Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

5

Lizzie jones

Of course. Of course Lando bloody Norris is the one stood outside. Like the universe just loves throwing little drama bombs at me, doesn't it? His back is to me, but I can see the tension in his shoulders from here—bro is practically vibrating with stress. I can hear his breathing, and not in a creepy way, okay? Just... it's loud. It's heavy. It's giving rage breathing.

He's on the phone, pacing slightly, gesturing like he's been possessed by a frustrated Italian nonna mid-argument. Whoever's on the other end of the call? I already feel sorry for them. Man is clearly irritated—voice low, sharp, clipped, like he's trying not to scream but is this close to losing it.

I should turn around. I should give him space. I should not be standing here frozen like a love-sick 14-year-old in an American rom-com. But here I am. Just... watching him. Judging? Maybe. But mostly observing. Like I'm back in GCSE drama class and I'm studying "man experiencing emotional suppression."

And the worst part? I know we're lying to each other. Constantly. It's like a sport now. The way he says he "hates" me with a little too much conviction, or how I roll my eyes so hard every time he walks into a room that I might actually detach a retina. But underneath it all? There's so much we never say. It's stuffed between our silences, behind our jabs. Like a too-full suitcase just waiting to explode open in baggage claim.

We can't go there again. We just can't. Last time it ended with me crying and him ghosting me harder than my Year 10 maths tutor. And yet... part of me wonders if he still remembers that night too? Yeah, not ideal.

I step forward, because why not pour gasoline on this already emotionally unstable fire?

"Always a pleasure, Norris," I say, all casual, like my heart isn't doing the cha-cha slide in my chest.

He flinches—just slightly—but he doesn't turn around. Not yet. And now I've committed. I can't back out. I've said the line. I am the line. May the emotional war games begin.

Lando Norris

5 years ago

She grabs my hand. No hesitation. Just grabs it, like it's the most natural thing in the world. And I don't know what kind of hand lotion she uses or what alignment the planets are in, but it fits. Her hand fits in mine like it was meant to be there. Like she was always supposed to be pulling me toward chaos—toward her.

The bass is thumping in my ears as we weave through the crowd, but all I can think about is how warm her hand is. And how, if she let go right now, I'd honestly be a little heartbroken.

This feels a lot like that summer in France. We were 15. It was the first time I kissed her—technically a peck, but still. Monumental stuff. We'd been camping for a week, and Owen was too busy turning me into some kind of baby DJ prodigy to notice that I was slowly falling in love with his sister. I barely saw her that whole trip, which hurt, in that teen-boy way where you're mad but don't know how to explain why without sounding dramatic.

On the last night, she'd dragged me out to the beach, past midnight. She ran ahead to find a spot—far from the water, obviously. She hated the ocean. Said it made her feel small, like it could swallow her whole and never say sorry. Which is insane, because Lizzie Jones has never been small a day in her life. She's the kind of person who walks into a room and makes the walls nervous.

We sat on the sand, knees brushing, and she talked. Not the way people talk when they're just making noise, but the kind where every word has weight. She told me everything—about her parents, her "friends" at school, how lonely she felt even when she was surrounded. And I just listened. Like it was the only thing I was made for. She even apologised for ignoring me in school—like that wasn't already the plot twist of the century.