Hiii! I absolutely love your writing, it feels like a warm yet windy midsummer night: comforting. Can I please request a Laminexf!reader fic, wich you can say is the follow up to the last one you just posted about hs graduation (wich I have to say is chef's kiss), where reader chooses to continue her uni studies in her former country (in this case I'd say Italy, but it's up to you really) and is finding a way to tell him. How would he react? What would he do at the airport once she has to leave? How would their dynamic change with long distance most of the year?
pairing: lamine yamal x reader
summary: in which you go to university in your rome and have to do a long distance with your bf
a/n: tysmm my lovee!! i lowk wanna write another part...
you and lamine have always been a pair.
not in the way people say it casually. no—literally always.
your moms met in a prenatal class. you were born two weeks apart. your first baby picture is in the same hospital crib, both of you staring at each other like you already knew.
you learned to walk holding his hand.
he learned to read using your picture books.
you started school together.
lost teeth together.
learned to ride bikes on the same weekend, falling into the same patch of grass while your parents took matching photos.
you’ve had twenty different arguments, a hundred inside jokes, a thousand shared memories.
you’ve lived whole lives side by side.
and when you were fourteen—awkward, growing into yourselves, still figuring out the world—you kissed for the first time.
it was raining. you were laughing. he tripped over his own shoe and you fell on top of him and something shifted. he looked at you with that wide, bright look he only gives you, and you knew.
you’ve been together ever since.
four years.
four years of your lives wrapped so tightly you sometimes forget there was ever a time when you weren’t in love with him.
so leaving—actually leaving—feels like tearing something out of your ribcage.
he’s sprawled across your couch like he owns it, one leg under him, one dangling off the side. his curls are still damp from a shower, and he’s wearing the hoodie you gifted him years ago.
he’s flipping through an old photo album—the one your moms made for your joint eighth birthday.
“remember this?” he says, pointing at a picture of you two covered in chocolate cake. “you cried because i ate the frosting flower.”
“you stole my frosting flower,” you correct.
he laughs at another page, one where you’re clinging to him on the first day of middle school while he pretends to be annoyed but is definitely clinging back.
he’s so at home in your space, so at home with you, that your throat tightens.
he doesn’t notice at first.
“look—this is when we did the—”
“lamine,” you say quietly.
he looks up. instantly alert. “what’s wrong?”
his eyebrows pull together. “into…?”
you take a breath. “rome. the university.”
you don’t even get to finish.
the album closes softly on his lap.
rome isn’t far. an hour and forty-five minutes by flight. two hours if you catch traffic.
but it’s not the physical distance that hits him.
it’s the life distance.
the routine distance.
the “i won’t see you on my way home from training” distance.
the “you won’t be at my matches unless you fly in” distance.
the “we’ve never been apart this long in our entire existence” distance.
his voice comes out low. “when?”
he blinks a few times, like the air changed pressure around him.
he looks at the album again, fingers brushing the worn corner, as if the childhood photos might anchor him to something steady.
you speak before he can spiral.
“lamine,” you whisper, sliding closer. “say something.”
he lifts his eyes to you.
they’re soft. and scared.
but steady.
“i’m happy for you,” he says, because he means it—really means it. “you’ve wanted that since you were sixteen.”
your heart aches. “yeah.”
“and you’re going,” he adds gently. “i know you are.”
he nods slowly. then exhales. “okay.”
you weren’t expecting that.
“yeah.” he shifts, turning fully toward you. “i mean—it’s going to suck. a lot. but… we’re us. we’ve always figured everything out.”
this boy you’ve grown up with.
this boy who knows every version of you.
this boy who has loved you longer than he even understood what love meant.
you fall into his chest without warning, and his arms wrap around you instantly—instinctively—like they always do.
he murmurs against your temple:
and maybe that’s the first time you cry. really cry.
your room is half-empty.
suitcases open.
clothes folded in piles.
the roman university packet sits on your desk, orange-gold and official.
lamine sits on your floor, sorting your books even though you never asked him to. he keeps picking them up, turning them over, looking at the scribbles in the margins, the memories you wrote next to certain pages.
“remember when you forced me to read this?” he says, holding up one of your favorites.
“i liked you,” he says easily. “that’s different.”
he knows it. he crawls over, sits behind you, pulls you between his legs like you’ve sat a hundred times before.
“hey,” he murmurs. “you okay?”
you shrug. “i don’t know.”
he rests his chin on your shoulder. “me neither.”
you lean back into him, your bodies fitting together in that familiar way that comes from years of shared space and shared air.
“i’m scared,” you whisper.
he kisses your cheek, slow, careful. “me too.”
you turn your face into his, pressing your forehead to his. “what if the distance changes things?”
he cups your jaw with one hand. “then it changes them. but it won’t end them.”
he continues, voice steady but soft:
“we’ve known each other our entire lives. there’s no version of the world where i’m not yours.”
your eyes sting. “i love you.”
he closes his eyes. “i love you more.”
you fall asleep on his chest that night.
you don’t let go.
neither does he.
your heart crumbles the moment you see the departures sign.
he holds your hand, but not loosely like usual—like he’s anchoring you both.
your families hang back. they know this isn’t just a goodbye. it’s a shift.
when your flight gets called, something in him goes very, very still.
you expect tears. he doesn’t cry easily, but you’ve seen it—once, when his team lost a final, and once when you broke your wrist in middle school.
his eyes are glassy. but he’s focused. present.
“look at me,” he says softly.
“we’ve survived school, injuries, fights, exams, trials, those horrible years when you had braces—”
“—and that phase when i had the mushroom haircut.”
you snort despite the ache in your chest. “that was tragic.”
“exactly.” his thumb strokes your cheek. “if we survived that, we survive this.”
he pulls you into him—tight, warm, all-encompassing. you bury your face into his shoulder, and he presses his nose into your hair like he’s memorizing the smell.
“it’s only rome,” he whispers. “i can get on a plane. you can get on a plane. it’s not the end of anything.”
you nod into him, even as your tears soak into his hoodie.
he pulls back enough to cup your face. “and you’re gonna love it. you’re gonna be amazing there.”
you swallow. “what about you?”
he smiles—small, soft, painfully proud. “i’ll be here. playing. training. texting you. calling you. waiting for your voice every night.”
“don’t forget me,” you whisper, hating how childish it sounds.
his eyes narrow with disbelief. “i’ve loved you since we were kids stealing cupcakes off the table. i’m not forgetting you.”
you laugh through the tears.
he presses his forehead to yours. “go, amor. you’ve got a whole life waiting.”
he kisses you—slow, lingering, like he’s sealing something into your skin.
you take a step.
and another.
and when you look back—
hands in pockets.
eyes shining.
heart on his sleeve.
your person.
even from far away.
rome fits you strangely well.
the cobblestones, the noise, the heat.
the scent of espresso drifting through open windows.
the lazy afternoon light.
your dorm has a small balcony, and from it you can see rooftops in every direction.
but at night, the silence is loud.
the first call home is shaky.
lamine answers immediately—hair messy, lying on his stomach, kicking his feet like he’s sixteen again.
“show me your room,” he says, and you do.
he smiles at everything.
asks about your classes.
asks if you ate.
asks if you’re homesick.
morning texts.
voice notes after training.
screen-shared dinners.
“goodnight” calls that last until one of you falls asleep.
some days are easy.
some days hurt.
sometimes you cry.
sometimes he does, too, quietly, when he thinks you can’t hear it in his voice.
but you never miss a day talking.
he doesn’t tell you he’s coming.
you open your dorm door expecting a delivery—
hoodie. backpack. curls everywhere.
“told my coach I needed two days,” he says, breathless from travel. “he said okay.”
you stare at him—frozen, overwhelmed, in love in a way that hurts.
and then you’re in his arms.
you don’t even remember moving.
he lifts you off the ground, spinning you once, laughing against your neck.
you’re crying before you notice.
“hey,” he whispers, cupping your face. “i’m here.”
you kiss him. he kisses you back like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
“of course i came.” he wipes a tear off your cheek with his thumb. “i always will.”
because he’s lamine.
because he’s yours.
because he’s been beside you since before you understood the world
and distance doesn’t erase a lifetime.
you make it work.
not because it’s easy.
but because it’s you two.
and you’ve been choosing each other since the day you learned how to choose anything at all.
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