that you shared. You remembered the feeling of love that you had for him. You remembered it all, and it hurt. So bad. Heavy sobs wreaked havoc on your body as you felt the emptiness that his absence left. 

.

His POV:

I can’t keep hearing her voice call my name out like that. I can’t be here for another minute. I can’t. 

‘You’re a fucking coward’ I know. ‘You didn’t keep your promise’ You don’t think I know that? All of the guilt I’m feeling… it’s gnawing at me. ‘How could you hurt the only woman you’ve ever truly loved?’ Stop. Don’t do this... ‘She doesn’t deserve this’ I said–

“Don’t do this, y/n.”

Wait, no, I didn't mean that– I–

He doesn’t need to look at you to know what you're feeling. God. He knows you like the back of his hand. He can just feel your heart breaking. And it was because of him. The one person you let into your heart, who you deeply trusted with everything and anything, and he was the reason why you were currently falling apart in front of him. 

He’s fighting everything that is screaming at him to go and embrace you in his arms. To apologize for what he’s doing to you. To tell you that this is not your fault. To tell you that.. he loves you too. He always has. Words can't accumulate how much he loves you. He needs you like the air he breathes-- god, he needs you more than he needs himself, he needs you more than anything. And he wants to tell you,

But he can’t. 

And it's agonizing.

He’d rather have all of his fans hate him. Sending him hateful messages, and so many demeaning words because he knows that it could never add up to the pain he's giving you. 

He wants to be selfish. He wants to love you in broad daylight. To take you out for romantic dinners in public. To hold you and kiss you for more than 5 seconds. But he simply can’t. 

He looks back at you and wishes he didn’t because it made everything so much harder. He takes in the sight before him. Your eyes were bloodshot and puffy with tears pouring out, causing your mascara to stain your reddened cheeks. Your hair was disheveled and frizzy in contrast to your normal hair which was soft whenever he played with it. You looked so tired. So.. out of it. And he wants to beat himself up for making you feel like that. This sight of you was his greatest fear. It was enough for his chest to churn, feeling like his own heart was about to implode.  

But he somehow managed to keep a stone, cold face. 

But right then, for a split second, he ignored what everyone said and his hand twitched just a little bit enough for him to almost reach out and hold your hand and–

You let go.

No. Why did you let go? 

Wait. But isn’t this what he wanted?

Why is he hesitating?

Is this truly what he wanted? 

But he can’t think for himself. Not when he’s held accountable for his other members, and for his own sake and future. 

So he does the unforgivable and walks past you. Bidding no goodbyes. Not even a last look behind his shoulder. Just nothing. He left as if he was never there. 

✶ CLOUD NINE

❛ 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇───𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖺 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽’𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌.

⌇ 2024 ៸៸ 爱 psh 𝔁 f!ocmember › ⌗ our story ? mila experiencing cuteness aggression after sunghoon has his wisdom tooth removed. REQ! ﹆ beware... nothing ^^ ✉️ ᝰ a little drabble to get out of writer’s block (੭˘͈ᵕ˘͈)੭ ❪ THE ✦ LIBRARY ❫

MILA LOVED ALL THINGS CUTE AND FLUFFY. So of course she loved her boyfriend’s cheeks, which were all round and oh-so-biteable, especially with the slight swelling from his recent wisdom tooth removal.

“You’re so cute,” she blurted, unable to keep her hands from poking the breadroll that was Park Sunghoon. He slightly winced from the contact, and Mila retracted her hand with a hasty, “Sorry.”

Mila still remembered when he first got home from the procedure. He was loopy—well, loopier than usual—and couldn’t last a second without blurting out the most adorable rambles while clinging to her like a baby, pouting and whining whenever one of the members stole her attention. He was just so… so… munchable! (Was that a word?) And the sight of his puffy cheeks as he scrolled on his phone made her heart and fists clench with the urge to attack him (affectionately, of course).

“You’re staring,” Sunghoon said, looking over the top of his phone to where Mila sat on his bed with a pillow in her lap, neither cuddling nor coddling him, but remaining fixated on his face for the past half an hour or so.

Mila nodded. “Eung.”

She didn’t offer any explanation after that, and Sunghoon pouted before turning his attention back to his phone. When he wasn’t looking, Mila shuffled closer to him. She continued to get closer ubefore stopping when he looked directly at her.

“What are you doing?” Sunghoon asked.

“Nothing.” Mila blinked innocently. “Don’t mind me.”

Sunghoon hummed, before turning his attention back to his phone. Mila immediately took the chance to lean down and enclose her mouth around one of his cheeks—her lips covering her teeth—and applying the slightest bit of pressure. “Nom.” She giggled before pulling away, watching as Sunghoon raised a hand to his cheek.

He turned to Mila with a smile. “What was that for?”

Mila shrugged. “Just because.” She swiftly leant down to place a peck on his other cheek. “I can’t help it.”

Sunghoon chuckled. “You did it wrong.”

Mila titled her head curiously. Sunghoon smiled as he let his phone fall to his chest before reaching up to cup Mila’s cheeks in his hands. Without another word, he brought her face down to his, pressing his lips softly against her squished cheek, causing her to giggle. Then when she least expected it, he let his fangs protruded form his lip, the canine subtly pricking the soft skin, causing her to whine in protest.

Sunghoon pulled away while laughing, as Mila pouted at him. “What was that for?”

“Just because.” Sunghoon smiled warmly as he pulled her down to his chest, nuzzling his cheek against hers. “I can’t help it.”

And Mila loved all things fluffy and cute. So of course she loved this moment right here and now.

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 – 𝟏𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝

⤥ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⤥ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬!𝐀𝐔

⤥ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐀 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐀 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲'𝐬 𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤.

⤥ 𝐜𝐰: 𝐝𝐲𝐬𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐦

← 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 — 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 →

(A/N: they're flirting your honour 🫣 anyway, there it is babies!!! it's a little insight into the nishimura dynamics which means we're now on our way to angst wave no.3 let's go!🤭 thank you guys SO much for all the love and sweet feedback on the previous chapter, i love and appreciate you all so so so much!!!!💗🥺 reblogs are always appreciated!!!🫧💕)

TAGLIST: @soonigiri @en-happiness @lhsvibez @dammit-jjk @heerinnie @primroselover @jungwon-xo @szkstay @lostwonderwall @hoonieluv @certifiedmoa @doodlelibrary @ikeuizm @kpoprhia @sleeping-demons @jongszn @imtoanonymousforyou @lalalovejay @ineedsomezzz @xrr-s4sha @ariadores @viagumi @electrobutterfly @mimikittysblog @blurryriki @heelcvr @wonkifangirl @joonzseoulmate @kwiwin @hoondiors @seuomo @zerasari @love-you-twice @aloverga @marz-mars @velvtcherie @niniissus @abrazosolorcereza @ddazed-lhs @acphengene @skz-streamer @kshoshi @tya0 @yizhoutv @jebetwo @myheelody @seokgyuu @blockbusterhee @l0vee-l3tters @luvkpopp

This!!!

DON’T BE A SHEEP. A LESSON ABOUT TRUST FROM YOUR OLDER SISTER ON TUMBLR.

if anyone here is trying to defend taeil, please feel free to unfollow and block me right now. it’s true that i never would have thought he could do something so disgusting and vile. it’s true that he hasn’t been trialled and found guilty by the court as of yet. but there’s a difference between rumours spread by netizens and an official statement released by the company.

we don’t know these people. we don’t know what goes on behind the cameras when no one is looking. there is absolutely no reason for us to believe everything that they tell us, and i am not going to blindly follow someone just because they were my comfort person, or my fave, or whatever. remember that people like taeil are meant to make us love them. they’re meant to put on a mask. they’re meant to make us follow them, to worship the ground they walk on—that’s why they’re called idols. but we can’t afford to let our own bias cloud our ability to see the truth.

think of me as an older sister for a second, giving you advice from the bottom of my heart. i really hope that any young followers of mine who may be seeing this, and especially any young girls, would please remember this: as someone who has seen for themselves just how easy it is for people we trust wholeheartedly to betray us—think for yourself, do not follow people without thought. not every person is going to hurt you, but not every person is as kind as you think. so never trust the image that people show you—especially if they’re entertainers, and especially if they’re men.

Tulips bloom in our tears

🌷 a series where you and riki love each other in every life. [inspired by nessa barrett songs]

in your first life you promised riki that you would love him the same in every life, and he promised he’d love you forever. what you didn’t know was that the gods heard your promises, and they cried for you. your fate in that life was already decided, you were born to die early, and he was born to live forever. the gods tears fell from the clouded abyss, disguised as rain. they cried for the wandering boy, the boy who couldn’t get in. they wished for a miracle, oh and what a miracle it was. the couples fate was changed, they would meet and fall in love all the same in every life. who knew all it took was a wish on the tears, the everlasting tulips bloomed in the holes of their melancholic love and created their own heaven.

but why does it seem like most of them end in tragedy

their first life

now playing : i can’t get in

↳ “what if i can’t get in? how will i see you again?”

everyone told him that he will get over it; that he will get over you. but they don’t understand, no one ever does. they say he’s wasting his life mourning over someone who won’t come back, that he needs to move on. they don’t understand that you were his life, and when you died everything he loved about himself died along with you. you were the thing he loved the most about himself, and without you everything is black and white. no matter how many times he tried to get to you, he never could.

🤍🩵

their second life

now playing : i’ve never loved you more

↳ “we can pretend that this didn’t happen”

he tried his best, he always did. but sometimes his best just wasn’t good enough for you. you knew he was busy with his career, but you didn’t sign up to have a part time boyfriend. he wanted to be there for you, it was just hard. you knew he didn’t understand, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less. he never knew about the obvious hourglass, and he especially didn’t know about how it was almost completely out. he was too late, he’s always been bad at time. even the sand didn’t wait for him, how could he expect love to? all you wanted was to be loved by him, i guess we can’t hold other people to our own expectations.

🤍🩵

their third life

now playing : you’re more than beautiful, you’re mine

↳ you’re lucky that you’re pretty”

after hearing his label mates new song riki decided to show her that there’s more to her than her body. he’s heard of her, everyone has. she’s untouchable, with visuals that rival the beauty of the night sky. she’s everywhere, her face plastered on every billboard and bus alike. her voice sounds from every platform, her velvety voice attracts the ears of everyone, hypnotizing them and drawing them into the ad. and finally she’s there, crying in her practice room with her arms wrapped around her body with her new solo blasting in the room. riki’s admired her from afar, and now it’s time to show her why he loves her. and why she should love herself.

🤍🩵

their forth life

now playing : even blindfolded i’d still find you

↳ “so it’s you and me against the world”

two dancers, two blindfolds, one song. regionals were coming up and deceils academy was scrambling for something different, for something no one was expecting. nishimura riki, leader of the male dance team. and arguably the best dancer in the entire academy. well thats what everyone assumed until the dance team stumbled upon her. Ln yn, the star figure skater. and arguably the schools biggest loner. what better way to not only win regionals but to hopefully soften the cold leader then to submit them as a duo. seems pretty easy right? well not only do they have to dance as a duo, but blindfolded. two souls who’ve always had trouble trusting others now had to put complete trust in each other.

🤍🩵

their fifth life

now playing : a stars reunion

↳ “hell is right around the corner, but it’s heaven next to you”

the end of the world was approaching and like an avalanche they all fell down. it was just them left, their stairs creaked with the weight of their burdens. in the late nights of the apocalypse they only have each other and the stars, until they only have the stars. the monsters sounded from outside their hut, but when they’re together everything will be alright. even the end of the world couldn’t stop their love, until it did.

🤍🩵

their sixth life

now playing : true loves kiss is a fraud, isn’t it?

↳ “praying on a lucky star”

even though they’ve attended the same school since elementary they’ve never interacted with each other. they always got placesin different classes, and their friend groups couldn’t be anymore different. their timelines never entwined. but they doesn’t mean that it will always stay that way. sometimes the things you could grow to love the most could be right in front of you, or on the kiss cam above you.

🤍🩵

their seventh life

now playing : 4 5683 968, 4'6 76779

↳ “you think you can keep me?”

he shouldn’t be in love with his best friends brother, god it makes him sick. it makes him sick how obsessed he is, how he would do anything for the boy who makes him feel alive. he loves him so much, that’s why he has to do this. he tells himself that every morning while looking into the mirror, he tells himself that after avoiding him all day at school. he tells himself that after constantly breaking his heart. he loved him, but not enough to keep him. riki was selfish, and his reputation meant everything to him. but was his reputation worth losing the love of his life? he was too dumb, and too late. he already lost him, he was gone. riki never got to say goodbye, all that was left to prove their existence was the photos in riki’s private photo album and the voice memo left in his messages. “i love you, i’m sorry”. but riki didn’t know that love had different plans for him, he had a chance at love again.

🤍🩵

their eighth life

now playing : they couldn’t save you, but i will

↳ “i don’t want to live without you”

nishimura riki’s parents hated everyone, so why were they now sitting in a crowded venue with a video camera sat on his mother’s shoulder, and a huge bouquet of flowers clutched in his fathers arms? most importantly, why are they cheering and screaming this random girl’s name with huge, blinding, smiles on their usual stoic faces? riki grew up hearing his parents tell him to stay away from everyone who wasn’t like him, who wasn’t like them. riki kept a close friend group his whole life, only befriending the other kids in their mafia. it came to a shock to everyone when riki’s parents suddenly became extremely protective over a mysterious girl, a girl who they refuse to introduce to anyone for her safety. riki was curious about this person who his parents started talking up, about this girl who apparently was perfect for him. he was appalled, his stone cold parents trying to set him up with a girl? impossible. it was only a matter of time until their paths cross, and he too falls for her innocence.

🤍🩵

their ninth life

now playing : you’re prettiest with me

↳ “bang bang”

at first this hit was just like every other one, just another notch to add on your belt. everything was going smoothly, all you had to do was pull the trigger. as your finger tensed to prepare to pull the trigger your eyes suddenly connected, he was looking towards you. no, he was looking directly at you. and if life couldn’t get worse your soulmate mark suddenly started tingling, your vision gaining gold hues around the edges. his thoughts echoed across your head in the most pleasurable way, “what’s in your hands?”. and without a second to think you idiotically blurted out the first thing you could think of, “a gummy gun”. who would’ve though that his laughter would now be your favourite audio in the universe.

🤍🩵

their tenth life

now playing : when the world is silent you shine brighter

↳ “i’ve never felt so alive”

nishimura riki was obsessed. the way your smile gleamed brighter than the solar eclipse, your eyes pulling up in a beautiful array of stars pulled from the galaxy. everyone knew who you were, your title following you all throughout your highschool life. your title never bothered him, something he made very obvious since the beginning. he accidentally caught your eye one morning after bumping into you, and his actions that followed after. rather than spitting our a rushed feigned apology before rushing away, he confidently stood there with his hand in a fist against his chest. he watched as your eyes followed his wrist as it made a full circle, then watched as your mouth pulled up into the very smile that’s been running through his mind since he first saw you. however what you didn’t know was that everyday for the last year he’s been taking lessons to learn sign language for you, to finally talk with you.

🤍🩵 🤍🩵 🤍🩵 🤍🩵 🤍🩵 🤍🩵 🤍🩵

started : ??

ended : ??

wc ~10-15k each

warnings will be listed with the fic. some will be fem reader pov and others m reader pov.

when the silence breaks

part 1 | masterlist | requesting rules

summary: after a painful night at the club, the days that followed are filled with silence and heartache. that is, until a late-night knock at your door comes from a drenched and regretful yet determined max verstappen.

NOTE: no warnings are really needed, all you need to know is this is a part 2, and it’s just angst with a happy ending/ hurt+comfort.

w.c: 2.1k

a/n: part 2 to the max angst, this was written for the lovely @inevesgf again of course; but there was a few requests for a part 2 from you guys so here it is! i hope you all enjoy the ending, and let me know your thoughts on this via reblog, comments or asks! reminder that requests are open if you guys have any ideas.

it’s been a few days since the incident at the club, and the emotional toll has weighed on you heavily. every time your phone buzzes, you always look over in hope that one of the notifications are from max, but it’s never him.

the silence was deafening.

you’ve spent the past few days in a haze, constantly replaying the night at the club in your head, each time you remember what was said you feel a shot through your chest, negative emotions overtaking you.

tonight you’re having a night in, blanket wrapped around your shoulders on the sofa as you try to distract yourself with one of your favourite films. it doesn’t do much to help though, because it doesn’t take long for memories of max to come flooding in; it was his favourite movie too.

you end up barely paying attention, the tv merely acting as a background light. the sounds of rain battering against the window only adds to the melancholy atmosphere.

you realised you were gaining nothing from this, so you’re about to give up on the film when a sudden knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts. with furrowed brows you glance over to the clock, which lets you know it’s just past eleven. you debate in your mind if it’s worth even answering— who knocks on someone’s door at this time of night?

but against your better judgement, you hesitantly make your way to the front door. your heart is pounding, anxiety running through your body as your hand shakily reaches for the handle. looking around, you realise you have nothing to protect yourself with, should this be a scary encounter.

you were ready to be met with horrors at the other side of the door, but you weren’t expecting to be met with the sight of a soaked max verstappen. he’s drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead from the rain, and his clothes sticking to him uncomfortably. despite his disheveled appearance, there’s a mix of determination and regret in his eyes.

you hadn’t even noticed the bunch of flowers he was holding until he shuffled them in his hands, and only then did they catch your eye. your eyes widened in shock, seeing that he had bought you your favourite flowers. “i know they’re a little.. worse for wear,” he awkwardly coughed out, holding them out for you.

you took them from his grasp, muttering a thank you as you held them to your chest. your eyes fitted over max again, watching as he anxiously moved from balancing his weight on one foot to another.

for a moment, neither of you speaks another word. the silence is thick, and there’s words on the tip of both your tongues, but you don’t dare speak first, and it seems like he doesn’t either.

the intensity of his gaze is what’s keeping you grounded, not letting your thoughts get the better of you. you can’t seem to break eye contact with him, and it seems like an eternity before your body finally moves; and you signal for him to come inside as you step to the side.

max nods at you, taking one step inside before he turns his head turns to look at you. his presence is overwhelming, your back against the wall as you continue to stare up at him. you gulp at the proximity, letting out a shaky breath before you tell him to head into the living room.

your words break him out of whatever trance he was in, and he lets out a low hum as he follows your instructions. you close the front door as he walks away, letting out a deep sigh before turning around, walking into the living room as you try to calm your nerves down.

you’re stood at the doorframe of the living room, leaning against it as you wait for him to take a seat on the sofa. but it never happens, max simply doing a 180 to face you. the tension is palpable, the air thick with unresolved emotions.

it’s silent for a few moments before max is the first one to speak up. “i’m sorry,” is all he manages to get out, his voice low yet hoarse. it’s only now that he’s inside and out of the rain you can actually see it— he’s been crying. it the hoarse voice wasn’t a giveaway, his eyes were red and his cheeks were flushed— and it was obvious it wasn’t just raindrops rolling down his cheeks.

you sigh, shaking your head at him. “max, you don’t need to apologise, it’s my fault we’re in this mess,” you told him, eyes trained on the wooden flooring beneath your feet. swallowing hard, you felt tears stinging at the back of your eyes as you let out a shaky breath. a sad smile paints itself upon your lips as you finally meet eye contact with him again. “you don’t have to feel the same way, max. i shouldn’t have said anything about my feelings that night, especially when i was far from sober.”

max’s eyes widen in surprise, your response far different from what he was expecting. it takes a couple of moments before his brain finally connects the dots; that you’re under the impression he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings. panic flashes across his features as he quickly shakes his head at you. “no, no, that’s not what i meant,” he begins to explain himself, stepping closer to where you are in the doorframe. “i didn’t come to tell you that i don’t love you.”

your gaze is casted upon the floor again, not having it in yourself to look at him. your heart aches as you try to keep your composure, “max, really— it’s fine,” you insist, despite the tremble in your voice. “i don’t need you to reassure me you love me in a different way, i know it’s platonic.” you tell him, eyes closing when you see his feet fall into your eyesight.

max feels a wave of desperation wash over him as he hears how hurt you are, the defeat evident in your voice. he reaches out, gently grabbing onto your forearm as he pulls at it, uncrossing your folded arms. he gives your arm a squeeze and instinctively you look up at him. you can see the distress in his eyes, his confidence he has every other day is non-existent at this moment in time.

you go to take your arm back, but max’s grip is firm, a contrast to the soft “stop” he let’s out in return. the desperation in his voice captivates you, and you find yourself listening to him, and what he has to say.

just a moment ago you could see the distress in his eyes, but now— now, they were clouded with too many emotions to read, especially in your current state. the seconds feel like hours, the silence between you both almost suffocating. you want to stand your ground, tell him to let you go, let him know he doesn’t need to say what you already know— but the words are stuck in your throat, tangled with the fear you’re feeling.

max opens his mouth before shutting it again, his jaw clenched as he tries to make sense of his thoughts and he wants to say. “i… i need you to listen to me,” he finally says, his own voice trembling. he lets go of your arm, and instead of stepping back, he takes another step closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours.

your heart races as you look up at him, the space between you both slowly becoming non-existent, aswell as the fierce eye contact felt like it was going to kill you. “max.. if you’re going to say you don’t feel the same, you don’t have to—“

“that’s not it!” he lets out desperately, shaking his head sharply as he interrupts you. he runs a hand through his damp hair, his frustration evident. he’s never been the best with his words, never the type to open up to you about feelings such as infatuation or love, his emotions were always a touchy topic. you can tell he’s wrestling with his thoughts, trying to get the truth out to you.

“i was scared,” he admits, his voice rough with emotion. “i’ve been scared of messing this up, of losing you, and that fear—“ he stops himself for a moment, inhaling deeply and tries to gather himself. “that fear made me push you away, and i shut myself off. and i regret it, i regret it so much, because it gave off the impression i didn’t care, or that i didn’t feel the same.”

your breath hitches, your heart rate quickening as you process what he just told you. the pounding in your ears from your heartbeat was almost too much to bare, but you pushed through because you needed to know what he was going to say. “then why..?” you trail off shakily, allowing max to explain himself.

max met your gaze again, and this time the emotions in his eyes were clear and unmistakable, and it caused a deep warmth to heat up your cheeks. “because i do love you,” he confesses so quietly, you wondered if you made it up until you continues to talk, “and that terrified me. it still does to an extent. but the thought of losing you is so much worse.”

your breath catches in your throat as you take in everything he said, allowing max’s words to sink in. you’ve spent so long hoping and dreaming for this moment, in so many different scenarios— but never did you imagine this specific one.

“i love you,” he repeats, his voice still quiet, scared as if the words are going to do more damage than he had caused previously.

you know you heard him right when he repeated it, and it didn’t do anything to slower your heartbeat, rather it made it pound even harder. without thinking, you move a little closer, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek, searching for the tiniest bit of proof to help you realise this is all real, and not some sick dream. his skin is warm beneath your touch, and that simple feeling sends a rush through your veins.

“max,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer, like a question, like a thousand emotions wrapped up in one word.

max doesn’t wait any longer. in one swift motion, he closes the distance between you, his hands finding your waist and pulling you against him. there’s a brief moment where both of you hesitate, breath mingling in the tiny space between you, eyes locked onto one another for confirmation.

then, with a soft, almost desperate sound, his lips crash onto yours. the kiss is everything, months of pent-up emotion, of hope, longing and — especially the past few nights — fear, all rolled into one. it’s messy, passionate and perfect in its on way. his hands don’t stop moving, going from gripping your waist, tangling in your hair to then cradling your face, like he’s afraid you might disappear once his touch leaves you.

you kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring everything you’ve felt— every ounce of love, every moment of doubt, every fear of rejection— into that kiss. the world around you fades; the only thing that exists at this very moment is max. the feeling of him, the taste of him and the overwhelming relief of finally, finally having him close.

you finally pull apart from one another, gasping for air as your foreheads rest against each other, the both of you breathing heavily. his hands move back to their position on your waist, thumbs circling your sides as if he’s trying to ground himself in the moment.

“god, i’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he murmurs, breath hot against your lips.

a small smile tugs at your lips as you nod against him, your voice still shaky, “me too,” you admit, just as breathless.

for a moment neither of you say anything else. you just stand there, holding each other, basking in the warmth of the moment. it’s not the picture perfect confession you’d imagined, but it’s real, and that’s all that mattered.

max finally pulls back, just enough to look into your eyes. “i’m sorry,” he whispers softly, his hand moving to your cheek as his thumb strokes it. “for everything. especially for how i acted at the club.”

you shake your head, your heart swelling with many emotions— love, relief and forgiveness, to name a few. “it’s okay,” you mutter back breathlessly, leaning to place a soft kiss against his lips, sealing your words with the simple act. “we’ll figure stuff out, and we’ll work on it.”

and with that, the night ends not with the bitter taste of regret, but with sweet promise of something new, something real and something worth fighting for.

This is so good 😭

♪ — 𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗪𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗙𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗦? lando norris x best friend! reader ( angst ) fic summary . . . like others before you, like it's a curse, if you start out as friends, you don't finish off as friends (5k words)

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

2013

The three of you sat perched on a wooden platform overlooking the track, swinging your legs as the older kids raced below. The sky was a deep orange, the sun slowly dipping behind the trees, casting long shadows across the asphalt.

It smelled like fuel, burnt rubber, and the sweet vanilla ice cream sandwiches melting in your hands.

Lando, as usual, was the one talking the most. “One day, we’re gonna be better than all of them.” He gestured to the racers speeding past. “Like, properly better. F1 better.”

You chuckled, raising an eyebrow at him as you took another bite of your ice cream sandwich. “Bold of you to assume you’ll even fit in an F1 car,” you teased. “They already have you Velcroed to your kart seat because you used to fly out. What’s the plan? Glue?”

Lando scoffed, turning to you with an exaggerated look of offense. “Excuse you, I was small and aerodynamic.”

“You were a human paperclip.”

“At least I didn’t spin every time the wind hit me wrong.”

Before you could fire back, Max, who had been sitting in between you both, sighed dramatically and shoved his half-eaten ice cream sandwich straight into both your faces.

Cold, sticky vanilla smeared across your cheek. You gasped, jerking back as Lando let out a high-pitched noise of protest.

Max, completely unfazed, continued eating what was left of his ice cream. “Shut up, both of you,” he said, as if he hadn’t just committed an act of war.

You and Lando turned to each other, ice cream dripping from your faces, then back to Max.

“Oh, you’re dead,” Lando declared.

Max barely had time to react before the two of you launched at him, sticky hands smearing the rest of your desserts across his hair, his cheeks, anywhere you could reach.

The three of you tumbled onto the platform in a mess of laughter, shoving, and half-hearted kicks.

It was one of those moments you never thought you’d lose.

2018

Lando’s house felt warm, filled with the kind of easy comfort that only years of friendship could build. You were sprawled on his couch, Max sitting cross-legged on the floor, a half-finished bag of crisps between you. It felt just like old times—no pressures, no media, no cutthroat competition. Just the three of you.

And then Lando dropped the bombshell.

“I got the seat.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

Lando grinned, bouncing slightly where he sat. “McLaren. Next year. I’m gonna be a Formula 1 driver.”

For a second, there was silence. Then—chaos.

“NO. WAY!” Max shot up, grabbing Lando in a chokehold-hug, shaking him back and forth. “YOU’RE LYING.”

“Mate, I literally just said it, why would I—”

You barely let Lando finish before launching yourself at him too, arms wrapping tightly around both of them. “HOLY SHIT! LANDO, YOU’RE IN FORMULA 1!”

Lando laughed, his voice almost breathless from the force of your excitement. “I KNOW!”

The three of you clung to each other, giddy and weightless, like kids in a candy store.

When you finally let go, you turned to Max, determination flashing in your eyes. “We have to catch up, Max. We can’t let Lando enjoy the dream alone.”

Max smirked, nudging you. “Yeah, he’ll get a big head otherwise.”

Lando groaned, already regretting letting you two in his house. “Oh, great. Here we go.”

And just like that, the celebration turned into a roast session.

“Do you think they’re giving you a booster seat for the car?” you mused, tapping your chin.

Max snapped his fingers. “What about pedal extenders? Are those FIA-approved?”

“Oh, shut up,” Lando whined, throwing a pillow at both of you.

The night ended with all three of you curled up in sleeping bags on Lando’s living room floor, talking about what the future would look like. You laughed until your stomachs hurt, teasing and reminiscing, the weight of reality kept at bay for just a little longer.

By the time you got home the next morning, the high of the night before had faded into something colder, heavier—anxiety creeping up your back like the Other Mother from Coraline, whispering in your ear that time was ticking.

The metals of your dream clawed at your spine, a warning, a reminder—it’s now or never.

Lando had his McLaren seat. George had Williams. Alex had Red Bull.

And you?

You refused to let it end here. You refused to be left behind.

So you wasted no time. You spent the next few months fighting tooth and nail—getting on every call, talking to every team, pushing harder in every F2 race until your body ached from the effort. You couldn’t let up, couldn’t breathe, not until you had something.

And in the end, it paid off.

Sauber.

A vacant seat after Charles moved up to Ferrari. A chance. A shot.

The first thing you did? You invited Lando and Max to your diner—the same childhood spot where the three of you had spent countless nights in sticky vinyl booths, inhaling burgers and fries, talking about the future like it was already written for you.

They were messy eaters, as always. Lando had ketchup smeared at the corner of his mouth, and Max had a fry halfway to his lips when you slid a piece of paper across the table.

Your contract.

For a second, there was silence. The paper sat between them, your name printed at the bottom in ink that had barely dried.

Then—

“NO. FUCKING. WAY.”

Lando let out a yell so loud the entire diner turned to stare. Max, mouth still full of fries, made a sound between a choke and a cheer.

Then they both launched at you, pulling you into a hug across the table, fries and drinks nearly toppling over as they shouted over each other.

“I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT—”

“OH MY GOD, YOU LEGEND—”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS—”

“We’re actually doing it,” you gasped between laughter, arms still tangled around them. “We’re actually going to be in F1 together.”

And that’s how you got kicked out of the diner.

Well, technically, Lando stood on top of a chair and yelled something about "generational talent," which got you all thrown out, but still. Worth it.

As the three of you walked out into the night air, still giggling and breathless, you and Lando turned to Max.

“Your turn,” you said in unison.

Max hesitated. He looked at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know, guys… I’m still in Formula Renault. It’s gonna take much longer for me.”

You and Lando deflated.

“But…” you started, searching for the words.

Lando took over. “That doesn’t mean you won’t get there.” He clapped a hand on Max’s shoulder. “You can’t give up. You belong with us.”

Max forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

And maybe, at the time, you really thought it was true.

2019

The three of you stood at the edge of the paddock, the sun hanging low in the morning sky, painting the track in golden light. You and Lando were already in your race suits, helmets tucked under your arms, while Max—still very much retired—rocked a team-neutral hoodie and his signature smirk.

“I have an idea,” Lando said, rubbing his hands together. “Rock, paper, scissors. Best of one. Winner gets Max in their garage for Sunday. Loser has him for quali.”

You snorted. “Like he’s some prize?”

“I am a prize, actually,” Max deadpanned, crossing his arms.

You ignored him and held out your fist. “Alright, Norris. Let’s do this.”

Lando did the same, and Max counted you down. “Three… two… one…”

You threw out scissors.

Lando threw paper.

A slow grin spread across your face. “Oh, this is so satisfying.”

Lando groaned dramatically, shoving his helmet onto his head. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” you sang, already stepping backward toward your garage, wiggling your fingers in a smug wave. “See you on Sunday, boys.”

Max clapped Lando on the back. “Can’t believe you choked that, mate.”

Lando grumbled something under his breath, dragging his feet toward McLaren.

On race day, Max stood in your garage, arms crossed as he watched the screens, tracking your every move on the circuit. Every lap, every turn, every scrap for position. You weren’t in the points yet, but you were fighting.

And then—P11. Just one spot away.

Lando finished P12, right behind you.

It wasn’t a podium. It wasn’t even points.

But it didn’t matter.

When you parked your car in parc fermé, your hands were still shaking from adrenaline. Lando’s McLaren pulled in right beside yours, and the moment he climbed out, he made a beeline for you, shoving your shoulder.

“You beat me.”

You smirked, shoving him back. “I did beat you.”

Lando gasped, feigning betrayal. “You’re not supposed to rub it in!”

“You’d rub it in!”

“Well, yeah, but—”

You both dissolved into laughter, playfully pushing at each other until your arms were tangled together, until it turned into a hug—one filled with giddy relief and the sheer overwhelming feeling of we did it.

Max watched from the sidelines, shaking his head with a small smile. “Bunch of idiots,” he muttered under his breath. But there was pride in his eyes.

The three of you had dreamed about this since you were kids.

And now?

Now it was real.

By the time Abu Dhabi rolled around, you and Lando had both finished your rookie seasons with points under your belts.

Sure, Lando ended up 11th in the standings while you finished just behind in 12th, but neither of you cared. If anything, it made things more fun—an unspoken rivalry that never turned bitter, just fueled your banter.

“You only finished ahead of me ‘cause McLaren’s faster,” you teased as you kicked your feet up on the restaurant booth, stealing a fry from Lando’s plate.

He scoffed, snatching it back before you could pop it in your mouth. “And you only finished one place behind me because I let you.”

Max let out a laugh from across the table, nearly choking on his drink. “Yeah, right,” he said, nudging Lando. “You were sweating every time she was in your mirrors.”

“I was not sweating—”

“Mate, I was in your garage for half the season. You were definitely sweating.”

Lando rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, knowing he was outnumbered. Instead, he grabbed a handful of his fries and chucked them at Max.

That was enough to start an all-out war.

Max launched a piece of his burger at Lando’s face. You flicked a spoonful of ketchup at Max’s hoodie. Lando retaliated by shoving a napkin full of salt in your lap, making you yelp and nearly knock over your drink. The three of you were loud and messy and probably two seconds away from getting kicked out.

It felt exactly like karting days—where there were no points, no contracts, no expectations. Just the three of you, laughing until your stomachs hurt.

Sure, Lando had bonded with Carlos that year, and you had somehow managed to crack Kimi Räikkönen’s icy exterior enough to make him chuckle a few times—a massive badge of honor, in your opinion. But no matter how many new friends you made in the paddock, at the end of the day, the three of you always ended up here.

Together.

2020

You sat at the dinner table, arms crossed on the surface, head resting against them. You hadn’t moved in a while. The glow from the kitchen light made the tear tracks on your face glisten, but you weren’t crying anymore.

Lando sat a few meters away on the couch, silent. He was never silent. But now, he was staring blankly at the floor, elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked, like if he loosened his grip, he might break too.

Max had quit racing. Dropped out of F3.

He had said it so easily, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t spent over a decade chasing this dream with you and Lando, pushing through the grind of karting, junior formulas, training, race weekends, victories, and heartbreaks—all of it.

And now he was walking away. Just like that.

“I think I just need a break,” Max had said, voice steady, unreadable. “For my own sake.”

You understood. Of course, you did. You and Lando both did. Racing wasn’t just about driving fast. It was politics and pressure and expectations. It was eating, breathing, living the sport and leaving no room for anything else. And sometimes, it broke you before you even got to where you wanted to be.

Max had burned out before he could even get the chance.

And the worst part was, you felt like it was your fault.

You had been the one pushing him. Encouraging him to move up, hurry up, because you and Lando had made it, and he had to, too. It was supposed to be the three of you, like always. And in trying to keep him from being left behind, you had unknowingly pushed him over the edge.

But you didn’t say that.

Instead, you had hugged him. Tight. Like you could somehow hold everything together just by keeping him close.

“I respect your decision,” you had whispered against his shoulder, voice thick, tears in your eyes.

The crash was hard. Not in the physical sense—sure, the impact rattled you, and climbing out of the car with gravel stuck in every crevice of your suit was a pain, but it wasn’t that bad. You had worse in junior formulas.

What was bad was watching your best-ever result slip through your fingers.

P5. It was right there.

But Carlos had oversteered, lost control, and taken you with him into the gravel trap. The second you felt the hit, you knew it was over.

You had swallowed down the frustration when the engineer came on the radio. Your voice had been clipped, measured. “Yeah. I’m okay.” And then you climbed out, gave a wave to the crowd, and started the long walk back.

But the sting didn’t really settle in until you got back to your driver room. Until you sat on the little couch, helmet off, hands on your knees, staring at the ground as the DNF fully registered.

And it burned even worse when you heard that Lando had gone straight to Carlos.

Comforting him.

Lando—your Lando—was in the McLaren garage, talking to his teammate, making sure he was alright. And you?

You were here. Alone.

Waiting.

For a second, you thought, Maybe he just hasn’t gotten the chance yet. Maybe he’d text. Maybe he’d pop into your garage later, like he always did. Maybe—

Your phone vibrated. You snatched it up, pulse kicking up in anticipation.

It wasn’t Lando.

It was Max. "Shitty luck today. You okay?"

And then your mom. "I saw the crash, sweetheart. Call me when you can."

And then—Lando’s mom.

Your throat tightened.

You responded to Max first. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just pissed."

Three dots. He was typing. "Understandable. Want me to insult Carlos for you?"

A wet laugh bubbled up in your throat, but it didn’t quite make it out. You swallowed hard. "Please."

Max sent back a voice note that was mostly just an annoyed rant about Carlos, and karma coming back to bite him in the ass. It helped a little.

You sat there for a long time, staring at your phone, waiting for a message from Lando. But it never came.

2021

The leaves are starting to rust at the edges. The paddock smells like oil, fresh tire rubber, and something a little sweet—like nostalgia fermenting in the heat.

The announcement had dropped that morning. Yn Ln to Ferrari, 2022. Your face, glowing in red, on every screen. Headlines scream legacy, potential, fire-in-her-veins. You’re still driving for Sauber, for now. But the future is coming in scarlet.

You walk the paddock with practiced calm. Smile. Wave. Say thank you. Cameras flash. People nod. But you’re searching. Just one face.

You find Max first.

He’s leaning on the fence by the media pens, sunglasses too big for his face, grin even bigger. “Ferrari, huh?” he says, pulling you into a hug. “About time, you fast little shit.”

You laugh into his shoulder. “Thought you’d be sick of me by now.”

“Never. I’m retiring, not dead.” He pulls back, his eyes soft behind the joke. “Seriously. I’m proud of you.”

You don’t realize how much you needed that until it lands.

You talk for a bit—he asks about the simulator work, if your uncle cried yet, what kind of pasta Ferrari serves in hospitality. You ask how he is, really. He shrugs like it’s nothing, but you see the tightness in his jaw. Max has always been good at hiding the cracks. You’ve always been better at spotting them.

Eventually, he nods over his shoulder. “Have you seen him?”

Your smile falters.

“No,” you say. “Not yet.”

He just hums. Doesn’t push. That’s Max. He always knows when not to.

It’s later, past sunset, when you find Lando. He’s sitting on the steps behind the McLaren garage, fiddling with a wristband, head low. The air smells like spilled rubber and something burnt. Maybe it’s just your nerves.

You stop a few paces away, sipping slowly from a mug. Steam curls upward—thick with chocolate and memory.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He doesn’t look up. “Hey.”

“I thought you’d come find me.”

“I’m busy,” he mutters. “Media. Strategy meetings. Debrief.”

You nod, even though you walked past McLaren hospitality earlier. It was quiet as a tomb—untouched catering trays, muted highlights looping endlessly on big screens.

“You saw the news?”

“Whole world saw the news.”

You take another sip. Your fingers curl tighter around the ceramic. Red light from the garages catches on the rim, lighting up the faded black scrawl like a bruise.

Eventually, Lando glances up.

His eyes find the mug. Something shifts in him.

“You still have that?” he asks, voice low, barely above the hum of the lights.

You blink. Look down at it like it hasn’t been cradled between your palms for the last three years.

“Of course I do,” you say. Soft. Like it should’ve been obvious.

He looks away again, jaw tightening. “Congrats,” he says, flat. Like a press release. Like a stranger.

“Thanks.”

Silence blooms between you—slow, heavy, awful. The kind that sinks teeth into soft places.

You shift on your feet, suddenly too aware of all the hairline fractures running through this moment. “Are we okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just lets the question hang in the air, trembling between you like a fraying rope. Too many missed calls. Too many left-on-reads. Too many almosts.

A gust of wind tugs at your jacket. The paddock hums behind you, oblivious.

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say eventually. Your voice doesn’t shake. Not out loud.

You turn before he can say anything else. You don’t finish your drink.

The mug in your hand feels heavier than ever.

And he doesn’t stop you.

 Doesn’t even say goodbye.

Round five. Miami. Tight corners. Bad timing. Worse luck. And then the world tilts sideways.

You don’t even know who clipped who first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him. Maybe the track just didn’t want to play nice that day. But the second it happens—carbon shards, dust clouds, radio static—you know.

You know it’s Lando.

And he’s livid.

He’s out of the car before you even fully process the impact. Helmet half-off, fury full-throttle. You see him stomping across the run-off, shouting over the marshals like you murdered his race on purpose.

“You can’t even follow a damn line!” “Fucking rookie move!” “What were you even looking at?!”

You’re still strapped in. Still staring ahead. Still trying to breathe past the adrenaline choking your throat. Your hands are trembling on the steering wheel. Your visor’s fogged from the heat and the sudden shock and the way his words hit like gravel through glass.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t check if you're okay. Not even a glance. Just pure, unfiltered anger, flung like shrapnel in your direction as they start pulling him back, tugging at his fireproofs like maybe he's the one in danger here.

You're not crying. Not yet. Not really. But something inside you feels loose. Wobbly. Like a tooth that's been knocked but not pulled. You're still in the damn car.

Still hearing the crunch on loop.

 Still feeling the snap of the impact reverberating through your bones.

Still wondering if maybe it was your fault. If you ruined everything. If Ferrari’s going to rethink the whole thing now. If this is what everyone means when they whisper “too young, too fast, not ready.”

Eventually someone helps you out. Gentle hands. Calm voice. A blur. You don’t catch their name.

You don’t even realize your leg’s scraped until you see the blood on your suit.

Lando’s already gone.

2024

It starts in papaya.

Bright, blinding. The colour of summer and stupid hope. Of grins cracked too wide and champagne caught in lashes. Of him. Lando’s first win. Confetti cannons, arms raised, the world roaring his name like they always knew he could do it. Maybe they did.

You watch from the shadows of your garage. Your race suit still half-zipped, sweat cooling sticky on your back, hands curled in your lap like you forgot how to unclench. You watch the replays loop, over and over—Lando crossing the line, Lando screaming on the radio, Lando collapsing into his engineer’s arms like a boy who finally got his dream back after all the nightmares.

Your heart does that stupid thing again. That lurch. That slow roll in your chest like it’s reacting late to something it shouldn't care about.

You tell yourself it’s hunger. Low blood sugar. The kind of headache you get when you haven’t drunk enough water and your teammate’s spraying champagne three podium steps above your finish.

But it’s not that.

It’s the echo. This track. The one where you both crashed two years ago, where everything spilled out in smoke and sharp words and silence that never healed right. You remember the screech, the impact, the things he said—still crusted into the back of your mind like dried blood. Now he’s got a trophy, and you’ve got a lonely P5 and the ghost of something that used to be important.

Charles got P3. Your garage is down in parc fermé, hands in the air, hugging Charles like they’ve waited their whole lives for a glimpse of this kind of red victory. But you’re not there.

You stay back. Sit alone on a garage stool that’s slightly too cold, unzipping your suit just enough to breathe. Your gloves are still on. You haven’t even taken your helmet off yet.

It’s your day.

Ferrari in full blaze. Glory in red, engines singing. You did it.

First win. First star. First everything.

The moment swells, huge and holy. You don’t even feel the weight of it until you're in the cooldown room, back pressed to the wall, legs out, laughing into the still-hot air, Max's voice in your ear, full blast.

“I TOLD YOU! I BLOODY TOLD YOU!” You laugh so hard you drop the cap they gave you, joy curling up your spine like steam from the pavement. You're sticky with triumph, breathless with it.

Then the door swings open.

Lando. P2 hat in his hand, face unreadable.

He sees you, the phone still in your hand. “Is that Max?”

You nod. Smile. Hold it out without thinking, thinking maybe he wants to say join in, maybe the past can stay in the past today. You think he’ll grin and shout something stupid like he used to. That he'll be proud. That he’ll be proud of you.

He takes the phone.

And his voice stays flat.

He talks about his own race. The setup. The tyre deg. The strategy error on lap thirty-nine. Max says something back, cheerful and half-mocking, and Lando hands the phone back without another word. Doesn’t even look you in the eye.

The fizz in your blood dulls. Something inside flickers out. You sit there holding the phone to your chest like it’s a shield. Like it can still protect you from the fact that he didn’t care—not really. That your victory didn’t matter if it wasn’t his.

You stand on the podium together, the three of you. The air is heavy with bubbles and praise and burnt rubber.

He doesn’t spray you with champagne.

Doesn’t even turn your way.

You look up. Try to find the taste of triumph on your tongue. Try to taste what you’ve been chasing your whole damn life.

But all you get is the sharp sting of carbonated bitterness.

And the ache of something that used to be a friendship, now fizzed flat in your throat.

It’s the final race

Lando’s on pole. You’re right beside him. Red to his orange. Ferrari to his McLaren. Fire to his flame. The cameras catch it like it’s poetry—the two of you lined up, side by side, history written in every glare off your visors. You don’t look at him, not before lights out. Not even during the anthem. But your heart is beating like it knows something your brain won’t admit: that this is the one. The big one. The decider. Title fight. Winner takes it all.

The race is war. Brutal. A symphony of tire squeals and tight corners and elbows that don’t ask permission. You fight like hell, like the whole year’s been leading to this exact lap, this exact second, wheel to wheel with the boy who once swore he'd never fight you like this. The same boy who told you you deserved the world, now slicing across your front wing like he’d rather take you out than let you through. Every overtake is a punch to the ribs. Every radio call is static. It’s rage and glory and god, you think you might be crying under the helmet but there's no time to tell.

And in the end, it's him.

McLaren wins. He wins.

You lose.

The moment he crosses the line, the world explodes. Orange smoke, fists in the air, the kind of euphoria you used to dream about when you were kids racing on sims. Zach hoists him like a trophy himself, arms wrapped around Lando like he’s just watched his son conquer the gods. There’s champagne, there’s screaming, there’s the way the cameras chase him as if he is the sun.

You stand behind the barrier. Alone. Helmet still on. Your radio crackles in your ear but you don’t hear it. Your hands are still gripping the wheel in your mind, still tight, still aching. Your whole body is shaking and you don’t know if it’s adrenaline or heartbreak, but your eyes are burning. Everything inside you is burning.

You want to be happy for him. You do. You know what this means to him. You know how long he’s waited for this moment. You know every sacrifice he's made, every time he came second, every time he bit his tongue while others were crowned. You want to scream with him. You want to run and jump into that pile of mechanics, be lifted like you’re weightless. You want to feel like this mattered, even if it wasn’t your win.

But all you feel is the silence that comes after the music stops. All you feel is how no one is looking for you. All you feel is the absence of his eyes finding yours. The way he doesn’t search for you through the chaos. The way he doesn’t even check if you’re okay.

All you feel is alone.

You’re holding a half-finished bottle of water, and the ache in your throat is so real it makes you want to choke on it. It's not the kind of thirst you can quench, no matter how much you drink. It’s heavier than that. You’re still trying to swallow it all down when you hear someone shout from the hallway, “Hold the door!” So you do.

It’s him.

Lando.

He slows when he sees you standing there, frozen, the soft hiss of the elevator’s hum cutting through the silence. He stops short, eyes narrowing, like he wasn’t expecting you, like he thought he could just breeze past without noticing how broken the air is between you two.

“If I’d known it was you…” he murmurs to himself, almost too quiet, stepping in anyway, “…I’d have waited.”

But the words hang like smoke. You don’t breathe them in. You don’t move. There’s a moment of nothingness. No one speaks. The numbers above blink slowly, too slow, their yellow light slicing the quiet.

You can’t take it anymore. Your fingers clutch the water bottle like it might disappear if you don’t hold it tight enough. You don’t look at him. Not right away. But you feel the weight of his gaze pulling on you. Tugging at the jagged edges inside your chest.

"Are we still friends?" you ask, your voice so soft it almost doesn’t sound like it belongs to you. It’s like you’re praying, begging for something you know you can’t have.

Lando doesn’t answer right away. The hum of the elevator becomes too loud. Too big. It rattles your nerves.

Then, quiet as the night. "No."

The word lands between you two, heavy and final. You don’t move. You can’t. You don’t know what hurts more—the way his voice cracked the truth or the way it stung like acid.

You stare at the numbers above. They flicker. The 9th floor. Your floor’s the 13th. You press the button anyway, stopping the elevator dead in its tracks.

The doors slide open. It’s not your floor. But you don’t care. You step out without hesitation, without another word, like the weight of the world was too much for the small, cramped space of the elevator. You’d rather walk twenty flights, climb each one, than let him see you break. Than let him watch as your heart splinters into pieces you can’t put back together.

You don’t look back. Not once. Even though you know he’s standing there, frozen in the open doors.

It’s better this way.

Your relationship with Sukuna was on its last legs. You tried to make things work, but he was as difficult as it could get, and mean. After a particularly terrible fight, the two of you made up, and you began to hope again. Later that night, his friends called, inviting him to the club. You told him you weren’t comfortable with it. He agreed to stay, even tucking you into bed.

But once you fell asleep, he snuck out.

Things went downhill from there.

Sukuna and his friends drank heavily, and soon he was caught up in the chaos—laughing, dancing, and losing control. While you slept, his friends began posting videos online: Sukuna receiving a lap dance, drunk and kissing another girl, clearly high and out of his mind.

When you woke up, you reached over to find his side of the bed cold and empty. You thought he had left early for work. But then your phone started blowing up with messages from friends and strangers alike. Your heart pounded as you unlocked it and opened Instagram, only to see the posts.

One after another, each post felt like a knife to your chest—Sukuna smiling lazily, his hands on another woman, his lips brushing hers. You could see the flashing lights, hear the blaring music, and feel the sting of betrayal in every picture and clip. Your fingers trembled, and your vision blurred with tears as you watched in disbelief.

The room felt like it was spinning. You tried to steady yourself, but the weight of it all was crushing. How could he do this to you, especially after you had been so open, so vulnerable about your feelings? After he had promised to stay?

You had told him, in the heat of making up, that this was his last chance. You were clear: if he messed up again, you were packing your things and going back to the States. He had looked you in the eyes and promised. And yet, he still went and did this.

Meanwhile, Sukuna was still sleeping, his head pounding and the room spinning. He didn’t remember a damned thing the night before. He remembered sneaking out, thinking he’d make it back before sunrise, slip back into bed, and act like nothing happened. You were just being too dramatic, he thought. You’d told him how you didn’t like his friends, that they hated you and were trying to break the two of you up. He’d laughed it off as paranoia. Crazy talk.

He vaguely remembered drinking a shot—just one—and after that, things got hazy. He didn’t believe for a second that his friends would spike his drink.

No, they’d never do that… right?

But now, as he blinked his eyes open, he realized something was very wrong. Next to him was a woman he didn’t recognize, definitely not you. The sunlight was streaming through the window, and panic shot through his body like a jolt of electricity. His heart raced as he sat up, the events of the night before still a foggy blur.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered under his breath, his mind starting to piece together the fragments. You two had just made up—how could he have been so reckless?

Sukuna fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking. The screen lit up, showing the time: 12:46. His heart sank even further. He really had messed up this time. The battery was about to die, a thin red line warning him he had little time left. He glanced around, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar room.

What confused him most was that he was still in his clothes from the night before. A small relief—at least he hadn’t slept with the woman next to him. But that didn’t matter much, did it? He was still in bed with another woman, a stranger, and that alone was enough to shatter whatever trust you had left in him.

His head throbbed with a dull, pounding pain, a mix of alcohol and regret. He desperately needed water, but his feet felt glued to the floor. As he forced himself to sit up, the room seemed to spin around him. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the fog of the hangover, but his mind remained a jumbled mess.

He checked his phone again, scrolling through the flood of messages, but your name wasn’t among them. No missed calls, no texts, no messages. Just silence.

It took you two hours to get yourself to function properly. When something traumatic happened, you had this tendency to just shut down. No crying, no shouting—just silence. You couldn’t even talk right now. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall, your mind numb. The pain was so immense that it felt like nothing at all, a hollow void where your heart should be.

Slowly, you got up, moving like you were underwater, every step heavy and disjointed. You made your way to the bedroom closet and grabbed a suitcase, your hands moving on autopilot. You began packing everything you owned in this place, methodically folding clothes, stacking books, gathering small, personal items that had once made this space feel like home. Now, every object felt like a weight dragging you down.

You didn’t remember much from those moments, only flashes of despair and confusion. Your mind was clouded, a fog of grief settling over you. All you knew was that you wanted to disappear, to somehow escape the unbearable ache in your chest.

How could this happen? Why? The questions repeated in your mind, over and over, like a broken record. Were you not enough? Was he cheating this whole time?

Your thoughts spiraled into a dark place, each one more suffocating than the last. The silence of the room pressed in around you, amplifying every doubt, every fear. You felt lost in a sea of uncertainty, desperately searching for something to hold onto, but finding nothing but emptiness.

You paused for a moment, standing still in the middle of the room, clutching a shirt to your chest. You wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything, but no sound came out. All that filled you was a deep, aching void that left you feeling more alone than ever before.

Just as you finished packing, the door opened, but you didn't flinch. Your fingers continued scrolling through your phone, searching for flight tickets. You didn’t care where it would take you—anywhere but here.

Sukuna stepped inside, his expression a mix of confusion and panic. You didn’t look up. Your face remained calm, almost eerily so, as if you were in a trance. You kept scrolling, your focus entirely on the screen, like it was the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice tight with panic. But you said nothing.

Your face was expressionless, your eyes fixed on your phone. He moved closer, desperate now. “Please,” he continued, “can’t we just… talk?”

Finally, you paused, letting out a slow, controlled breath. But you didn’t look at him. Your silence was deafening, more unnerving than any yelling or screaming could have been.

He swallowed hard, sensing the change, feeling the weight of your silence pressing down on him. “I… I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he tried again. "I don’t even remember what happened. I think I was drugged or something..." His voice grew softer, almost pleading now.

You continued to tap the screen, the sound of your fingers the only noise in the room. You found a flight and pressed "book," moving methodically, as if this was just another task on a list. Your calmness was unnerving, like the quiet before a storm.

“Y/N… please,” Sukuna whispered, taking another step forward, but your detachment made him falter.

You finally glanced up at him, your expression unreadable, your voice steady and calm. “I'm leaving,” you said quietly, as if stating a simple fact.

He blinked, stunned by the flatness of your tone. There was no anger, no emotion—just a cold, stark finality. “But… we can work this out,” he stammered, “right?”

You looked back at your phone, as if he were no longer even there. You were done listening, done hoping, done believing. His words were just noise now, meaningless in the face of everything he had broken.

Sukuna was a big man, another reason you had fallen in love with him. Being with him had made you feel so safe, so happy. But when you reached for your suitcase, he finally broke.

He snatched it out of your hand. "No, no, you're not leaving me," he insisted, his voice frantic. "Look, please just listen. I know I lied to you and snuck out, but I swear I would never cheat on you."

You stood still, watching him, his large frame towering over you, his eyes wide with fear and desperation. But your heart felt like ice. You could see the panic in his eyes, hear the tremor in his voice, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

His hands gripped the suitcase so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "Please," he begged again, "just… don’t go."

For a moment, you almost felt something—a flicker of the love you used to feel. But it was gone as quickly as it came. “Let go,” your voice is calm and steady.

“No, look, I would do anything,” he blurted out, his voice rising with desperation. “Okay, I see now why you don’t like my friends. I’ll cut them out. I won’t ever talk to another girl again. Just… anything. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Please.”

He was a mess, still hungover, his head pounding, his hands trembling. His breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep it together, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He looked so close to breaking down completely.

Why did he make this mistake? Why did he let himself slip up so badly? You had given him a chance, and he had blown it in mere hours. The realization seemed to dawn on him, his face twisting with guilt and regret. His shoulders sagged, and his voice broke. "I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, his tone raw with fear.

But it didn’t matter anymore. Whatever he was offering now felt hollow, too little, too late. Your heart felt heavy, but your mind was made up.

"Let go," you repeated, firmer this time, your eyes locking onto his.

Sukuna's hand fell away from the suitcase as if it weighed a ton, his breath hitching. He wanted to fight, to argue, but the defeat in your eyes left him lost. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, his voice almost inaudible, choking on his own words.

But all you did was nod, a small, almost imperceptible nod, and turn toward the door.

He stood there, his whole world crumbling, as you walked away.