I don’t even like her.

The girl in my bed—blonde, maybe, or brunette. I actually didn’t look that hard.

She’s asleep now, sprawled across my sheets like she belongs there. But she doesn’t. None of them do.

I’m Lando Norris. I could have anyone, right? Swipe my thumb, flash a grin, and fill the space she left a hundred times over.

And I have. But it never works.

Each time, I wait for that moment when it feels better—like maybe, by pulling off someone else’s shirt and letting them trace my skin, I’ll forget her.

But I don’t.

Because none of them are her.

I don’t wanna get undressed for someone new all over again. I’m tired of it. Tired of pretending I like the way they say my name. Tired of faking laughs and forcing eye contact. Tired of lying there afterward, watching them drift to sleep like I’m not drowning in silence.

I miss the way she used to steal the blanket. I miss her terrible Spotify playlists. I miss waking up to her cold toes pressing into my leg and pretending I hated it.

I’m not over her. And I don’t think I ever will be.

She’s everywhere. In my flat. In my car. In the way I order extra sauce at that one Thai place—because it was her favorite. In the voice in my head that won’t shut up when I’m alone.

I wonder if she thinks about me.

I wonder if she’s moved on. And if he’s better than me.

I close my eyes, pretending it’s her beside me for just a moment longer. But the silence’s too loud, and the ache too sharp. So I reach for my phone, fingers trembling.

New message.

I type.

“I miss you.”

I hesitate, then hit send.

Because maybe it’s time she knew.