🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 38: ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴄɪᴛɪᴇꜱ 🧡
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀᴍᴀᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ɪɴꜰɪᴅᴇʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ꜱᴄᴀɴᴅᴀʟ
ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ-ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ꜱᴛʀᴀɪɴ
ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏɴᴇʟɪɴᴇꜱꜱ, ɪɴꜱᴏᴍɴɪᴀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜᴅʀᴀᴡᴀʟ
ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇᴍᴀɪʟ ʀᴇᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴘɪɴɢ ᴍᴇᴄʜᴀɴɪꜱᴍ
ꜱʏᴍʙᴏʟɪᴄ ɢᴇꜱᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ (ɴᴏᴛᴇʙᴏᴏᴋ/ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴀʟ ᴇɴᴛʀɪᴇꜱ)
ʀᴇʙᴜɪʟᴅɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ɴᴏɴ-ᴠᴇʀʙᴀʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ʜɪɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ɢʀɪᴇꜰ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ
ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ ɪɴ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ɢʟᴏʙᴀʟ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢꜱ
ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ɢᴇꜱᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴘᴀɪʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ʜᴏᴘᴇ
ʀᴇɪɢɴɪᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴇꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ
The days that followed blurred into one another.
Singapore buzzed as always, noisy trains, the smell of hawker stalls, and the rhythmic clang of ceiling fans spinning overhead, but for (Y/n), it all moved just a little slower. Like she was underwater. Floating.
She had barely left the house except for prenatal checkups and short walks with her brother, Alaric. The humidity wasn’t kind to her ankles, and the twins had taken to kicking more in the evenings. Alaric kept a pillow on standby, joking that his nieces or nephews were secretly training to be footballers.
But even as her family tried to fill the silence, the ache in her chest lingered.
Lando’s voicemail lived rent-free in her mind. Some nights, she replayed it just to hear his voice. Other nights, she deleted it, only to restore it again at 3 a.m., when the emptiness became too loud.
She wasn’t angry anymore. Not really. She was tired. Tired of being the one who had to carry the emotional weight, tired of wondering if peace ever truly followed love.
Then came the package.
Her mother brought it in from the front porch, wrapped in matte orange paper with no return address, only her name written in careful block letters.
Inside was a small notebook. No branding. No ribbons.
On the first page, in Lando’s familiar handwriting, it said:
“If I can’t talk to you, I’ll write instead. One page a day. Until you tell me to stop.”
Her hands trembled as she flipped through.
Each entry was short, but personal. Vulnerable.
June 30 – Didn’t sleep much. I missed hearing you breathe beside me. I wonder if the babies kick more when you’re angry, or when you’re sad. I wish I could be there to help. July 1 – Zak made me run media rounds again today. I hated it. But I did it anyway. I wanted the world to know I’m not hiding. July 2 – I went karting with some of the young drivers. Antonelli beat me. He called me “grandpa.” I let him. It made me think about what it’d be like to take our kids karting someday.
She covered her mouth, pressing the book to her chest, tears sliding down once more.
He wasn’t perfect. He had messed up in ways he couldn’t undo. But he wasn’t giving up on her. Or their children.
And maybe, maybe that meant something.
Meanwhile in Monaco, Lando stood at the harbor, phone in one hand, looking out over the water.
He had returned not to escape, but to face it all. His press team, the stares, the rumors. Zak had held him to it.
Carlos had invited him out for lunch, well, more accurately, Carlos’ mother had insisted he show up after scolding her son again. Over tapas, she called Lando “mi niño” and made him promise to eat more vegetables for the babies' sake.
Max had texted that morning, too.
Penelope misses her sticker buddy. Come over for dinner.
He smiled weakly.
Even Daniel had shown up unexpectedly at the track the week before, clapping Lando on the back and joking, “If you screw it up again, I’ll shave your eyebrows in your sleep.”
Despite everything, the world hadn’t given up on him. Not entirely.
He just wished (Y/n) would speak to him.
But then… his phone buzzed.
(Y/n): Is the notebook daily, or just when you remember?
He stared at it, rereading it over and over again, chest aching.
Then his fingers moved quickly.
Lando: Daily. Like clockwork. I can send more. Or… deliver them in person. If you’ll let me.
Three blinking dots. Then:
(Y/n): Maybe. I’ll think about it.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
But it was something.
It was hope.
To be continued... 🧡
🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 39: ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ᴏᴘᴇɴꜱ 🧡
📝 Note from the Author: Fifth post for today, Alarwynnites. And this one… this one feels like exhale after a week of holding your breath.
There’s no drama in this chapter, just two people tiptoeing around the edges of pain, trying to find each other again. A voicemail saved and deleted. A notebook full of letters. A text message that feels heavier than a monologue. Sometimes, love isn’t loud. Sometimes, it’s one page at a time. 📓
If this chapter reminded you of soft reconciliation or silent forgiveness, leave a 🧡 or ✉️ in the replies. Let’s grieve gently together.
And thank you for still being here, for feeling every line with me.
With love, me 🧡
