inspired by Sabrina Carpenter’s song ‘Don’t Smile’

The record player hummed with static before the music slipped in, a low melody that filled the room like smoke. It was late, too late, the kind of hour when your thoughts pressed heavier than the blankets.

Lando was on the floor beside the couch, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, head tipped back against your legs. His eyes were closed, but his thumb traced slow circles against your knee, as if he needed the contact to keep himself grounded.

You had been quiet for a while, letting the song wash over you both.

“Don’t smile because it happened, baby, cry because it’s over…” the singer’s voice echoed, soft but sharp, and you felt your chest tighten. The words weren’t just lyrics. They were everything you hadn’t said.

Lando opened his eyes, turning his face toward you. His lashes were damp, and for once he didn’t try to hide it. “That’s not fair,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t want to cry because it’s over. I don’t even want it to be over.”

You reached down, brushing your fingers through his hair, and he leaned into it like he had a hundred times before. Your heart ached at how familiar it still was.

“You’re supposed to think about me every time you hold her…” you murmured, half-singing, half-breaking.

His jaw tightened. “I do.” The confession slipped out before he could stop it. His hand reached up, gripping yours, holding it against his chest like he needed proof you were real. “Every time. It’s always you.”

The song played on, the lines falling between you like confessions neither of you could fully voice.

“My heart is heavy now, it’s like a hundred pounds…” you whispered, your forehead pressing against his.

He shut his eyes, breath shaky. “Mine too. You think I don’t feel it? You think I don’t miss you every second I’m not here?”

For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist. It was just the dim lamp light, the record spinning, and the weight of your bodies pulled together in a silence that was too full to bear.

“I want you to miss me,” you said, voice trembling against his lips. “I want you to miss me so much it hurts.”

His answer was a kiss. Slow, desperate, the kind of kiss that tasted like regret and love all at once. His hands framed your face, holding you as if you were slipping through his fingers, as if pressing harder could make time stop.

The song faded into static, but neither of you moved. It was intimate and aching, like two people still hopelessly in love but caught in the cruel reality of what had already unraveled.

And in the quiet after, his forehead against yours, he whispered what you both already knew.

“You’re supposed to think about me every time. Because I never stopped.”