Untitled

[cupofteatoyou]

Masterlist

Alexia putellas

the secret between us : 1 2

Dreaming in Blaugrana: 1 2 3

Rewrite the ending

What almost was

Endless Cycle

Jana Fernández

what if she chose me : 1 2 3

María León

And then there was you: 1

Aggie Beever-jones

Coming soon…

Laia codina

Coming soon…

I’m open to write your requests—I only write wlw related… That includes:

| player x reader |

| player x player x reader |

| GiP |

| Any wlw dynamics |

~ Fluff, angst, smut —whatever vibe you’re feeling.

[cupofteatoyou]

??🫣

Alexia

Pina

Jana

Aitana

Voting ended onApr 23, 2025

Im gonna upload it with pt 4 of “what if she chose me” tonight … also probably laia fic will be out tonight as well…

[cupofteatoyou]

request for laia codina (if you write for her ) could laia be secrtly dating the reader but the reader is Alexia younger sister and does not want the reader to be dating anyone on the Spanish team and then Alexia finds out and gets mad at the both of them and then Alexia forces the reader to chooses between them

You may chooses the ending

Yes 🙌 I would love to ❤️🫡

[cupofteatoyou]

Endless Cycle

You didn’t cry when you left the city.

Not when you packed your things into quiet boxes. Not when you cleared your father’s final belongings from the hospital drawer. Not even when your ex sent that last, tired message Take care of yourself.

But something about this place — this stretch of forgotten coastline, this house standing crooked against a wind-worn sky — made something inside you ache.

It took two trains and a shared car ride to reach the edge of the coast. The driver, a woman in her sixties with deep laugh lines and tired eyes, dropped you off with a soft “Aquí estamos,” and pointed to the winding path just ahead. You thanked her, but she didn’t linger.

You stood at the bottom of the hill for a long time, suitcase handle warm in your hand. The sea stretched out behind you, dark and endless. The house sat above, hunched and still, its silhouette catching the last sliver of dusk. It was the kind of place people passed without looking. The kind of place whispered about, not visited.

You told yourself that was why it was so cheap.

The walk up was slow, the gravel path half-swallowed by overgrown grass. Wild rosemary brushed against your legs. The air smelled faintly of salt and something older — something musty and wooden, like unopened rooms and sun-faded books.

At the top, the house waited. White stone faded to ivory, shutters worn soft at the edges, as if the wind had been carving at them for decades. Ivy clung to one corner like a second skin. The front door had chipped paint and rusted hinges. The key slid in reluctantly.

The door opened with a sigh. Inside, it was dim, but not dark. Dust shimmered in the slanted light spilling through half-drawn curtains. Wooden floors creaked beneath your steps — not with menace, but memory. The kind of sound that made you feel like the house was aware of your presence.

You didn’t say anything aloud. Didn’t breathe too deeply. Just set your bag down in the hallway and slowly turned on the lights. They flickered once before casting a warm glow — old bulbs, maybe solar-powered, maybe just tired like everything else.

The house wasn’t large, but it felt expansive in its silence. Living room to your right, kitchen tucked behind an archway. A narrow staircase stretched up along the left wall. Doors everywhere, most of them closed.

You walked through the rooms slowly, brushing cobwebs from corners, peeling back a few of the dust sheets that cloaked the furniture. Everything smelled faintly of cedar and stone. Someone had loved this place once. That much was clear.

It wasn’t until you reached the fireplace in the living room that you saw her.

It hung above the mantle, slightly crooked. It has lost its colors over time, the glass frame cracked in the corner. The woman in it looked caught mid-laugh, her head tilted back toward the sky, arms raised in what looked like victory. She wore a football kit. The number was faded. The crest unrecognizable to you.

But something about her posture… the strength in her stance, the energy suspended in that single still image — it drew you in.

You stood there, staring, until the light above the fireplace buzzed and dimmed. And even then, you couldn’t quite look away.

The second floor was colder. As you stepped off the stairs and into the hallway, a draft wrapped around your ankles, rising through the wooden floorboards like a slow exhale. You rubbed your arms, told yourself it was nothing — just sea wind slipping through old cracks. Still, the temperature dropped just enough to make your skin prickle.

There were three rooms. One was clearly a bathroom, small and tiled, the mirror fogged from age and streaked with old water stains. Another was locked — the doorknob wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard you turned it.

The third was the bedroom. It was simple, but not lifeless. The kind of room that had been touched by someone once — someone who left just enough behind for their absence to feel present. A dresser with one drawer slightly open. A worn book of poetry face-down on the nightstand. Dust on the windowsill in the shape of fingertips.

You ran your hand along the edge of the bedframe and felt a splinter catch your skin. You didn’t bleed.Still, it stayed with you.

You left the window open, even when the breeze grew stronger — something about the scent of the ocean made the air inside feel less stale, less still. The breeze moved through the room like it had been waiting for someone to let it in. You swore, as you pulled your sweater tighter, that it carried with it the faintest murmur. A voice. Or maybe the ghost of one.

Just one word. “Hola.”

It was so soft you thought it came from the trees. Or the waves. But it came from behind you.You turned. The room was empty.

You stared at the corner near the door, where the sound had seemed to come from, heart slow but steady. It wasn’t fear — not exactly. It was attention. A sense that something was watching you watch the room. A stillness that was not yours.

Downstairs, you made tea. The kettle whistled too loudly in the quiet, steam curling like smoke into the dim kitchen light. You sat at the table with your mug, warming your hands against the ceramic. Every so often, you glanced toward the staircase, just visible from your seat.

That’s when the footsteps came. Soft. Unmistakable.

One step. Then another. Coming from above.

You set the mug down, heart now ticking faster. You listened.

The steps stopped. You waited. And then—a whisper.

Close. Too close.

It didn’t say something but it was intentional. Like breath through someone else's mouth, spoken just past the edge of hearing.

You rose slowly, the chair legs scraping gently against the floor. The sound felt too loud, out of place, like you were disturbing something that had been silent for a long time.

When you stepped into the hallway, you looked up the stairs.

And for the briefest second, there was movement.

Not a figure, not a shape — just the flicker of something retreating into shadow. Like a curtain pulled back, then released. A presence slipping just out of reach.

“Hello?” You called out. Your voice felt small. No answer.

But the air shifted again, and this time you heard a different sound — one that turned your blood to ice.

A laugh. Soft. Quiet. Feminine. Warm.

And absolutely not yours.

It faded before you could react. You stared up the stairs a while longer, waiting for something else.

But the house held its breath again, and the silence returned — thicker now, deeper somehow. Not empty. Just watchful.

You went back upstairs eventually. There wasn’t much else to do. The house was too quiet for music. Too full for silence.

You shut the bedroom door behind you — not because you were afraid, but because it felt wrong to leave it open. Like if you did, something might slip in when you weren’t looking. Something that didn’t want to be seen.

You crawled into bed, fully clothed. You hadn’t unpacked yet. You didn’t bother. The sheets were clean, soft, but smelled faintly of dust and salt. You turned off the lamp. The room went dark.

And then came the sounds.

At first it was the wind. Just the wind. Humming through the trees, brushing the window. Familiar. Easy to name.

But after a while, you heard something else.

A soft tap. Then another. Not rhythmic. Not natural. It sounded like… fingers. Against glass. You sat up, heart low in your chest.

The window was closed now. You were sure of it. You had gotten up after tea, sometime before midnight, and shut it. The latch was still locked. No breeze moved through the room.

But the sound came again — this time from the inside. From the corner. Near the old wardrobe. You stared at it for a long time. You told yourself not to get up.

You closed your eyes. Turned your face into the pillow. Focused on your breathing.

But the moment you let yourself relax, the mattress shifted.

As if someone had sat down. Right beside you. You froze. No breath. No movement. Nothing.

And then… A whisper. So close it brushed your ear.

“Don’t go”

You turned on the lamp so fast you nearly knocked it over. No one was there. The corner was empty. The mattress was untouched. But the air smelled different now. Warmer. Softer. Like someone had been sitting there a moment ago, wearing faint perfume and heartbreak.

You didn’t sleep, not really. You dozed with the light on, your back to the wall, eyes half-lidded, ears straining for sounds you couldn’t name. And sometime just before dawn, when the sky began to turn pale blue behind the curtains, you saw her.

Just a flicker. In the mirror on the dresser. A face. Half-shadowed. Pale. Familiar, somehow. She looked at you like she knew you. But when you turned to face her — She was gone.

You stared into the mirror long after the face had vanished.

At first, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you — that maybe it had just been your own reflection, warped by exhaustion and fear. But no. You knew what you saw. And it wasn’t you.

The face in the mirror had shorter hair, parted differently. Her eyes had been lighter, more intense. And there had been something old in them. Something familiar and sad.

You stepped closer. Slowly.

The surface was smooth, cold to the touch. You wiped at it with your sleeve. No dust. No print. No sign that anything had been there at all.

You waited, hoping maybe—maybe—she would appear again. She didn’t. Instead, the light flickered above you. Just once. A small warning.You didn’t sleep again.

You stared at her again. The crack in the glass bisected her cheek like a scar, but her face was unmistakable. Green eyes. Hair tied back. A presence that felt somehow too alive to be trapped in a frame. Her smile looked freer today, though it hadn’t changed.

It was you who had. Something about the way she held herself — like she was always in motion. Always slipping just out of reach.

You crouched down, breath held, and read the tiny inscription carved beneath the frame

“A.P., 2023. The last game.”

You blinked. The letters swam in your mind, familiar in a way you couldn’t place. It made your chest ache. You didn’t know why.

That night, you sat by the fireplace longer than usual. You didn’t turn the lamp on. You didn’t need to.

The firelight flickered softly, warming the walls, making the shadows breathe and stretch like slow waves. The wind had returned, curling through the shutters and humming low through the gaps in the old wooden frame.

You waited without meaning to. Like your body remembered something your mind didn’t. A log snapped, sending sparks across the grate.

And then — the sound. A soft creak behind you. Your breath caught. You turned. Nothing. But your reflection didn’t look like you anymore. In the mirror above the mantle, the shape behind the glass had changed.

Her. She was there again. Clearer this time. Closer. Your reflection stood still. She moved.

Her hand rose, pressing gently against the inside of the mirror. Her palm left no mark, no fog, no smudge. Just the outline of intent. As if she wanted to touch you. As if she was trying to remember how.

Her lips parted. You leaned forward, heart thudding painfully in your chest. And this time, you heard her.

“Please… don’t go.” A whisper.A wound.A tether. And you didn’t know what possessed you, but you whispered back

“I’m here.” The flames popped behind you. The mirror cleared. She was gone.But you didn’t move. Even after she disappeared — even after your own face returned to the mirror — you stayed there, still and silent, like something fragile might break if you dared to breathe too loud.

Your knees were tucked into your chest, blanket slipping from your shoulders, hands cold but still steady. Your body felt hollow and full all at once. She had been there.

Real.

You could still feel the heat of her gaze — not like watching, but like seeing. Like she had known you. Or had been trying to. The warmth of the fire didn’t touch you now. But you weren’t cold either. Not in the way that mattered.

You rose slowly, the floor creaking under your bare feet, and crossed to the mirror. Its surface had cleared completely. Only your reflection stared back now — wide-eyed, pale, a little breathless.

But still… steady. You touched the glass. It didn’t answer. No warmth. No movement.Just your fingertips against your own reflection.And yet— You didn’t feel alone. You didn’t feel afraid. In fact, something inside you had quieted — a part you didn’t know had been restless until it stilled. She had reached for you.And you… had answered.

The house, once so foreign, no longer pressed in on you. Its long halls didn’t stretch quite so far. The silence didn’t hum as loud. The air didn’t bite. She had changed that. Even if only for a moment.

You stepped back and looked around the room. The fire had begun to die down, embers glowing like buried stars. The wind murmured through the shutters again, softer now, like a lullaby caught in the wood.

You picked up the fallen blanket, wrapped it around yourself, and sank onto the couch. The same place you’d sat earlier, before the mirror… before her.The difference was in the quiet.The difference was in you. You didn’t know her. Didn’t know why she was reaching out. Didn’t know what tied her to this place — or to you. But something in her eyes had folded into your bones. It didn’t feel like a warning. It felt like a promise.

And when you finally closed your eyes, long after the fire was gone and the wind had stilled, you didn’t dream of shadows or ghosts.

You dreamed of water. Of a hand brushing yours beneath its surface. Of a voice calling your name, not to scare you — but to bring you home.

The days passed like breath in a sleeping body — shallow, slow, just barely there.

She didn’t come again. Not to the mirror. Not to your dreams. But the house… the house felt like her now.

The corners seemed softer. The air warmer in strange places — near the fireplace, the stairs, the end of the hall. Not always. Not everywhere. Just enough to make you pause sometimes. Just enough to make you turn your head like you’d heard something. Felt something.

At night, you left the mirror uncovered. You even sat facing it sometimes, waiting.

But nothing came. No creaks. No whispers. No hand reaching through the glass. Only silence.

Only that feeling in your chest — that space that used to be empty now aching with presence.

You woke up in a haze of warmth, tangled in sheets that smelled faintly like the sea breeze and something sweeter, something you didn’t recognize.

It wasn’t until you reached the hallway that you noticed it. The door.

The one at the very end — the one that had been locked since you moved in — was open. Not wide. Just barely. Like an invitation whispered through a half-open mouth.

You stopped. You stared. Your breath slowed to a hush in your throat. You hadn’t opened it. You were sure of that. You’d tried the knob once, out of habit. Found it sealed tight and let it go. Another forgotten room in an old house full of forgotten things.

But now…

The doorknob gleamed faintly in the morning light. The wood sighed on its hinges, as if it had waited too long for someone to come through. You approached slowly, the floor creaking under your bare feet.

No sound from inside. No movement. Just stillness. Stillness with a pulse. You pushed the door gently. It didn’t resist.

The room was dim. The curtains were drawn tight, casting everything in a cool bluish haze. It was smaller than you expected, cluttered with old furniture and layers of dust that shimmered like frost in the air.

You stepped in.

The door didn’t close behind you, but it felt like it did.

And across from you — hanging above a low wooden cabinet — was a mirror. Not the same one. But similar. Old. Plain. Cracked across the center.

You exhaled slowly, body tense, heart thrumming. You hadn’t stepped into a room. You’d stepped into something held.

You stepped farther into the room, the air thick with stillness and dust.

It wasn’t cold, exactly. But it felt untouched — like a space forgotten not out of neglect, but necessity. Like someone had sealed it away with purpose. Like memory lived here, breathing just beneath the floorboards.

The curtains were heavy and moth-bitten. You reached for them on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric as gently as skin, and pulled.

The light cracked through, spilling across the floor in pale streaks. Dust spiraled up like smoke. You half expected the room to protest — for the walls to moan or the mirror to tremble — but there was only silence.

And then something soft. Something familiar.

The scent of firewood. The faintest trace of old perfume. It was hers.

You didn’t know how you knew that. But you did.

Your eyes drifted toward the mirror. The same shape. The same cracks. The same strange sense that it was watching — not out of malice, but longing.

You didn’t look too long.

Beneath it sat a worn cabinet, and stacked carefully on top — a bundle of old pictures, yellowed and curling at the edges but still intact. You crouched down slowly, reaching for the top one.

Your fingers brushed it like it might shatter.

There was something written on it. The date stopped you.

Barcelona, June 5th, 2023.

You blinked.

The year felt foreign. Recent and ancient all at once. Like a word you should know but can’t quite pronounce anymore.

Your eyes found the photo next.

And everything inside you went still.

It was her. A younger version, but unmistakable — those same sharp, searching eyes. The same mouth. That same defiant kind of grace.

She stood in the center of a stadium, arms raised, the expression on her face fierce and proud. The headline read

“The Last Game of A.P.” You scanned the article beneath the photo. The words blurred at first, too surreal to process.

‘After years of triumph, heartbreak, and legacy-building,La Reina leaves the pitch for the final time…’

‘…two-time Ballon d’Or winner…’

‘…captain, icon, symbol of resilience…’

You sat back on your heels, overwhelmed. Why hadn’t you heard of her before? You’d lived in Spain for years. You knew names — athletes, legends. But hers… Not in stories. Not in photos. Not in casual conversation. And yet here she was.

Folded into this house. Tucked between these walls like a secret no one wanted to remember. Like someone had gone to great lengths to forget her.

You flipped through the stack, more photos surfacing. Some of her in motion — charging down a field, shouting with joy, cradling a trophy like it was something sacred. Others more still — caught off the field, smiling gently with her teammates, her hair braided, face soft in the sunlight.

But it was one in particular that stopped you. Not a press photo. Not an action shot. This one was taken in front of a fireplace. This fireplace.

The same one you’d sat beside all those nights.

She sat in a chair, elbow resting on the armrest, head tilted slightly as if listening to someone just out of frame. Her smile was quiet. A little tired. A little proud.

And behind her, mounted on the wall…

That mirror. Your mirror.

The crack down its center matched perfectly. You pressed your thumb against the edge of the photo, lips parting like you might speak to her again, like you could feelher in the image.

What had this place meant to her? Was this her home? A refuge? A retreat after the roar of stadium crowds?

Was this where she came to rest when the world stopped asking things of her? You looked back toward the mirror in the room.

It reflected only you. And yet you felt less alone.

You rose slowly, tucking the picture under your arm, and walked back toward the door. But just before you crossed the threshold, something pulled you to look one last time.

There — on the far side of the room, half-hidden under the edge of the rug — a faint corner of a frame poked through.

You bent down, heart thudding.

Another photo. This one was older. Worn. Almost entirely faded. But you saw her again. Standing next to someone.

Someone whose face had been blurred by time, or damage, or maybe just intention. The other figure’s arm was wrapped around her waist, their face turned toward her like they were saying something only she should hear.

She was looking directly at them. The expression on her face made your breath hitch. It wasn’t victory. It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t sadness. It was recognition.

Like she was looking at something — someone — she hadn’t seen in a long time.

You stared harder at the faded blur of the other figure. Your fingers trembled as you traced the edge of their arm, their shoulder, the tilt of their head.

You couldn’t explain it. But something in you whispered, deep and aching

It’s you.

The photo slipped from your fingers. The light in the room dimmed — just slightly, just enough.

A warmth stirred near your back. You didn’t turn around.

You didn’t need to. You weren’t afraid.

And this time, you heard it — not aloud, not quite — but inside you, like a memory rising from a place buried too long

“You came back.”

You slept with the photograph beneath your pillow.

Not on purpose. Not at first. You’d meant to leave it on the nightstand, but your fingers had refused to let go. And when sleep finally took you — slow and heavy like water — the dreams came.

Not like the usual kind. Not fog and symbols and floating nonsense.

No, this was sharp. Real. You were running. Not away from something. Toward.

The air was warm. Thick with summer. The sun low over rooftops, golden and familiar. A voice called your name — not your name now, but something older, something lost — and you turned to find her.

Not the ghost. Not the shadow in the mirror.

Her. Alive.

Sweat clung to her brow. Her hair was shorter, darker. She looked younger, but her eyes… her eyes were exactly the same. Like nothing in them had ever changed.

And when you reached her, when your hands found her shoulders, she smiled like she’d been waiting forever.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

She leaned forward. Forehead to yours.

And whispered, “Stay.”

You woke up with the word still in your ears.

The pillow was damp beneath your cheek. The photo was gone. You sat up too fast, heart pounding. The nightstand was empty. The sheets stripped. Panic flickered.

And then — there. On the floor beside the bed. Gently placed, almost reverently. The photo. Unbent. Untouched.

You exhaled shakily. The room was colder than usual. Your breath fogged faintly in the dark.

You reached for the lamp but didn’t turn it on. Instead, you looked toward the mirror.

Nothing.

But your chest ached again. The ache that had no name. The ache that felt like it had been yours for a thousand years.

The next few days passed in a quiet haze.

You went through the motions of living, but it felt more like floating. Eating, showering, moving from room to room like something invisible was tugging you toward… somewhere. Something. Her.

Sometimes, you caught glimpses — not of her face, but of movement. A shadow ducking out of view when you turned too fast. A shift in the hallway mirror that didn’t line up with your body. Once, while brushing your teeth, you thought you saw someone standing behind you in the glass.

By the time you turned around, there was nothing.

Still, you weren’t afraid. You should have been. But fear never came. Instead, you felt pulled. Like something in her needed you.

That night, you returned to the fireplace without fully understanding why. You didn’t light any lamps. The only sound was the soft crackling of wood and the occasional breath of wind pressing against the windowpanes.

You sat on the floor with your knees pulled up, blanket draped over your shoulders. Your eyes drifted to the mirror above the mantle without even thinking.

She was there. Not a flash. Not a whisper of a shape. Just there. Like she had always been part of the house — hidden behind its silence, waiting to be seen.

She looked… different.

Not whole. Not clear. But steadier. Like she was trying.

She hovered just behind the glass, her form pale in the low firelight, like a photograph developed half-way.

Her eyes were the first thing you noticed.

Not ghostly. Not empty. Just sad. And lost.

She raised her hand and touched the glass again. Her palm hovered there, not quite touching yours. But the intention was clear — she wanted to.

Her lips moved, and this time, you heard her.

“I don’t remember…”

You leaned closer, your breath fogging faintly on the cold mirror’s surface.

“I used to be someone,” she whispered, pain threading through every word. “I know I did. But it’s gone. Every time I come back, there’s less of me.”

Your voice came out before you had time to think. “You are someone.”

Her gaze lifted to meet yours. as if she wasn’t waiting for you to respond.

That look alone made your chest ache.

“But I don’t know who,” she said. “I forget. I… fade.” She shook her head slightly, like trying to dislodge the fog inside her. “I try to hold on, but everything slips away.”

Your fingers moved up to the glass, resting where hers did — separated by a thin barrier of time and death. Your voice was soft.

“I’ll help you remember.”

She blinked. Slowly. Carefully. Like she was weighing that promise in her hands.

Then her mouth trembled, and something almost like a smile passed through her expression — fleeting, broken.

“I don’t know why you can see me,” she whispered. “But I’m glad you do.”

Her form flickered, like static, and her hand dropped.

She looked down, as if she could feel herself being pulled somewhere else. Some place colder. Emptier.

“I don’t know where I go when I’m not here,” she said, voice strained. “It’s like… nothing. Like drowning without water. Like falling asleep and knowing no one’s going to wake you.”

Panic flashed in her eyes. Not fear of death. Fear of forgetting. Fear of being erased completely. You stepped closer, heart thudding.

“You’re here now.”

She nodded slowly, then reached up as if to touch your cheek. Her fingers brushed the inside of the mirror.

And then, just before her image dimmed again, she whispered — barely louder than the wind

“Please… find me before I fade.”

Then she vanished. The mirror stilled. The fire behind you hissed, a log breaking in half, sending soft embers curling into the chimney.

And you stood there for a long time, staring into the reflection of yourself. But even now, with her gone, the air felt full. Charged.

You should’ve felt alone. But you didn’t. You felt… connected. Not haunted. Not hunted. Just needed.

Like a presence was lingering, barely out of reach. Not to frighten you — but to be found. To be remembered. And somehow, that made the silence feel less heavy. Somehow, it made you stay.

It started with footsteps. Not loud ones. Not stomping or sudden. Just quiet shifts of weight across old floorboards when you weren’t walking. Barefoot. Careful. Like someone learning how to move again. Like someone not wanting to be caught.

They always stopped when you turned around. But they never stopped entirely.

The first few times, you dismissed them. Old houses made sounds. Wood creaked, wind whistled, pipes knocked.

You told yourself that. Even when it didn’t feel true.

Because these footsteps were different — thoughtful. Rhythmic. Not random. Like they knew exactly where they were going.

And after a while, you stopped pretending.

Something was moving through the house with you. Around you. Always just out of reach.

The nights changed in ways that were hard to explain.

You didn’t wait for her. But you did start expecting her.

You left the door to your room ajar, even when the wind moaned through the corridor. You stopped turning on the hallway light. You walked slower through the house, like rushing would startle the quiet that had settled there.

Your routine bent around the space she might fill. The corners of mirrors you no longer avoided. The soft, cautious way you looked behind yourself. Not from fear. But from something else. Anticipation, maybe. Or something like longing.

The photograph never left your nightstand now. The one with the woman beside the fireplace — the woman with the fierce, lopsided smile and eyes that looked like they’d lived too many lives. You still didn’t know who she really was. Some nights, the photo moved.

Just slightly. Inches to the left. Turned at a different angle. Tilted upward as if someone had been looking at it.

Once, it was tucked halfway under your pillow. You woke with it beneath your cheek like it had been left there — a quiet offering. A reminder.

You didn’t remember falling asleep with it.

But it was always back on the table by morning.

You knew she was trying to reach you.

And not just in objects. But in the way the entire house had shifted around you.

The wind no longer howled — it hummed. Softly. As if speaking in a language you were only beginning to understand.

The lights flickered less, but the shadows stretched longer.

And music — faint and slow — sometimes played from nowhere. A broken radio, maybe. Or maybe not. Always the same voice. A woman’s. Singing in catalan. Haunting. Beautiful. Full of something old and aching.

You started whispering back.

Not always aloud, but inside your chest — the questions that burned at night “What happened to you?” “Why are you still here?”

And more than once, your throat closed around a harder question.

“Do you need me?”

You didn’t get answers. Not with words.

But something in the stillness would change when you asked. The fire would settle. The air would shift. And the silence would thicken like a held breath.

You started wondering if she was listening.

You started hoping she was.

Because in the middle of all the unanswered questions, one truth had begun to root itself deep in your bones

You weren’t alone.

It happened on a Tuesday.

You hadn’t slept much. Your dreams had been strange — thick with static and fog and the sensation of someone brushing past you, fingertips grazing skin that never warmed. You woke with your heart thudding and the covers pushed halfway off the bed, like you’d been reaching for something. Or someone.

The house was unusually quiet that evening. No music. No creaking. Just silence that pressed too close, like it was watching you.

You went about your night like you always did. Tea, brushing your teeth, checking the windows twice. The storm that had been threatening for days had finally arrived — a soft rain now pattered gently against the roof. It sounded like a lullaby. Gentle. Soothing.

You were in the bathroom, eyes half-lidded, toothbrush hanging from your mouth, when you felt it.

That shift in the air. That too-familiar weight behind you.

You straightened slowly, toothpaste foam bitter in your mouth, hand trembling just slightly as you reached for the tap — and then stopped.

You were supposed to scream,like any other normal person.

Because you saw her.

Not in the mirror.

Not as a flicker or a blurred echo.

But behind you.

There.

In the open doorway.

Breathing.

But you didn’t.

You turned.

And for once, she didn’t disappear.

Your toothbrush clattered into the sink, the sound distant and muffled by the roaring in your ears.

She was real. Or something like it. She stood barefoot in the hallway light, wearing what looked like the soft remains of a sweatshirt and shorts that didn’t quite belong to this decade. Her hair was pulled back loosely. Her eyes were wide — stunned, almost fearful.

Like she couldn’t believe you were seeing her.

Like she couldn’t believe she was seeing you.

Her gaze dropped to her own hands, pale and shaking slightly. She looked at them like they weren’t hers.

“I—” Her voice caught. Soft. Broken. It sounded like something long-forgotten trying to find its way out. “I didn’t think I could…”

Her brows furrowed in panic. She swayed slightly, like the effort of simply being there had knocked something loose in her.

You stepped toward her.

“Are you okay?” you asked, but the words felt fragile in your mouth. Too small for what was happening.

She flinched at the sound of your voice.

Her eyes flicked to yours — haunted and alive all at once.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “I’ve never… not like this. I’m not supposed to…”

She trailed off, blinking quickly, her lips parted like the rest of the thought got lost on the way out.

The air between you pulsed — thick, electric.

You took another step, slowly, like approaching a deer too ready to bolt.

She didn’t move.

“Can I…” You raised your hand, hesitant. “Can I try something?”

She nodded, barely.

Your fingers stretched toward hers, each inch forward winding tighter in your chest. Her hand hovered in the space between you, trembling as it reached back — unsure, like she was trying to remember what it meant to be touched.

And when your fingertips met — just the lightest brush —

You felt it.

Not skin. Not warmth.

Something else.

A pulse, sharp and aching. Like memory. Like grief. Like something beautiful you’d forgotten and didn’t know how to name.

She gasped.

You didn’t pull away.

Neither did she.

And then, very softly, almost as if surprised to hear it herself, she whispered

“Please… help me.”

Not a demand. Not even a plea.

Just a question wrapped in desperation. In need.

Her hand slipped away before you could answer, her form already beginning to flicker at the edges.

“No— wait—” you breathed, reaching for her again, but your hand passed through air.

She was already gone.

Just like that.

The doorway was empty.

The bathroom cold again.

And you stood there, heart hammering, palm still tingling where her fingers had been.

She’d appeared.

Spoken.

Touched you.

And somehow, you knew — this was only the beginning.

She wasn’t fading.

She was fighting.

To remember.

To stay.

To be real.

It didn’t happen just once.

After that night—after she stood in the hallway and you touched her hand—something had shifted.

Not in the house. Not in the weather. But in the way time moved.

You started noticing the in-between moments more. The silence between one breath and the next. The second of stillness before a page turned. The creak of a floorboard before your foot touched it. Like the world had slowed just slightly, just enough to make room for something… or someone else.

And it wasn’t fear that lived in those quiet places.

It was her.

You started hesitating before walking into rooms. Not out of fear, but hope. Like you were waiting for her. Like maybe this time she’d be there. Maybe this time she’d stay.

And sometimes—sometimes—she was.

It started small.

your mug of tea was already steeped when you walked into the kitchen.

You hadn’t made it.

And you didn’t drink it.

But you sat beside it anyway, fingers brushing the ceramic like it might still be warm. It wasn’t.

Still, it stayed with you all day.

The next time, you were humming without realizing it, folding clean towels in the living room when the air changed.

It wasn’t cold.

It wasn’t heavy.

It was curious.

You turned toward the hallway and found her sitting at the top of the stairs, legs pulled up to her chest, head tilted like she didn’t quite understand what you were doing but wanted to. Her hair shimmered faintly in the light filtering through the window, not transparent but not fully solid either.

You didn’t move.

She didn’t vanish.

Her eyes flicked to your hands.

You looked down at the towel in your lap.

“Laundry,” you said softly, as if explaining the act to a child. “It smells like lavender.”

When you looked back up, she was gone.

But the towel in your hands had the faintest warmth to it, like someone else had just folded it with you.

She started appearing more and more after that.

Not just in reflections. Not just in flashes of light or corners of your eyes.

But in moments.

Moments of stillness. Moments you weren’t thinking too hard about anything else. She showed up while you washed dishes, her form reflected in the window. While you sat in the bathtub with your eyes closed, the water suddenly rippling like someone had dipped their fingers into it.

You opened your eyes slowly that time.

She was there, crouched beside the tub, chin resting on her arms on the rim, watching you quietly.

Your heart stuttered, but you didn’t pull back.

Her gaze lowered to the surface of the water between you, then flicked back to your face.

You whispered, “Do you remember anything ?”

And she shook her head.

The sadness in her expression felt like she was mourning her own forgetting.

She vanished before you could say anything else.

But that night, when you walked into your bedroom, a single lavender towel was folded neatly on the pillow.

You sat down beside it. Buried your face in it.

It didn’t smell like lavender anymore.

It smelled like her.

You stopped asking why.

You stopped trying to explain it to yourself, or rationalize what was happening.

She was a ghost.

A memory.

A girl trapped between the cracks of this world and whatever came next.

And she was with you.

Somehow.

That knowledge didn’t scare you.

It settled into you. Like rain after a long drought. Like silence after too much noise.

You started leaving the hallway light on—not out of fear, but because she never came in the dark.

You started talking out loud when you were alone—not to fill the silence, but to give her something to hear.

“Morning,” you’d whisper into the quiet kitchen.

“Long day,” you’d sigh into the empty hallway.

“Do you like this song?” you’d ask when a melody drifted through the speakers.

And sometimes… you’d get an answer.

A breeze that lifted your hair.

A flicker of lights that never happened before.

A whisper of warmth on your neck.

Once, you asked her, “What’s your name?” and your phone lit up on the counter beside you, the screen showing the lock screen you hadn’t touched—battery at 11%, glowing dim.

No notifications.

No missed calls.

But the music had stopped playing.

The name of the artist still on the screen A. P.

You stared.

And whispered it like a secret: “A.P.”

The kitchen lights flickered once, soft and slow.

You smiled, even as tears burned your eyes.

“Hi, A.”

The day you saw her full form in daylight was the day you stopped believing she was tied only to be in the house.

It was a quiet afternoon, cloudy but warm. You were in the garden, kneeling in the dirt, tugging at a stubborn weed when you felt her beside you. Not behind. Not in the house. Next to you.

When you looked up, she was standing in the grass barefoot, wearing what looked like an old football hoodie—like the one in that cracked photo frame—and looking more real than you’d ever seen her.

You stood slowly.

Her eyes locked on yours.

No fear. No urgency. Just curiosity.

Like she was rediscovering you, the way you’d been discovering her.

You took a slow step forward. Then another.

“Why me?” you asked again, softly.

She blinked.

And this time, she opened her mouth.

Her voice came through quiet, like a thread unspooling in the wind.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But… when you’re here, I remember I am, too.”

Your throat tightened.

“I want to help you.”

Her brows furrowed slightly, as if the word didn’t land the way she expected.

“I don’t know if I can be helped,” she whispered. “I don’t even know who I was.”

you said gently. “You were someone. You still are.”

She stepped closer, her bare feet soundless on the grass.

And you could swear—for the first time—there was color in her cheeks.

That night, she didn’t appear in the hallway or the mirror.

She appeared beside you.

In your bed.

You rolled over and she was there, lying on her side, eyes half-lidded, watching you like she’d been waiting.

Her hand was just inches from yours.

You stared at her in silence.

And then slowly, carefully, reached forward.

When your fingertips touched hers, the air hummed.

Not cold.

Not warm.

Just… real.

And she didn’t disappear.

She stayed.

Not speaking. Not touching back.

Just watching you, like she was learning how to be alive again.

You closed your eyes, heartbeat soft against the pillow.

And in the quiet, in the space between breaths, you heard her voice

“Please… don’t go.”

It wasn’t a warning.

It was a plea.

A thread.

A beginning.

And this time, you didn’t answer with words.

You just stayed.

And more and more, she was there.

Like that morning you woke and found her at the foot of your bed.

Her eyes held yours with something that was almost grief. She didn’t speak. But she sat with you, hands resting on her lap, spine curved gently forward as if she were trying to stay anchored to this world.

As if leaving it again would hurt her more than it would you.

When you moved to sit up, her body flickered faintly, like static on an old television screen.

You froze.

She blinked. Her lips parted, unsure.

“I don’t know… why I’m still here,” she said, voice barely louder than the morning breeze. “Or why I can suddenly do this.”

She held up her hand, turning it over slowly. Watching it.

You followed the movement, hypnotized by the way her fingers trembled slightly, as if unfamiliar with their own weight.

“Maybe… you’re remembering,” you whispered.

Alexia looked at you sharply. “You think I’m dead, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer.

She let out a soft breath, eyes drifting to the blanket bunched at your waist. “I don’t remember dying,” she murmured. “I don’t even remember living. Not all of it. Just… pieces. Moments. The game. A name. The way the light used to hit the field at sunset. It all feels far away.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing against the knot in your throat.

She looked at you again. “But you feel close.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know what it meant.

So you did the only thing you could think of — you held out your hand.

For a moment, nothing happened.

And then, slowly, her fingers reached for yours. Hovered just above them.

She didn’t touch you. Not really.

But you felt something.

Not heat. Not skin. But the idea of it.

The shape of her against you. The trace of where she used to be.

It was almost worse than not touching at all.

Her voice cracked. “I don’t think I was supposed to stay.”

The words struck something deep in your chest. A hollow ache. An understanding you didn’t know how to give voice to.

“Maybe… you stayed because something’s unfinished.”

Her hand pulled back slightly, curling into a loose fist in her lap. “Or maybe I’m just lost.”

You studied her face — the sadness threaded through it, the way her jaw tensed like she was holding in tears she didn’t quite know how to cry anymore.

“What if I’m the one keeping you here?” you asked quietly.

She blinked, startled. “Why would you say that?”

You hesitated. “Because I don’t want you to leave.”

The words felt like a confession.

And somehow, she didn’t vanish when you said them.

Instead, she smiled.

Not the wide, joyful kind that lit up her whole face. But a soft, broken thing. The kind of smile you offer someone when you know you shouldn’t be smiling at all.

“Then maybe… I don’t want to leave either.”

That week, in the middle of the night, when thunder cracked the sky and you shot up gasping from a dream you couldn’t remember. She was there in the doorway, watching you, her hand pressed to the frame like she wanted to step through it but wasn’t sure she’d make it all the way.

Another time, she was sitting on the counter when you turned from the stove, tea bag still steeping in your mug. She didn’t say anything, just swung her legs like she used to do it all the time, head tilted, watching the steam rise.

You asked her then what she remembered about this house.

“Laughter,” she said. “Late nights. A lot of music. A dog, maybe. Or a cat.”

She smiled like she wasn’t sure which.

“Do you think this was your home?” you asked.

Her eyes narrowed a little, thoughtful. “I think it was someone’s.”

“And you loved them?”

“I think I was them.”

It took you a second to understand.

Then she added, “That’s what it feels like sometimes. Like I’m still echoing in the walls, not because I’m haunting them — but because they used to be me. My body. My memories. My everything. But now I’m just… a flicker of who I was.”

You didn’t ask if she felt real now. You knew the answer.

You felt her even when she wasn’t there. In the spaces between your thoughts. In the way you looked over your shoulder when the kettle whistled. In the hollow of the bed beside you, still warm when it shouldn’t be.

You told her once “I’ve never been haunted like this before.”

She tilted her head and whispered, “Maybe it’s not haunting.”

You looked at her. “Then what is it?”

She didn’t answer.

But later that night, you found a folded piece of paper on your pillow — her handwriting, shaky but legible

“Maybe it’s remembering.”

You woke one morning to find her sitting beside you, head down, fingers threading through her long hair.

“I saw something,” she said. “In a dream, I think. Or maybe… a memory.”

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes. “What did you see?”

“A stadium. Huge. Floodlights. People chanting. And a girl… a younger me, maybe. She was running. Laughing. Holding something in her hands.”

You propped yourself up on your elbow. “A trophy?”

Alexia’s eyes lit faintly. “Maybe.”

She looked at you like she was searching for herself in your face. Then her gaze dropped to your hand — where yours had crept closer to hers on instinct.

This time, when she reached for you, her fingers brushed yours.

And you felt it.

The gentlest shock. A whisper of skin.

She pulled back in surprise, staring at her own hand like she didn’t understand what had just happened.

You both said it at the same time

“How did you do that?”

And then, just barely above a breath — her voice again, trembling with something fragile and bright and terrifying

“Please… help me.”

And you nodded, your voice thick. “I will.”

The rain didn’t stop for three days.

It softened everything—the edges of the house, the steady rhythm of your thoughts, even the way time passed. Outside, the sky was a low gray ceiling, pressing gently against the sea. Inside, the house was quiet, save for the hiss of the fireplace and the occasional groan of old beams adjusting to the damp.

You hadn’t stepped outside since she started appearing more often.

There wasn’t really a decision behind it. Just a feeling in your chest—a strange weightless pull that kept you here, like you were meant to be in this space with her. Or like she was meant to be near you.

Sometimes she would just be… there.

You’d walk into a room and find her by the window, one hand resting on the glass, watching the water like it held answers. She never startled you, not anymore. Her presence was no longer a disruption. It was something else now. A rhythm. A heartbeat beside your own.

Once, she was already sitting by the fireplace when you came downstairs, her legs pulled up to her chest, her chin resting on her knee.

She glanced at you. “You hum when you sleep.”

You paused halfway through pouring your tea. “I do?”

She nodded. “It’s… nice. I think I used to do that, too. When I was nervous.”

You watched her for a moment, heart aching in that slow, unnamable way you were starting to associate only with her. “Are you nervous now?”

A pause.

“I don’t know what I am,” she said softly.

Neither did you.

There were small things.

She started showing up more in the mornings—leaning in the doorway as you made breakfast, or brushing past your shoulder in the hallway, light as breath.

One rainy afternoon, you found her in the upstairs, sitting beside the window with an old book in her lap. She didn’t look up right away.

“I can’t read anymore,” she said when she noticed you, voice thick with something you couldn’t name. “I know the words. But they don’t feel real.”

You sat beside her, careful not to let your knees touch. “What feels real?”

Her eyes flicked toward you, sharp and soft all at once. “You.”

The word hit like a storm.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

She turned back to the window.

“I think that scares me.”

The next morning, you found her waiting in the kitchen.

You hadn’t even made it to the coffee pot before she was leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, that same familiar, unreadable look in her eyes.

“You make too much toast,” she said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You always make two slices, but only eat one.”

You squinted at her. “You’re judging me now or?”

“I’m observing,” she said, smiling faintly. “There’s a difference.”

You laughed, a short, surprised sound.

It felt good.

She didn’t laugh with you, but her eyes warmed like the sound had meant something.

“Do you remember anything new?” you asked after a beat, placing her a cup of tea out of instinct.

She looked at the mug for a long time before speaking.

“I think I was waiting for something here. Or someone. But I never found them.”

“And now?”

She lifted her gaze, met yours.

“I think maybe I have.”

You started dreaming of her.

Not in the haunting way.

In the quiet way.

You’d wake up and swear you felt the weight of her next to you, or the brush of her hair against your shoulder. You didn’t mention it out loud. You didn’t need to.

One night, you woke up and found her sitting at the end of the bed, watching you with that expression that was all softness and sorrow.

“Do you miss anyone?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Do you think I should?”

You hesitated. “Do you feel like you should?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she crawled up beside you—not under the blankets, just close enough to share your warmth. Her shoulder brushed yours. She didn’t vanish. She didn’t waver.

You both stayed silent.

Eventually, your eyes slipped shut again, and for the first time, you thought maybe she slept, too.

The next few days passed like water.

Time became slippery in the house — hours folding in on themselves, light shifting quietly across the walls, seasons beginning to blur around the edges. You couldn’t remember the last time you checked your phone. The signal had been gone for a while now, or maybe you just stopped noticing.

But you noticed her. Alexia was everywhere now. You began to crave her more and more, which terrified you more than her sudden appearances ever had.

And she was changing, too.

Becoming more solid. More sure. It was like the house was remembering her as you were discovering her.

One morning, you found her in the garden, barefoot in the dew-soaked grass.

She didn’t hear you at first. The wind was tugging at her hair, and the sky above her was still stained with the blush of dawn. She looked impossibly alive.

You almost didn’t say anything.

But she turned anyway, just before you spoke.

“I didn’t know ghosts could get cold,” you said softly.

She smirked. “I didn’t know ghosts could fall in love, either.”

The air stilled.

She looked away quickly, almost like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You swallowed. “Is that what this is?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stepped closer, bare feet silent on the stone path.

“I don’t know what this is,” she said finally. “But I feel something. Every time I see you.”

That night,when You laid in bed, facing the window, listening to the sea breathing outside. Every so often, a floorboard creaked somewhere down the hall, and you wondered if she was pacing. If she was trying to figure it out just like you were — this impossible in-between place you were both caught in.

When you finally turned, she was there.

Sitting in the chair by your bed, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. Her head rested on the curve of the wooden frame, watching you with that familiar expression — not sadness exactly. Something deeper.

“You’re always so quiet,” you whispered.

“So are you,” she murmured.

You sat up slowly. “You don’t scare me.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“I know.”

A long silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t heavy.

She looked down at her hands. “I think I used to be someone people loved. I don’t remember the details, but I can feel it sometimes. In flashes. A voice calling for me. A stadium. A goal. Someone’s arms around me.”

Your breath caught.

Alexia closed her eyes. “And then it’s gone.”

You reached out, hesitant, your fingers brushing hers.

She didn’t vanish.

She looked at your hand like it was something holy.

“How do you still feel warm?” you asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe because of you.”

Rain tapped at the windows. The fire was low, more ember than flame. You sat on the floor beside the hearth, legs tucked underneath you, blanket around your shoulders. A book lay open in your lap, but you hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.

She was sitting on the couch, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around them. She looked younger like that. Softer. Not like a ghost at all.

You glanced at her. She was already watching you.

“Do you miss it?” you asked quietly. “Being alive?”

She considered that for a long moment. “Yes,” she said. “But I think… I miss being felt more.”

You frowned. “Felt?”

“Seen. Touched. Missed. Needed.”

You swallowed.

Without thinking, you set the book aside and shifted toward her.

Her breath hitched — just a little — as you came closer.

When you reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, she leaned into it like she hadn’t been touched in years.

Maybe she hadn’t.

Her hand came up to your wrist, gently holding it in place. Her fingers were warm now. Soft.

Your heart was racing. Her eyes locked with yours. “Can I—?”

You nodded.

The kiss was slow.

So slow it almost didn’t feel real. Her lips hovered over yours, unsure, searching. When they finally touched, it was like the world stilled — not silence, but stillness. Everything holding its breath.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t desperate.

It was the kind of kiss that said, I found you.

Her fingers slid into your hair. Yours curled into the edge of her shirt, grounding yourself in a body that shouldn’t exist — but did.

When you pulled back, it wasn’t far.

She rested her forehead against yours.

“You’re real,” she breathed, voice trembling.

“So are you,” you whispered.

And for once — you both believed it.

The room was still — almost reverent in the silence that followed.

Neither of you moved. Not at first.

You didn’t know how to. It felt like even the air around you had shifted, like time itself had held its breath to witness something impossible.

Her lips had been warm.

Not cold like you feared. Not intangible like mist or breath on glass. They were real. Soft. A little hesitant, like she didn’t quite believe it either. But real.

And you kissed her back.

She pulled away just slightly, just enough to see you. Her hand lingered at your jaw, her thumb brushing over your skin with slow, aching wonder.

“I didn’t think I could do that,” she said. Her voice trembled at the edges, low and disbelieving. “Touch you like this.”

You couldn’t speak for a moment. You didn’t want to. You just stared at her—at the lines of her face, the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell like someone who had come up from drowning.

“You feel real,” you murmured.

You reached for her hand, curling your fingers around hers, anchoring the sensation between you. Her palm fit against yours like it had always known its place.

She looked toward the fireplace, the flames now low and steady. The light danced across her skin like it had chosen her. Like it knew she belonged to this world too.

Her gaze returned to you. She nodded.

A beat passed.

Then she exhaled, like she was finally letting go of something she’d been holding for too long. she looked down, biting her lip like the word had hit something soft in her.

She leaned her forehead against yours, and for a moment, you just breathed together. She smelled like smoke and salt and something sweeter underneath—like memory trying to be born.

“I want to stay,” she whispered. “More than anything.”

You closed your eyes. “Then stay.”

And you felt her nod again, barely-there movement. Like a promise.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was so soft you almost missed it.

“Do you think it’s wrong?”

You turned slightly, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “What is?”

“This,” she said. “You and me. The way I want this.”

You stared at her, heart tightening. “Why would it be wrong?”

“I’m not… alive.”

“I’m not sure that matters,” you said, meaning every word. “Not with you.”

She looked at you. Her expression was raw, unguarded. “You make me feel like I am alive ”

You smiled faintly. “Then maybe you are.”

The next morning came with a fragile kind of stillness — not silence, exactly, but that soft hum of the world when you wake from something that mattered.

She was gone.

Not in the way that meant she was never real. Just… not here.

You didn’t panic. You didn’t even feel the sting of loss like you expected to. Instead, you touched the blanket beside you, still warm, and smiled.

You had felt her. Held her. Kissed her.

Something had changed.

You moved through the house as if your skin remembered her — your hands still echoing the places she touched. At the stove, while making tea, you looked over your shoulder without meaning to, half expecting her to be standing behind you.

She wasn’t.

That night, she appeared again.

This time, while you were brushing your teeth. You looked up, mouth full of foam, and nearly jumped when you saw her in the mirror — standing right behind you, grinning like she’d done it on purpose.

You turned, spitting and laughing, and she only shrugged innocently.

“Couldn’t help it.”

You rolled your eyes. “You scared me.”

“You’re cute when you’re scared.”

You narrowed your eyes at her and tossed the towel at her chest — She caught it. Then she started laughing. You joined her. It felt good. Easy. Like living.

Next morning After breakfast — toast, butter, jam, and endless glances between the stove and the doorway to see if she would follow you — you found her again in the garden. Turning her face up to the sun like she hadn’t felt it in years.

Maybe she hadn’t.

“You okay?” you called softly.

She turned. Her smile lit everything.

“I forgot how good warmth feels.”

You stepped into the grass beside her. “What else did you forget?”

She hesitated. “The smell of salt. The way morning light slants through the trees. The sound of birds. I think… I think I even forgot my own voice for a while.”

“But it’s coming back now?”

She looked at you then, her expression raw.

“Yes. And I think you’re the reason why.”

You looked down, overwhelmed.

“Is that okay?” she asked.

You nodded. “It’s more than okay.”

She reached out then, not for your hand this time, but to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Her thumb brushed your cheek.

“You know what scares me the most?” she said. “That I’m only here because of you. And when you go… I’ll vanish again.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You say that, but people do. They always do.”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Then let me show you.”

She stared at you for a long moment, like she was memorizing the exact pitch of your voice, the way your chest rose with every breath. Then she nodded, and for the first time, you saw something shift in her — like the tether that kept her half-in, half-out of this world had begun to fray just enough to let her choose to stay.

“I believe you,” she whispered.

That night, she stayed longer than ever.

You lay tangled together in bed, your head resting against her shoulder, your fingers tracing shapes on back of her hand.

“What was your favorite thing?” you asked softly.

“About being alive?”

You nodded.

She thought for a long time. “Running.”

You smiled. “Like… jogging?”

She laughed. “No. Like… full-speed. Cleats on grass. Stadium lights. The feeling of wind rushing past you because you made it move. Like you were faster than the world.”

You closed your eyes, picturing it. “That’s beautiful.”

She was quiet for a while. Then “I think I miss it. But less, now. Because I think maybe this is what I was really meant to feel. Not the speed. Just… this.”

You kissed her shoulder. “Stay with me.”

“I want to.”

And she did.

When you woke in the early hours — the sky still bruised with night, the house still holding its breath — she was sitting up beside you, knees drawn to her chest,like most times, her eyes full of thought.

You reached out, brushing her back gently. “Hey?”

She turned.

“I remember something,” she said. “Not a whole memory. Just a feeling. Before I died… I waited.”

“For what?”

She looked at you with the softest ache. “For someone… I can’t remember who, not yet.”

You reached up, cupping her face, and she leaned into the touch like it was all she’d ever needed.

“I see you now,” you whispered.

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I think I’m still here.”

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows that barely touched the corners of the room. The sea hummed outside, gentle and rhythmic, like a distant lullaby. You sat curled under the blanket on the couch, knees to your chest, gaze lost in the flicker of the flames. You weren’t waiting for her. Not really. But you didn’t flinch when you felt it—the shift in the air.

She was there.

You didn’t have to turn to know.

But you did.

She stood in the doorway, barefoot, quiet, watching you with eyes that looked fuller tonight. Brighter. Almost alive. The light clung to her like it remembered her shape. And for once, she didn’t hesitate.

She walked to you slowly.

You sat up, heart thudding. “You’re here.”

“I always am,” she said, voice barely a whisper.

You nodded. “I know.”

A silence stretched between you. But it wasn’t heavy. It breathed. It waited.

Her fingers brushed yours—no sudden cold, no flicker, just touch. Real. Warm.

Your breath caught.

“I don’t know why,” she said softly, “but I feel… closer. Like I’m less in between now.”

You looked at her hand resting over yours. Then back at her face. “Do you want to stay?”

She blinked, something fragile in her expression. “Yes. If you let me.”

You guided her down beside you, knees brushing. She turned to face you. Her fingers found your cheek. They didn’t pass through. They lingered. You leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.

“I’ve missed this,” she whispered. “Even if I don’t remember everything. This… feels right.”

You didn’t speak. You just kissed her.

Soft. Slow. Like learning her all over again. Her lips were warm, surprisingly solid, trembling beneath yours. She kissed back like she’d been waiting lifetimes. And maybe she had.

Her hands cupped your jaw, your neck, pulling you closer until your body pressed into hers. Her sigh melted into your mouth.

You shifted, straddling her lap, your fingers tangled in her hair, hers gripping your waist like she was afraid you'd vanish. She didn't feel like a ghost anymore. She felt like want, like memory, like something you could finally hold.

Your breaths grew shallow as the kiss deepened, messy now, desperate but still slow. You unbuttoned your shirt one at a time, her gaze never leaving your face. Her hands followed, reverent, fingertips grazing your ribs like they were sacred.

When you guided her to lie back, her body melted into the couch, eyes wide, lips parted. You moved over her, tugging at the hem of the shirt she wore, sliding it up, revealing the curve of her stomach, the softness of her skin.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathed.

“So are you,” she whispered back. “ never forgot that.”

You kissed your way down her neck, over her chest, your fingers learning every inch of her. She arched into you, quiet moans escaping as your mouths met again, deeper now, fuller.

Clothes became memories, dropped gently onto the floor, one by one.

You moved together like waves—slow, inevitable, full of feeling. She gasped when your hand found her, when your mouth followed. Her fingers tangled in your hair, your name falling from her lips like prayer.

And when she pulled you back up, pressed your forehead to hers, and whispered, “Don’t stop,” you didn’t.

You sank into her slowly, and she wrapped around you like warmth, like light, like a promise that never faded. Her thighs tightened around your waist, her nails pressing into your back, grounding you in her.

Each movement was a sentence neither of you knew how to say aloud.

Her voice broke when she came, your name slipping out like it had always belonged to her. You followed soon after, bodies tangled, hearts thudding like echoes.

After, you stayed like that, curled into her. She traced slow lines over your back with her fingertips, quiet and careful.

“You feel real,” you whispered.

She kissed your temple. “So do you.”

The fire crackled behind you. The sea sighed outside.

And for the first time since you came to this house, you weren’t alone.

You were held. Wanted. Remembered.

It started with the desk.

You hadn’t even meant to be in the study — not really. The room had been cold for weeks, sealed by the kind of silence that didn’t just settle, but warned. But today the sea looked calm through the salt-stained windows, and the wind had quieted. You didn’t feel afraid anymore.

You were just tidying.

Wiping down the old mahogany desk near the window, your hand brushed against a thin groove under the edge — almost invisible unless you knew where to feel. A click. A hidden compartment slid open with surprising ease, as if waiting.

You stared at it for a moment, heart slowing into something heavier.

Inside a bundle of time.

Photographs — real ones, worn at the edges, the colors faded like they were drained by memory itself. Letters folded carefully. Ribbons tying ticket stubs together. A notebook, its leather cover cracked and softened by hands that once clung too tightly.

The air shifted. A hush fell over the room.

You sat slowly on the floor, pulling the box close like it was fragile.

The photos came first.

In some, she stood next to another woman. Laughing. Walking along a beach. Wrapped in each other’s arms with foreheads pressed together

One photo in particular made your breath catch.

It was you.

No — not you. But it could have been. The resemblance was unreal. Girl had your hair, your mouth, even the same smile you’d seen in your own reflection the night she first whispered through the mirror.

Your hands trembled.

This wasn’t coincidence. This was something deeper. Something older.

You reached for the notebook next.

The pages were filled in careful ink, the handwriting delicate but purposeful. Some entries were poetic. Others raw, frantic.

“Sofía made me feel like the world could end and I’d still be alright.”

“I used to be afraid of silence until I heard it with her.”

“She was light and ruin and everything in between.”

You swallowed hard, eyes burning.

And then this

“I still hear her laughter. Sometimes I wake up thinking she’s in the kitchen.”

“I begged the universe to let her stay. It didn’t listen.”

“Now the house doesn’t echo. It mourns.”

The room grew colder.

You looked up.

And there she was.

Standing just a few feet away, as human as you’d ever seen her, but with a stillness that didn’t quite belong to the living. Her eyes found yours, already glossy, already knowing. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. You saw everything in her face. The love. The loss. The recognition. And something like guilt.

You didn’t say anything at first.

She stepped closer, carefully, as if unsure if she could. Her bare feet made no sound on the wooden floor. Her gaze flicked to the photo still trembling in your hand — the one of Sofía. Your mirror. Your double.

Her voice broke the silence, hoarse and low. “You found her.”

You nodded. “She looks like me.”

A pause. Her throat moved. “She was you.”

The words sent a shiver through your spine.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered. “Is this why you’ve been—why I’ve felt—”

“I don’t know.” Her voice cracked. “At first I thought you were her. That maybe—maybe the universe had brought her back to me.”

You didn’t respond. The ache in her voice made your chest feel hollow.

She took another slow step forward. “But then I saw you. And you weren’t Sofía. Not really. You were… you.”

She knelt in front of you like she couldn’t help it, her fingers inches from your own but never touching.

“I died with her,” she said softly. “Not in body. But in all the ways that mattered. When she was taken… I wasn’t ready. I never said goodbye.”

Your fingers tightened around the photograph.

“She was killed?” you asked quietly.

Her eyes darkened. “Yes. Wrong place. Wrong time. I was late. I told her to wait for me.” Her hands shook now. “I came home, and the house… it was so quiet. I thought she was asleep. But the silence had changed. It was hollow.”

You could see it now — the way grief had bound her, anchored her to this world. She hadn’t just lingered out of love. She’d lingered out of guilt. Out of the desperate, agonizing need to say the words she never could.

“I’ve wandered this house, this space between,” she said, her voice breaking. “Trying to hold on. Hoping that somehow, she’d come back. And when I saw you… it felt like I was breathing again for the first time.”

You looked at her then — really looked. And despite everything, you weren’t afraid.

She was haunting you. But maybe you were haunting her too.

“I’m not Sofía,” you said softly.

“No,” she whispered. “But you feel like home.”

Silence stretched between you. Raw. Fragile.

Then, for the first time, you reached out.

Your fingers hovered above hers. Her hand rose to meet yours.

Skin met skin.

Warmth bloomed.

And she let out a breath — broken, beautiful — like she’d been holding it for years.

You didn’t know what would come next.

But for the first time, you weren’t lost in the past.

You were both here. And that… that was something.

The sky was a quiet gray when you left that morning, the sea unusually still beyond the cliffs. Something in the air had changed — a fragile stillness, like the hush before a storm or the breath between heartbeats. You told yourself it was nothing. That the feeling in your chest, the weight you couldn’t shake, was simply the chill of coastal wind.

But something kept pulling at you.

It wasn’t restlessness.

It was urgency.

You didn’t even know why you walked to town. You hadn’t planned to. But you passed the bakery, the church, the quiet row of shuttered antique shops, and ended up at the library with its flaking green door and crooked bell that didn’t ring anymore.

Inside, it smelled of damp paper and time. The librarian barely looked up as you passed the desk.

You found yourself drawn to the back — to the local archives. Heavy binders full of forgotten headlines and photos no one had looked at in years. Maybe decades. You didn’t know what you were looking for. You only knew you had to find it.

You flipped through the records with trembling hands.

And then, a name.

Alexia Putellas.

You froze.

The newspaper clipping was small. Wedged between a piece on the summer arts festival and a half-page obituary for a town mechanic.

The headline read

“Tragic Loss: Former Footballer Dies by Suicide in Coastal Home.”

Your fingers clenched the page. You read the words again, and again, and again.

The article didn’t say much. She had once been famous. Played for Spain. A captain, a leader. Suffered a great loss — the murder of her long-term partner, Sofía R. After that, she'd withdrawn completely. Moved away from the city. Neighbors barely saw her. Some thought she’d already left town. Until one day, she didn’t open the door again.

“She was found alone,” the last line read. “March 12, 2024.”

The paper slipped from your hands.

A thick silence filled the room.

You stared at the floor, your throat tightening.

You thought about the mirror. The way her hand had touched the glass. The weight on your mattress at night. The way she whispered please don’t go like someone already standing at the edge.

You had talked to her. Held her hand.

Kissed her.

You had fallen for her.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until the librarian passed you a tissue with an awkward, mumbled, “Are you alright?”

You nodded.

You weren’t.

But you couldn’t stay here.

The road back felt longer. The clouds rolled in thick and low, casting deep shadows over the cliffs. You walked faster than you ever had, your bag bouncing against your hip, the old newspaper you’d taken from the library folded into your coat pocket.

You didn’t stop.

Didn’t think.

You just whispered one word, over and over, like a prayer

“Please.”

You burst through the door of the house, slamming it behind you.

“Alexia?” you called, your voice cracking.

Nothing.

You ran upstairs. To the study. To the room with the mirror.

“Alexia, please—” you cried.

But the air was wrong. Heavier. Still.

The house didn’t feel empty.

It felt abandoned.

Like something had just slipped out of reach.

Your chest collapsed around your heartbeat.

“No. No, not now,” you whispered. “Not yet. Not before I can tell you—”

You stepped into the room with the fireplace, breath catching.

And that’s when you saw it.

The mirror.

The glass was still fogged, like someone had been standing there just moments ago. You walked slowly toward it. Every step a fracture.

And written across the top, traced in the condensation, were the words:

“I finally found what I was looking for … Love.”

You stopped breathing.

It was her handwriting.

Slanted. Careful. Fading by the second.

“No,” you whispered.

You reached up to touch the glass, but the letters had already begun to vanish, curling away into nothing.

You stared at your reflection.

You were alone.

Truly, finally, heartbreakingly alone.

And yet…

You didn’t feel empty.

Not completely.

Because she had found it.

Whatever it was that had tethered her here — grief, pain, confusion — it had been replaced by something else.

Love.

You had given that to her.

Maybe that’s why she could go now.

But gods, you wished she hadn’t.

You pressed your forehead to the mirror and let the tears fall.

“I wasn’t done,” you whispered. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

The house didn’t respond.

But something in your chest, your soul, your bones… shifted.

Like her warmth had left an imprint. Like her presence would always live in the spaces where she touched you. In the places where you laughed with her. In the breath she took beside you the night she whispered your name.

And suddenly, it was so clear.

She had never stayed for revenge.

Or anger.

She’d stayed for her. For you.

And when you finally loved her back, fully, without fear — she had finally been able to go.

You sank to the floor, back against the wall, the storm rising gently outside.

The wind moved through the shutters like a soft breath.

It almost sounded like her voice.

And just for a moment — a flicker, a heartbeat, the trace of a dream — you thought you felt a hand brushing your cheek.

You stayed.

You never meant to, not in the way you ended up. The thought had never crossed your mind, not at first. You’d always assumed that time, eventually, would give you peace. That one day you would understand. That your heart would learn to bear the weight of longing, of the ache that had settled in your bones.

But time, as it does, played its hand.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. And as the seasons bled into one another, your world shrank to a space carved out by her absence. The house by the sea—your house now, but once hers, once yours—was where you remained. And it was the house that waited, not you.

In the beginning, it was the mirror that drew you in. You’d stand before it, waiting for a flicker of her reflection, her smile, the haunting beauty that had once drawn you in from the first moment. You never saw her again. But the house was never truly silent. There was always a murmur in the air, the weight of something unseen. The soft whispers in the wind. The way the shadows stretched across the room like fingers reaching out, like the world itself remembered her.

You never left the house. Because what if she came back? What if she was just waiting for you to call out? What if, after all this time, she was still somewhere, waiting for the moment when you’d see her again?

The villagers, the ones who’d once been your neighbors, stopped coming by after a while. They didn’t knock on your door anymore or bring you tea. They whispered about you behind closed doors—about the woman who lived in the haunted house, the woman who refused to leave. They called you mad, a broken soul who had lost everything. But they didn’t understand.

You weren’t broken. You weren’t lost. You were hers. And in the deepest corners of your soul, you knew she would return.

She always did. Somehow.

You kept the photo in your drawer. The one you’d found . Soft, worn, creased from too many nights spent clutching it in your palm. It was not the only thing you had left of her—But it was important. It was different.

And so, you waited.

You whispered to the mirror sometimes. Told her about the weather, the ocean, the stars. You told her how much you loved her. How much you missed her.

But she never answered. Not with words.

And then—just as you had nearly forgotten what her voice sounded like—there were moments when you thought you caught a glimpse of her. A soft shadow in the corner of your eye. The flicker of light across the hallway when you knew you were alone. The rustle of fabric brushing against the air.

You wanted to believe. Because what else could you do? What else was there but the hope that she would return?

But she never did.

At least, not in the way you thought.

The years passed, one by one. Your hair grayed, your body grew frail. Time, which had once seemed like a boundless stretch of infinity, now seemed too brief. But you didn’t mind. Not really. Because all you had was time. Time to wait for her.

You began to wonder if she was somewhere, trapped in time as you were, waiting for you to cross the threshold and find her again. Or perhaps she was somewhere, far away from you, lost to another life, another story. The pain of that thought made your heart ache deeper than it ever had before. It was the cruelest kind of love—one that would never be fulfilled.

The seasons continued to change, just as they always had.

And then, on a night like any other, you sat by the fire once again.

You hadn’t expected anything. You hadn’t expected her to appear. You hadn’t expected the years of longing to culminate in any way other than in silence. But the fire flickered and crackled, casting shadows that danced on the walls like memories. And for the briefest of moments, you thought you saw her.

Just for a second. She was there—young, beautiful, radiant. Her eyes were soft, full of something not quite human. She was perfect. Untouched by time. Still ageless.

She smiled at you.

And you smiled back.

The wind outside grew softer, and for the first time in so many years, you felt peace. The kind of peace you thought you would never know again. The weight on your heart, the ache of waiting—it softened, just for a moment.

But that moment was all you needed.

As you closed your eyes, the years of longing faded, and your chest expanded with the quiet knowledge that it was finally time.

You knew that this was the moment you had waited for.

When you took your final breath, it wasn’t as if you were leaving. No, it was more like you were returning to her, like your soul was simply slipping into the place it was always meant to be.

The house went still, and the fire burned low. The mirror remained quiet, the reflection still.

But as the hours passed, the wind grew stronger. The house creaked, the floorboards groaned, as if the house itself was calling out—waiting for the next soul to step into the story.

The world moved on, as it always did. But the house remained, untouched by time, waiting.

For the next person. The next soul who might wander in, drawn by the echoes of the past.

And perhaps one day, someone would move in.

They would find the house, with its quiet corners and stillness. They would look into the mirror and see her. Not you, but her. The one with the sad eyes and the lost smile. The one who had been waiting for so long.

She would reach out through the glass, her hand just inches from theirs, her voice a whisper on the edge of the wind.

"I’ve been waiting."

Because after all...

History always repeats itself.

This time, it was you who became the ghost.

The house waits for you, just as it waited for her. And when the time comes, someone will find you—not just your reflection—but you, the one who has been waiting in the dark corners of this house.

The wind will whisper your name. The waves will crash against the shore, and the mirror will reflect your touch, as though time has forgotten you.

And you will wait.

Just like her.

Because love, true love, never dies.

And when it is time—when the moment is right—someone will come to find you.

And when they do...

You will find them too.

[cupofteatoyou]

what almost was

(By this request )

There’s a rhythm to the way Irene walks beside you after matches—slow, steady, with her hand resting gently at your back like a compass. She doesn’t speak much in moments like these, doesn’t need to. She just stays close, as if her presence alone is a promise.

You’ve always admired that about her. Her quiet certainty. Her ability to make you feel safe without trying.

So you don’t say anything either as the two of you step into the tunnel, the hum of Camp Nou fading behind you. Just a glance to your left. Just enough to see Alexia, a few paces ahead, surrounded by teammates and laughing at something Patri said.

She looks good. Of course she does. Ponytail high, jersey still clinging to her, skin glowing with the kind of confidence only she seems to wear like second skin. You should be used to it by now.

And yet.

Her gaze slides across the group, like she’s scanning. Like she’s looking for someone. You’re sure you imagine it—that moment where her eyes hover just a second too long before flicking away.

You tighten your grip on Irene’s hand.

“Everything alright?” she asks, low and warm, like she felt the shift in you before you could hide it.

“Yeah,” you answer. “Just tired.”

She hums softly. “You always say that after home games.”

You glance at her. “Maybe because I never get to nap with you before them.”

That earns you a smile. Irene’s are never loud, never wide—but they’re real. Quiet things you feel more than see.

“We could leave early,” she murmurs. “Skip the lounge. I know how much you love pretending to be interested in Lucy’s whiskey reviews.”

You laugh under your breath, leaning into her shoulder as you walk. “Tempting.”

“You’ve been a little off too,” she adds after a beat, not accusing—just observant. “The past few weeks. Is something wrong?”

Your throat tightens, just a little. “No. Nothing’s wrong.” another pause. Irene doesn’t press. She never does.

She just gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” You nod, because it’s true. You can tell her anything. You just don’t. Not about Alexia.

Not about the strange way your stomach knots when you catch her eyes across a room. Or how she stopped teasing you in passing months ago—no more half-smirks, no more dry comments that made Irene roll her eyes and you stifle a laugh.

It was easier when Alexia still pretended you were friends.

Later, in the lounge, the team’s buzzing. Not wild, but light—good mood, feet kicked up, muscles sore in the way that means victory. Someone’s passing around a speaker, arguing over playlists. The pizza’s going fast. You’re half-watching Mapi challenge Cata to a handstand contest, half-curled into the couch with Irene beside you.

Her arm is behind your shoulders, fingers trailing lightly through the ends of your hair, but she’s not even really paying attention. Just instinct. Like she doesn’t have to try with you. Like it’s easy.

You take a bite of a cold slice, chewing thoughtfully. “You think Mapi’s gonna break something this time?”

Irene doesn’t even look up. “Her pride. Again.”

“She’s already tried three times.”

“She’s stubborn.”

“She’s gonna flip and land on Cata.”

“She’s done worse.”

You grin, tossing your crust into the pizza box on the floor. “You’re very chill about the idea of bodily injury.”

Irene turns to you with that dry little smile she does when she’s amused but pretending not to be. “It’s Mapi. If something breaks, it’ll be the floor.”

You laugh and nudge her knee with yours.

Mapi does, in fact, fall over a minute later. There’s a loud thud, followed by exaggerated groaning, and Patri yells, “Eso es lo que pasa cuando haces yoga una vez y crees que eres invencible!”

“You owe me five euros,” you whisper to Irene.

“I don’t remember making that bet.”

“You didn’t. But I’m trying to teach you how to be fun.”

She hums and leans closer, her voice low and warm in your ear. “And I’m trying to teach you patience. Let’s see who wins first.”

You feel yourself smiling before you can stop it. This—this is good. Comfortable. Real.

But across the room, something shifts in your peripheral vision.

Alexia, seated alone on the far couch, legs crossed, phone in one hand, water bottle in the other. She’s not really in the moment—only half-listening, not laughing like the others. Her screen lights her face with a cold blue cast, and she doesn’t seem to notice.

Then she glances up.

And it happens again.

That flicker of something—recognition, hesitation, whatever it is—when her eyes land on yours.

She doesn’t look away immediately, but she doesn’t smile either. Just watches. Quiet. Intense. Like there’s something she’s not saying.

You swallow, look back at Irene. She’s watching you now, too.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks softly, but not without weight.

You nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t call you on it. She just shifts a little, guiding your legs across her lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her hands settle at your shin, tracing idle circles.

“You know,” she says after a moment, tone casual, “you’re unusually quiet tonight.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“You’re quiet for you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re usually causing some kind of problem.”

You grin. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

Irene snorts. “God help us all.”

She leans forward and steals the last slice from the box without even breaking eye contact. You gape.

“That’s my slice.”

“You snoozed.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, a little smirk tugging at her lips, “but I’m your menace.”

You should be laughing. You are laughing.

But you still feel the weight of Alexia’s stare long after she’s looked away.

Irene drives the two of you home that night, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on your thigh. The car hums low with the sound of the road and the muted voice of a radio host talking about some late-night football results. Barcelona glows quietly outside the window—streetlights streaking gold across the windshield, buildings blurring into shadows.

Her thumb taps softly against your leg in time with the music, a steady rhythm, like she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it. You glance at her—strong profile lit by the dash, calm like always. The kind of calm that could keep the world steady if it ever tipped sideways.

“I think Alexia’s been a little off lately,” you say, almost like you didn’t mean to speak it out loud.

Irene hums, a sound of acknowledgment more than agreement. “Yeah. Maybe she’s tired.”

You nod, turning your gaze back out the window. “Yeah. Probably.”

But tired doesn’t explain the distance.

The way Alexia barely speaks to you anymore.

The way she always seems to notice you walk into a room—and then looks away like it costs her something.

The way she doesn’t tease you in passing, doesn’t throw out nicknames or sarcastic comments the way she used to. Doesn’t sit close anymore. Doesn’t let herself linger.

And the thing is… you miss her. Or maybe you miss who she was with you.

You miss the ease. The sharp glint in her eyes when you’d surprise her with a smart comment. The way her smile used to tug at one side of her mouth first, like she was trying to hide it but never could around you.

You don’t say any of that.

You don’t say you’ve noticed her looking again—but never quite at you anymore. Always near. Always past. Like you’re something she used to believe in.

Instead, you shift in your seat and say, “You think something happened? With her?”

Irene shrugs gently. “She’s intense. Sometimes she gets like that—overthinks things. Holds it in.”

You glance at her again. “So… you’ve noticed it too?”

“She’s always been that way,” Irene replies, not quite answering the question. “But yeah. Lately it’s more… quiet.”

You nod, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest.

Maybe you shouldn’t care this much. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe it’s just guilt—though for what, you can’t quite define.

Irene gives your thigh a light squeeze, pulling you back. “Don’t worry about her tonight, cariño.”

You offer a soft smile. “I’m not worried. Just—curious.”

She glances at you with a raised brow. “Curious enough to ask her?”

You shake your head, too fast. “No. I mean… it’s not really my place, is it?”

Irene’s quiet for a beat. The car slows as she turns onto a quieter street, the road lined with sleeping trees and shuttered shops.

“She used to talk to you more,” she says, like she’s just now realizing it too.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

The silence hangs, heavier now.

You want to fill it with something light. Something safe. A joke, maybe. A change of subject.

But instead, you say, “I think I miss her.”

It slips out, quiet. Honest.

Irene doesn’t say anything right away. She just keeps her hand where it is—steady, grounding—and lets the car roll forward into the night.

And somehow, that’s worse than anything she could have said.

Alexia’s POV

She tells herself it’s nothing.

The way her chest tightens every time she sees you laugh at something Irene says. The way her jaw clenches without warning when Irene leans in close, lips brushing the edge of your ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like that kind of closeness should belong to anyone.

She tells herself it’s stupid.

Because she had her chance. She did. Months ago, when everything between you was easier. Lighter. Before the lines were drawn.

Before she saw Irene’s arm around your waist at a team dinner.

Before she noticed the way you looked at her—like the whole world had shifted a few degrees.

And she had no right to be hurt by that. She still doesn’t.

But it didn’t stop it from happening.

Didn’t stop the pit in her stomach from forming that night and never really going away.

So now she keeps her distance. She makes excuses. She nods when you speak but doesn’t add much. She laughs with everyone else, but it never quite reaches her eyes when you're in the room.

She can feel herself unraveling in pieces. Quiet ones.

After the match, in the lounge, she spots you before you spot her. You're curled up next to Irene on the couch, your body language soft and familiar. Your hand on Irene’s thigh, Irene’s fingers brushing your wrist. It should be sweet.

But all she feels is bitterness.

Patri says something beside her, something about post-match karaoke, and Alexia nods along, but her eyes are elsewhere. Always elsewhere.

She watches the way you lean your head against Irene’s shoulder. The way Irene presses a kiss to your temple without fanfare. You smile, eyes fluttering closed for a second like you’re home.

And Alexia looks away fast enough to make her head spin.

She tries to distract herself. Grabs a bottle of water. Scrolls aimlessly through her phone. But it’s no use.

When her eyes lift again—by instinct, not intention—you’re watching her. Just for a second.

She knows her face gives nothing away. She’s practiced that for years. She’s good at control.

But your expression is soft. Hesitant. Like you’ve been trying to figure her out and still don’t have the pieces.

And then you look away.

Alexia exhales slowly and presses the heel of her palm to her forehead.

She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want to want you.

But when she closes her eyes later that night, it’s your voice she hears in the quiet. Your laugh, echoing in the back of her mind. Your mouth, slightly parted in surprise, the night you almost kissed her.

Almost.

She still remembers it. Too clearly. It was after a match last season. You’d been teasing her about a missed shot, your tone warm and familiar. She’d tried to match it with a sarcastic reply, but then you’d both just… stopped.

Too close. Too quiet. Eyes locked. Her hand had twitched like she might reach for you.

But then someone had called your name from across the parking lot, and you’d turned away with a smile.

And by the time you looked back, her face was blank again.

A week later, you were with Irene.

Now, in her apartment, she stares at her phone. At your contact.

Thumb hovering over it like muscle memory.

She never texts you anymore. But she still knows your number by heart.

She types out

“You looked happy tonight.”

Then deletes it.

“You’re glowing lately.”

Deletes that too.

Then finally

“Don’t forget how good you are at reading people.”

She stares at it.

Then she locks her phone and sets it face down on the table.

Some things are better left unsaid.

Even when they’re killing you.

Y/N POV

There’s a knock on door.

You’re not expecting anyone. Irene is still in post-match meetings with the staff, and afterwards probably getting dinner in some new restaurant with team. The hallway is quiet when you pad over, your socks barely making a sound against the carpet.

You open the door.

It’s Alexia.

Her hair is damp from a recent shower, curling slightly at the ends, tucked into the collar of a hoodie zipped all the way up. Her arms are folded, posture loose but guarded—like she’s keeping herself in check by habit more than intention.

She doesn't look at you right away. Just a flick of her eyes to your face, then past your shoulder, as if she might pretend she’s in the wrong place.

“Hey,” she says.

Your brow pulls slightly. “Hey.”

A beat. Too long. The silence stretches.

“I—uh,” she shifts her weight, then lifts something from under her arm. “You left your sweater in the lounge.”

Your sweater. The soft, navy one Irene gave you. You remember tossing it onto the couch while celebrating with team. You hadn't even realized you'd forgotten it.

“Oh.” You blink. “I—thanks.”

She holds it out.

When you take it from her, your fingers brush. It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s familiar and wrong and years of unfinished between you.

She doesn’t turn to go. You don’t ask her to.

“Do you wanna come in?” you hear yourself say, and it’s not casual. Not really. You say it softly, almost like a dare. Like you need to know how close she’ll let herself come.

Alexia hesitates. Then she nods. But the words won’t come. Because the truth is— You want her. You never stopped wanting her.

In few minutes She’s in your kitchen. You’re leaning against the fridge like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Alexia’s holding a glass of water she hasn’t touched. Her fingers are curled too tightly around it, like it’s anchoring her to the moment—like if she lets go, she’ll do something she can’t undo.

The silence grows between you, big and choking. The hum of the fridge. The tick of the clock. The soft clink of her nails against the glass.

“I should go,” she says, but her voice doesn’t carry conviction.

You nod, slowly. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

She sets the glass down, eyes flicking to your hands. “You always do that,” she murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Clench your fists when you’re trying not to feel something.” You hadn’t even noticed. You flex your fingers slowly, release the tension in your knuckles.

“And you always come here when you’ve already decided you won’t leave,” you say. Her breath catches, barely audible. She takes a step forward. Your chest tightens.

Alexia’s eyes search your face. “Why do you look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re drowning.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “Maybe I am.”

“Because of me?”

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t know, but because saying yes would make it real. Her gaze drifts lower. First to your mouth. Then your neck. Then back to your eyes.

“Irene loves you,” she says, almost like a warning.

You nod again. “Yeah. She does.”

A pause. She tilts her head. “But do you love her?” Her voice is soft, measured. Almost kind.

You swallow hard. “That’s not a fair question.”

“I know,” she says, and steps closer. Now she’s just a breath away.

You can feel the warmth of her, the tension thrumming between your bodies like a current.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“I shouldn’t be a lot of things.” Her eyes flick again—to your lips. Her breathing changes. Slower, deeper. Like she’s bracing herself for something that might destroy her. You feel it too.

“Say something,” she whispers.

You force out, “Don’t.”

She stills. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Like you’re mine.”

“I’m not,” she says quietly. “But I want to be.” The words hit you like a bruise And still, you don’t step back.

She moves closer, so slow you almost don’t notice. Inches. Then centimeters.

And when she kisses you—soft at first, unsure, like she’s waiting for you to flinch—you don’t.

You stay perfectly still. You let her kiss you.

Her lips are warm, hesitant, like she’s asking a question with her mouth and terrified of the answer.

Your hand finds her wrist. Not to stop her. Just to feel her pulse. To feel something that isn’t guilt.

And then you kiss her back. This time, she shudders. She pulls back, barely.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes.

“No, you’re not.”

“I wish I were.”

And then you lean in again, and everything else fades—the kitchen, the glass of water, the way you know this will break someone’s heart.

Clothes come off slowly. Not carefully—just methodically. She pulls your shirt over your head, drops it behind her. Your bra next. She watches as it falls, eyes dark. She doesn't say anything. Just steps in again and pushes you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed.

You lie down. She follows.

Her weight settles over you—solid, familiar, not gentle. Her mouth finds your neck. Then your collarbone. Then lower.

You gasp when her teeth scrape skin. Her hands grip your waist, hold you in place as she moves.

There’s nothing soft about it.

She doesn’t ask. She just reads you—waits for the shift in your breath, the way your hips lift. You guide her with your hands. She listens.

She’s quiet. Focused.

It builds fast. Pressure and heat and friction. You hold on—shoulders, hair, sheets.

You come with a sharp breath, back arching, one hand over your mouth.

She stays there a moment longer, lips against your hip. Then climbs up, chest to chest, eyes barely meeting yours.

You roll her over.

Take control.

You press her down and slide over her, mouth at her neck, your hand slipping between her thighs. She exhales hard, her head falling back, eyes fluttering shut.

You find the rhythm quickly. She’s warm. Wet. Ready.

She moans your name once. Not loud. Just enough to make your pulse spike.

She comes fast. Her body tenses, legs locked around your head. You hold her through it.

Then stillness.

Breathing slows.

Neither of you say anything.

You lie next to her after, bare shoulders brushing. Her hand twitches once, like she might reach for you.

She doesn’t.

And neither do you.

Later, when the room is quiet again, when your skin has cooled and the air feels thick with everything unsaid, Alexia moves.

She doesn’t say anything as she leans off the bed, picking her hoodie up from where it landed on the floor. Her movements are slow, careful, like she’s trying not to make noise in a space that’s already too loud with tension. She pulls the hoodie over her head and adjusts the sleeves, gaze fixed somewhere near the floor. Not at you.

She doesn’t meet your eyes.

And that’s when it settles in your chest.

The guilt.

It’s not sudden. It doesn’t hit like a wave. It leaks in quietly—through your ribs, into your stomach, up your throat. A dull, heavy ache that makes it hard to breathe.

You sit up. Sheets tangled around your waist. Skin still marked where her hands had been.

You don’t speak either. What would you even say?

You’d been the one to open the door. You’d been the one to let her stay. You hadn’t stopped her.

You hadn’t wanted to.

And now it’s done.

Alexia moves to the chair by the window, slips her shoes back on. Her fingers tremble slightly as she ties the laces, but she doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t say a word.

The silence is worse than anger would’ve been.

You stare at the floor. Your heart thuds slow and sick in your chest.

The ache creeps in behind the guilt. Different. Familiar.

Because you still love Irene.

Not the kind of love that disappears under someone else’s touch. Not the kind that fades because it’s tested. It’s still there—steady, real.

And you’ve just done something unforgivable.

You press your palms to your eyes, as if that could change what happened. As if it could take it back.

Alexia stands finally, the door a few feet away. You look at her then, and she does look back—just for a second.

Her expression is unreadable. Not angry. Not cold.

Just… sad.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she says again. Quieter this time. Like she’s not sure you were ever really listening.

You don’t try to stop her when she opens the door.

You just sit there, naked in more ways than one, the door clicking shut behind her, and nothing left but the sound of your own breathing and the truth that now feels too loud to ignore.

You’ve broken something. And you don’t know how—or if—it can be fixed.

You wake up before Irene.

She’s curled toward you, one arm draped loosely across your stomach, face soft in sleep. Her hair’s a little messy, lips parted slightly, brows relaxed. She looks peaceful. Untouched by the storm inside you.

Like nothing’s changed.

Like you haven’t betrayed her.

You lie still.

The guilt hasn’t faded overnight—it’s settled deeper. Heavy in your chest. Tight in your throat. Your skin still remembers the way Alexia touched you. Your mouth still remembers the taste of her name. And now, in the quiet morning, with Irene’s body pressed close to yours, it all feels sharper. More wrong.

She shifts, breathes deep, and blinks herself awake. Her hand tightens slightly around your waist before she looks up at you, sleep still thick in her eyes.

“Morning,” she murmurs, voice low and scratchy and sweet.

You swallow, force your lips into something like a smile. “Hey.”

You lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. You think it’s what you’re supposed to do.

She closes her eyes for a second, soaking it in, then stretches slowly, the motion catlike and unbothered. She yawns, then shifts fully onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow so she can look at you properly.

“You okay?” she asks, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

“Yeah.” It comes out too fast. Reflex. A shield.

She frowns just slightly, but then leans in and kisses you, soft and unhurried. Not the kind that demands anything. Just hers. Just because she wants to.

She pulls back and smiles. “You looked like you were thinking hard.”

You laugh, too lightly. “Just trying to wake up.”

“Want me to get us coffee?” she asks, already half-rising from the bed.

You grab her wrist gently, shake your head. “No, stay. It’s early.”

She grins and flops back beside you. “Good. It’s cold out there.”

She shifts closer, burying her face in your neck. Her arm wraps around your waist again, and she lets out a small, content sigh like being here—next to you, holding you—is the safest place in the world.

“I like this,” she mumbles. “Just being here. No alarms. No one yelling about breakfast. Just you.”

Your throat tightens.

You want to cry.

She kisses your shoulder, then your jaw. Her lips linger.

“You’re warm,” she says with a sleepy smile. “Perfect heater.”

You laugh, and it sounds more real this time. But it doesn’t feel real. Not underneath.

Because Irene is all the things she’s always been—steady, patient, gentle. The kind of partner you always told yourself you didn’t deserve and somehow got anyway.

And now?

Now you really don’t deserve her.

She tangles her fingers with yours under the covers. “We should go out later,” she says. “Grab food somewhere. Just us.”

You nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And you mean it. You mean it with everything in you.

But guilt clings to every inch of your skin.

And when Irene pulls you close again, burying herself against you like she could stay there forever, you close your eyes and try not to fall apart.

You ended up eat together with her teammates that evening, crammed around small tables in the small restaurant. There’s barely enough space for everyone’s plate, let alone elbows, but that doesn’t stop anyone from leaning in, laughing too loudly, or speaking over each other.

Post-game energy fills the air like static.

Patri’s in the middle of telling some chaotic story from the training trip last year—something about a lost passport, two sleeping pills, and Lucy Bronze nearly getting detained at the airport.

“She kept yelling she was British like it was a threat,” Patri says through a mouthful of food.

“You’re just mad she wouldn’t let you nap on her shoulder,” Mapi fires back from two chairs down, raising her glass in mock defense.

“I did let her nap on my shoulder,” Lucy adds flatly, eyeing Patri. “For exactly three minutes. And then she drooled on me.”

“She didn’t,” Irene says, laughing.

“She did,” Lucy insists. “She’s a menace.”

“I’m a delight,” Patri says with a dramatic bow of her head. “And I stand by that.”

You’re laughing. Everyone is. Even the staff seated a table over are chuckling into their drinks.

You sit close to Irene, her knee brushing yours under the table. Her hand rests lightly on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your jeans. Her body is warm next to yours, familiar. Anchoring.

Alexia sits across the table.

She’s not talking much. She picks at her food, eating slowly. Occasionally she forces a smile when someone addresses her directly, but she’s not really in it—not fully.

Her fork scrapes across the plate more than it lifts. Her eyes flick toward the hallway every few minutes, like she’s waiting for time to pass, like the walls are too loud.

You don’t think anyone else notices how often she checks her watch. Or how tense her shoulders are beneath her hoodie. Or how she keeps blinking too much—like her brain won’t stop spinning.

You try not to notice either.

But you do.

You pretend your skin doesn’t still remember the way hers felt against it.

You pretend your laugh isn’t a little too sharp at the edges.

“You okay, babe?” Irene asks softly near your ear, mistaking your distraction for tiredness.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, clearing your throat. “Just hungry.”

“You didn’t even touch the tortilla,” she points out with a smirk.

You grab a forkful and shove it in your mouth, making a show of it.

Patri catches you mid-chew. “Oh my god,” she says. “You looked so betrayed when you bit into that empanada earlier. Like the food personally offended you.”

“I burned my tongue,” you protest, half-laughing, half-choking.

“She made this little gasp,” Irene jumps in, beaming now. “Like a sad puppy.”

“It was pathetic,” Mapi agrees from across the way, grinning. “I thought she’d cry.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “You’re all so cruel.”

“True love,” Patri says with faux-seriousness, nodding toward Irene. “She still held your hand the whole time.”

“Even while you made dramatic noises and refused to finish your plate,” Mapi adds.

“I was injured,” you mumble.

Irene leans in and kisses your cheek. “You’re very brave.”

You feel your face go warm. You laugh. It’s real, for a second.

Across the table, Alexia doesn’t say anything.

You glance at her. Just a flick of the eyes. She’s pushing food around with her fork. Her lips are pressed into a thin line. Her foot bounces under the table like she’s counting down to something.

Then, too suddenly, she stands.

“M’gonna head up,” she says, collecting her things.

“Already?” Patri asks, half-pouting. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

Alexia shrugs, her voice tight. “Long day.”

She turns to leave, but her eyes catch yours—just for a beat. Not long enough for anyone else to notice. Just long enough to land sharp in your chest.

Then she looks away. Gone. The conversation slowly picks back up without her. You sit back in your chair, the air around you still filled with laughter and warmth. And yet, everything inside you feels quiet now. Too quiet. Like something’s been taken.

You don’t know what gives you away.

It could be how you barely touch your dinner that night . Or how your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes when Irene bumps her knee against yours under the table. Or maybe it’s just something in your eyes—something you can’t hide, no matter how hard you try.

But Irene knows.

She doesn’t say anything on the ride back to home. Just rests her hand on your thigh, thumb drawing small, absent-minded circles while she stares out the window. You wonder if it’s possible to feel completely hollow when someone you love is holding your hand.

You don’t let go.

But you don’t hold on tighter either.

Back in home , the door clicks softly shut behind you. You drop your things with practiced ease—your bag by the armchair, your hoodie slung over the back. Irene sits at the foot of the bed, her movements slower than usual.

There’s a pause.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. “Just tired.”

She hums, studying you for a second too long. Then she lets it go.

Or she pretends to.

You try to go through the motions. You wash your face. Change into sweatpants. Scroll through your phone like you’re not checking it compulsively for a name that shouldn’t matter.

But she doesn’t let it slide forever.

She’s reading in bed when she finally speaks again, her voice soft, almost casual.

“You’ve been quiet today.”

You glance up, force a smile. “I’m always quiet.”

“You know what I mean.”

You set your phone down, already knowing where this is going. You feel it in your chest. Like a bruise someone’s about to press too hard on.

“I’m just tired.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that today.”

You sigh. “Because it’s true.”

She puts the book down. Doesn’t get angry. Doesn’t raise her voice. Just turns slightly toward you, hands folded in her lap.

“I need to ask you something,” she says, and there’s something final in her voice. Not sharp. Not cold. Just real. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

You brace.

“Is something going on with Alexia?”

The question lands like a pin dropping in a silent room.

You swallow. “What?”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

Her voice wavers slightly on the last word, and that’s what breaks you.

You look down at your hands. At your knees. Anywhere but her.

“It was one time,” you say. “Just… once.”

The silence that follows is absolute.

You hear the hum of the AC. The muted city sounds beyond the glass. The quiet ache in your chest that hasn’t stopped since Alexia left your room.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It was—”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracks. “Don’t tell me it didn’t mean anything.”

You close your eyes. “Okay.”

Because she’s right. It meant something.

Even if you wish it didn’t.

She stands slowly and walks toward the window. She crosses her arms tightly across her chest, like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“I think I’ve always known,” she says. “Not the details, but… something.”

You sit frozen on the bed, heart in your throat.

“I see the way you look at her,” she continues. “Even when you’re with me. I just—I thought maybe it would fade.”

You shake your head. “I never meant for it to happen.”

“But it did.”

She turns to face you. Her eyes are glassy, but her voice doesn’t break. “Do you love her?”

“No,” you say quickly.

Too quickly.

She flinches, just slightly. “But you wanted her.”

“I love you,” you say again, desperate now. “I swear to god, Irene. I love you.”

She looks at you for a long, long moment.

“I believe you.”

You feel like you might cry.

“But it still hurts,” she says quietly.

You nod.

And then, the question you’ve been dreading from the moment she walked toward that window: “So… what happens now?”

You stare down at the floor.

You don’t know.

All you know is that nothing feels simple anymore. That you’ve broken something you can’t take back. That you’re still in love with the woman sitting three feet away from you—and you betrayed her anyway.

She steps forward, slowly, and sits down beside you. Her thigh presses against yours.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she says.

And it breaks you.

You don’t speak at first. You sit beside each other in quiet , backs to the headboard, the soft buzz of the outside world the only sound between you.

Your hand is still in hers.

She hasn’t let go.

And that—somehow—hurts more than if she had walked out.

You can’t look at her for long. Her expression is too calm, too composed, like she’s holding something back for your sake. Her grip is firm, her body still, but you can feel it the tremor under the surface. The kind of heartbreak that doesn’t explode—it erodes. Quiet. Constant.

“I keep thinking I should be angrier,” she says at last. “Like I should scream or throw something. But I don’t even feel that.”

You swallow. “What do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been living with a ghost,” she says. “Like you’ve been halfway gone for weeks and I didn’t want to see it.”

You blink fast. Your throat is raw. “I never wanted to leave you.”

She turns her head toward you, eyes searching. “But you did.”

It lands with a soft thud. Not a knife—just a truth.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you say, and it sounds so small. “I—I don’t know how I did this. I don’t even know who I was that day.”

Irene gives you a long look, but it isn’t cold. If anything, it’s unbearably tender. “I do. You were someone hurting. And I think… maybe I stopped asking why.”

You stay quiet. You don't deserve her grace, and you both know it.

“I’ve always known how Alexia feels about you,” she continues, voice low. “I’ve seen it. I saw it before you did.”

Your head snaps toward her.

“I didn’t say anything because I trusted you,” she says. “And I still do.”

That knocks the breath out of you.

“You still trust me?” you whisper.

“I don’t trust what happened,” she corrects, gently. “But I trust you. The you I’ve seen. The you who held my hand through injuries, who stayed up late helping me practice English, who kissed my shoulder every time I doubted myself.”

You feel like crying again. “I don’t deserve this.”

“Maybe not,” she says, finally letting go of your hand. “But love isn’t always about who deserves what.”

She shifts on the bed, facing you. Her eyes are clearer now. Tired, but clear.

“I love you,” she says. “And I don’t think I can stay here and pretend nothing happened. Pretend this place isn’t soaked in it. The team, the house, the goddamn stadium—it all feels like it’s pressing down on us.”

You nod. “I know.”

“So let’s leave,” she says simply.

You blink. “You mean—”

“Let’s go somewhere new. Clean. Quiet. I’ll talk to the club. I can take a break. I can play elsewhere. Or maybe not at all for a while.” Her mouth lifts just slightly. “Maybe I’ll finally open that café in Portugal.”

You stare at her, stunned. She’s offering a whole life.

“With me?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

She exhales, like she’s been holding it in for weeks. “Of course with you.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until she reaches up and wipes a tear from your cheek with the back of her fingers.

“I’m not saying this fixes it,” she says softly. “I’m saying this gives us a chance to try. Away from everything.”

You nod. A shaky, broken thing. “Okay.”

“I just need one thing,” she says, and now her tone sharpens, not angry—but steel-threaded. “No more lies. Not one. Not ever.”

You meet her eyes, and for the first time in days, you feel steady. “Never again.”

She searches your face. Whatever she sees must be enough, because she leans in and presses her lips to your forehead. It’s not romantic. It’s not forgiveness.

It’s a beginning.

“I’ll make the calls tomorrow,” she says.

You lie down beside her later, the city quiet beyond the window, and she turns toward you, slipping her arm around your waist like muscle memory.

And even though you don’t deserve this love, you hold it tighter than anything.

Because this time, you’re not letting go.

It’s been a few weeks.

The kind of weeks that slip by like water—ungraspable, slow, and strangely quiet. You and Irene have built a rhythm, one that doesn’t quite hum but doesn’t stumble either. It’s the sound of trying. Of relearning.

The mornings start the same. Irene pours the coffee; you open the windows. The breeze always smells like salt, and sometimes you catch her standing there, just breathing it in, like it’s something holy.

You sit on the balcony, legs tangled under the table, mugs warm in your hands. Some mornings, she rests her chin on your shoulder. Some mornings, she doesn’t touch you at all.

You don’t ask why.

Evenings stretch longer. You cook together—nothing complicated. Pasta, roasted vegetables, soups from a recipe you pretend to follow. She makes fun of your chopping technique. You tease her about using too much garlic. It’s comfortable. It’s careful. It’s quieter than it used to be.

You’ve memorized the half-beat pause in her laughter. The way she sometimes reaches for your hand but doesn’t quite make it all the way.

The way she forgives you without ever saying the words.

Barcelona feels far away now. Like a different lifetime. Like a version of yourself you’re not sure how to return to.

So does Alexia.

You don’t say her name. Not even once. But she’s there—between bites of food that don’t taste quite right, in songs that make your throat tighten for no reason, in the reflex to check your phone even though you’ve deleted every message.

She’s there when Irene kisses you, slowly, and your eyes flutter closed like you’re trying to keep something out.

You tell yourself you miss the simplicity, not the girl. You lie to yourself so often it almost starts to sound true.

Some nights, Irene watches you.

You feel it more than you see it—her gaze brushing over your profile in bed, or across the room when you’re folding laundry, or when you laugh at something on TV and she doesn’t laugh with you.

Like she’s still taking measure of you.

Like she’s trying to figure out if what’s left between you is enough to carry forward—or if it’s just the ghost of something that used to be whole.

You pretend not to notice.

But deep down, you wonder the same thing.

Once, when you’re doing the dishes and she’s drying them beside you, you ask, “Do you think it’ll ever feel the same again?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just sets down the towel, leans against the counter, and looks at you like she wants to be honest but isn’t sure how much you can take.

Then, quietly “I don’t think it should.”

You swallow. Numb. “Right.”

“But,” she adds, softer now, “I think it can still be something good.”

You don’t reply.

You just nod.

And hope you’re strong enough to believe her one day.

You’re out grocery shopping when your phone buzzes.

Your hand lingers on a carton of eggs, and for a second, you think it’s Irene texting to ask what kind of bread to get.

But it’s not.

It’s a number you don’t have saved anymore.

"I’m not going to ask how you are. I just hope you’re okay. I keep telling myself not to write this. That it won’t help. That it’ll only make things worse. But today’s been loud and nothing feels right and I guess I just needed to feel like I said something. I miss you. I don’t expect anything back. Just—be well."

You read it three times.

Then once more, slower.

The fluorescent lights above you feel too bright. The hum of the freezer aisle rings in your ears like static.

You type nothing.

You don’t breathe for a while.

Then—your thumb hovers, and you press down.

Delete.

No reply. No trace.

Just the ache of what almost was. What probably never should have been.

Later that night, Irene finds you in the kitchen, wiping down a counter that’s already spotless.

You’re moving slow, almost methodical, like if you just keep your hands busy, your thoughts won’t catch up to you. But they do. They always do.

She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you for a beat, her arms crossed loosely, face unreadable in the low kitchen light. Then, quietly, she steps closer and rests a warm hand on your back.

“You can talk to me,” she says gently. “You don’t have to hold it all in.”

You nod. A small, jerky movement. But your lips press together, and nothing comes out. You don’t know where to start. You’re not sure if she actually wants to hear it, or if saying it out loud would make it worse.

Maybe it’s enough that you stayed. That you’re here, even if your heart’s still scattered in places it shouldn’t be.

She leans in, wraps both arms around your waist from behind, and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. Then another, just above your collarbone. You let your head fall slightly forward, closing your eyes.

“Irene,” you whisper. Like it’s an apology. Like it’s a plea.

She turns you around gently, hands on your hips, and looks at you for a long time. Her thumbs brush over the hem of your shirt, and then she leans in and kisses you. Slow, sure. Not desperate—just steady.

Like she’s trying to remind you of something. Something real.

You melt into it.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours. Her voice barely above a breath.

“We’re gonna be okay.”

Your throat tightens. “Are we?”

She nods once. “We are. I love you. I don’t know how to stop. And I don’t want to learn.”

You inhale sharply, the words cracking something in you.

“I don’t deserve you,” you murmur.

“Maybe not,” she says, lips curving just slightly. “But you have me anyway.”

You blink against the sting in your eyes, and she kisses your cheek, your jaw, your mouth again—gentle, grounding. Her hands never leave your sides.

And when you finally press your face into her neck, breathing her in like safety, like forgiveness, she just holds you tighter.

No more questions. No more confessions.

Just the sound of her heartbeat, steady beneath your ear.

Just two people trying to find their way back to something that still might be worth saving.

Alexia’s POV

Six months later

She doesn’t follow you.

She tells herself that’s a boundary she won’t cross. So when you and Irene disappear—first from the training center, then the group chats—Alexia deletes your contact, mutes everything related to Irene, and tells herself it’s for the best.

But it’s impossible not to see. Not when others post. Not when a picture of the two of you pops up in someone’s story, blurry and sunlit and full of quiet happiness. You're wearing sunglasses and a soft smile. Irene’s hand rests low on your back.

Alexia stares for too long.

Then she closes the app and throws her phone across the bed.

Year later

She hears you got married.

A few of the girls go to the wedding. She doesn’t ask for details, but Mapi mentions it offhand one day—something about how beautiful the venue was, how Irene cried during her vows, how happy you looked.

Alexia just nods.

Later that night, she scrolls through tagged posts, breathing slow, controlled. You’re glowing in a simple white dress. Irene’s arm around you. The kind of love that doesn’t look performative—it looks like home.

Alexia sets her phone down, presses her palms to her eyes, and waits for the tightness in her chest to pass.

It doesn't.

Two years later

A baby.

The post doesn’t say much. Just a name, a date, a tiny hand curled around your finger. Irene kissing your temple in the hospital bed. Your smile is tired and real and full.

Alexia sees it by accident—someone reposted it to a fan page.

She doesn’t mean to click on your profile after that. But she does. Just once.

And then once a month.

She watches your family grow in square little glimpses. You in the kitchen with a toddler on your hip. Irene asleep on the couch, baby on her chest. A dog, eventually. A backyard.

All the things Alexia knows she could never give you.

She never double-taps. Never comments. She just watches. From far, far away.

Three years later

The second baby comes.

She finds out the same way—through someone else’s story, a wave of congratulations in the comments. This one looks more like you. Same eyes. Same serious little face.

There’s a video of you and Irene dancing in the living room, the older one clapping along, the newborn asleep in a sling against your chest.

Alexia watches it six times before she turns off her phone.

And cries for the first time in a years.

Four years later

She sees you in Barcelona.

It’s just a flash—she’s walking out of a shoot near the stadium when a familiar voice carries over the crowd.

She turns.

And there you are.

Holding one daughter’s hand. Carrying the other. Laughing at something Irene says as she leans in close, sunglasses on her head, looking exactly like the person who won your heart and kept it.

Alexia stands still.

She doesn’t call your name.

She just watches.

You don’t see her. But Irene does. They hold eye contact across the space. Not long. Just enough. There’s no anger there. No resentment.

Just... knowing.

Irene turns back to you, kisses the top of your head. You laugh again.

Alexia’s heart doesn’t break. It just aches in that quiet way it always has when it comes to you.

She walks away without looking back.

But that night, she posts a photo.

The caption is simple: “Gratitud.”

It’s not for you. Not really.

But a part of her hopes you see it.

Just like she’s always seen you.

Five years later

She’s not even sure why she still checks.

By now, she knows the rhythm of your life almost better than her own. The Monday park visits. The occasional photos from holidays in France or the coast. A birthday cake with lopsided frosting that your kids made. Irene’s arm always close. Your smile always tired, but real.

You glow in stillness. That’s something Alexia never gave you—stillness.

She was always a storm. Even when she didn’t mean to be.

Tonight, she lies on her back in a hotel bed, scrolling without thinking, thumb moving out of habit. She finds a new post. You’re in a bookstore, the older daughter curled against your side as you read aloud from a picture book. Irene took the photo—her name in the caption, a simple heart.

Alexia studies the photo for a long time. The angle is soft. Loving. Comfortable.

She’s not in love with you anymore.

Not in the sharp, consuming way she used to be. But there’s a part of her that still wonders—what if?

Then she closes the app. Locks her phone. Turns toward the window and lets herself fall asleep without dreaming.

Six years later

She wins another trophy.

It feels good. But not overwhelming. Just… right.

Later, after the press, after the champagne and interviews, she opens her phone and there it is—your family at the stadium. Not for her, of course. You’re there to support a friend. Your kids are wearing matching jerseys. One of them holds a homemade sign that says, Vamos Patri!

Alexia isn’t in the picture, but she knows exactly where you stood. She knows the curve of the seats, the angle of the sun. You look up in the photo, sunglasses on, a hand shielding your daughter’s head from the glare.

She thinks about walking over. Just saying hello.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she posts a photo from the locker room. The medal hanging around her neck, sweat still clinging to her skin. Her smile is wide, easy.

The caption is a lyric from a song you once played in the car, on a trip that neither of you ever talked about again:

"Hay amores que viven en silencio."

Seven years later

It’s summer in Barcelona, and the air smells like salt and orange blossoms.

Alexia runs into Irene at a café.

They nod. They smile. They don’t pretend to be friends, but they also don’t ignore the years between them. Irene asks how her recovery is going. Alexia asks how the kids are. She doesn’t say your name, but Irene does.

“She’s good,” Irene says softly. “Still burns the toast. Still forgets her keys.”

Alexia laughs, quietly.

Before they part, Irene says, “She still loves you, in her way. I think she always will.”

Alexia nods. “I know.”

But what she doesn’t say—what she can’t say—is that she loves you too.

Not in the way she used to. Not in the way that ruins or rewrites.

But in the way that lingers.

In the way that lets you go.

[cupofteatoyou]

What if she chose me pt3

You’ve been at Barça long enough now to know the drills by heart. Long enough to stop second-guessing yourself every time Jonatan calls your name. Long enough to know who’s watching you—and who’s really watching you.

Most of the team? You’re good with them.

Vicky laughs first at your dumb jokes and always asks for the playlist when you DJ warmups.

Ingrid brings you coffee when you show up looking like you got hit by a bus.

Aitana sends you playlists that are half bangers, half emotional damage.

Even Marta, usually composed and unreadable, offered you a quiet “bien jugado” last week that felt like a rare stamp of approval.

But Jana and Alexia?

They don’t warm. They burn.

Alexia only speaks to you when necessary—and every word feels like it's been dipped in frost and sharpened for efficiency.

Jana never speaks. Just watches. Just waits.

You gave up trying to win them over week ago.

You’re not here to be liked. You’re here to work. You can tolerate whatever agenda they have with you for few more months.

Still, some days? The air feels thick with everything that’s not being said.

The ball’s live, the pace is brutal, and the coaching staff is watching closely. You’re working on tight rotations—three defenders against two attackers, trying to close space before it opens.

You see the pass coming—Jana streaking up the center, Alexia closing on your right. You read it. Step forward. Just half a beat too slow.

The ball slips past your foot like it knew you were coming. Jana’s already moving. She scoops it up, cuts left, squares it to Alexia.

One touch.

Top corner.

Whistle.

“Reset,” Jonatan calls, but he doesn’t need to.

Because Alexia’s already on you.

“What was that?” she barks, walking straight toward you. “That step was pathetic. Either intercept or stay the hell out of the lane.”

You straighten, breath still high, sweat clinging to your neck. “I saw it late. My bad.”

“No shit it’s your bad,” she snaps. “You don’t see it. You feel it. If you wait for the ball to announce itself, you’re already too late.”

You nod once, trying to stay level.

But she’s not done.

“This isn’t some trial squad, alright? We’re not here to coddle learning curves. You want to keep up? Move your damn feet.”

The field goes quiet around you. Not silent—but quiet in that dangerous way. Like everyone’s waiting to see what happens next.

And then—

From the sideline, stretching out her legs with all the grace of a goblin in recovery, Mapi, loud enough to carry

“This level of tension requires preparation. I did zero.”

Laughter breaks across a few players—Aitana snorts into her bib, even Vicky chokes back a grin.

Alexia doesn’t laugh. But she stops.

Her jaw tightens. She shakes her head once like she’s brushing off a mosquito and stalks back into position.

You don’t look at Mapi. But you feel the look she gives you—quick, dry, full of mischief and mischief’s twin loyalty.

As the drill resets, she jogs up next to you and mutters

“Next time you hesitate, just scream ‘I volunteer as tribute!’ and go full chaos. If you’re going down, make it iconic.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. It breaks some of the heat on your skin.

And when Jana passes you on her jog back to the line, she doesn’t say anything. just watching.

You’ve had a decent week.

No major screw-ups. No Alexia-level snipes.

Even Jana’s been… less icy. Not warm, not kind—but no stares that could peel paint. That counts for something.

The drills have been brutal though. Tight rotations, overlapping runs, one-vs-one marking that leaves your calves screaming and your head buzzing.

You’re mid-sprint when it happens—three sharp whistles from Jonatan. A pause. Then the call

“Bring it in!” Everyone slows—some jogging, some walking.

You grab your water and jog toward the circle forming around him.

The sun presses heavy on your back as Jonatan flips open his clipboard.

He doesn’t waste time.

“Ona’s out. Ankle’s recovering, but we’re not risking it this weekend.”

A subtle shift in the group.

People glance around. You already know what’s coming.

You’d heard the whispers. You’d seen the physio’s expression two days ago. Most of all ona has told you herself.

Still—knowing doesn’t make it easier.

“Starting at right back this weekend…” A beat.

“…Y/N.”

And just like that, the field goes quiet. Not silent—but still. Focused. Then—

Vicky whistles low. “Let’s gooo!”

Mapi yells, arms flung wide like she’s introducing you at a concert. “LET’S GO NORUEGA!”

Aitana claps—that short, precise, rhythmic kind of clap that says “hell yeah” without saying it.

You nod. Just once. Controlled. You’re not making it a moment. But next to you— You feel the shift. Jana doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t clap. But her stance changes—just slightly. Her weight rocks onto one foot. Shoulders pull tighter.

You glance her way, but she’s already looking past you. Like you’re just a space the sun fills.

Alexia, on your other side, stays completely still. No reaction. No comment. Just unreadable eyes locked somewhere beyond the pitch, like she didn’t even hear it.

But she did. You know she did.

Because when Jonatan moves on, giving reminders about press triggers and defensive lines, she turns slightly toward Jana.

And that is the real moment.

She looks at her. Just for a second. And Jana doesn’t look back.

She keeps staring forward like her jaw’s wired shut, like if she lets herself speak or blink, the whole thing will crack open.

The lineup’s been set.

Your name’s on it. And whether you wanted it or not, some of them treating it like a declaration of war.

Jonatan blows the whistle. Full-pitch scrimmage. Eleven versus eleven. Game speed. No holding back. You’re sharp early—tracking runners, holding your line, getting touches in tight spaces. But every time you’re near the ball, it feels like you’re being hunted.

Jana’s on you fast.

She presses harder than usual—shoulder checks, hip into your ribs, no space to breathe.

You shove back once. She doesn’t flinch.

Next play, she clips your ankle just enough to throw you off balance.

You stumble, catch yourself.

You don’t say anything.

Because maybe it’s not a foul. Maybe it’s just football. Maybe you’re imagining the edge to it.

Then Alexia cuts through midfield and calls for the switch. You track the play, fall back into position. You’re focused—locked in. You see the run coming, time your step, shift to intercept— And Jana’s already there.

You go shoulder to shoulder—too close, too much. Her elbow rides up, unintentionally or not, and hits you square in the ribs.

You hit the grass. Hard.

The whistle doesn’t come.

You sit up, coughing, wincing as the burn spreads under your ribs.

And then, over the thud of your own pulse, you hear it

“WHAT the hell, Jana?!”

Everyone freezes. Because that voice? That wasn’t Mapi. That wasn’t Vicky.

That was Ingrid. Loud. Sharp. Furious.

You’ve never heard her like this.

“You call that a challenge?!” she’s already stomping toward Jana. “She didn’t even have the ball.”

Jana stands over you, mouth tight, but for the first time—you see her hesitate.

Her eyes flick from you to Ingrid.

Then to the rest of the team, who have all gone dead quiet.

Alexia walks over, slow, casual—but there’s something cold in her stance.

“It’s a contact sport,” she says flatly, barely looking at Ingrid.

Ingrid turns.

And that’s when even Mapi steps in.

“Okay,” she says quickly, walking between them. “Whoa. Everybody breathe.”

But Ingrid’s not budging.

“It’s not contact,” she snaps. “It’s targeting. And I don’t care if she’s new or starting or replacing someone’s favorite—this is Barça, not some glorified grudge match.”

Mapi touches her arm. Gentle. Careful.

“Bebita…”

Ingrid doesn’t even look at her.

“Don’t ‘bebita’ me right now.”

Everyone goes still. Even Mapi’s eyes widen.

You’d never seen Ingrid look at her like that.

Like even she isn’t safe from the fallout.

You finally get to your feet, biting back the sting in your ribs.

“I’m fine,” you mutter.

No one listens.

Jonatan finally blows the whistle again. Hard.

“That’s enough. Take five.”

Everyone disperses slowly. Quietly. No chatter. No jokes.

Just space.

Mapi turns to you once Ingrid walks off. Her voice is low.

“You okay?”

You nod. She studies you. Then mutters— “Remind me never to piss off my girlfriend. Jesus.”

You exhale, hands on your hips, watching Ingrid pace toward the bench with the same energy she uses when she’s shutting down the world’s best attackers.

You can’t tell if she was defending you or defending Barça.

Maybe both. But one thing’s clear This isn’t about football anymore.

You don’t bother knocking anymore.

You stopped doing that weeks ago—somewhere between the second round of ankle sprains and the third box of cookies you dropped off “just because.” By now, Ona’s apartment might as well have a welcome mat that says come in, loser.

You nudge the door open with your foot, your arms full of whatever random snack Mapi shoved at you as a bribe-slash-offering "She’s injured. Let her eat like a raccoon."and two cans of recovery drink you grabbed out of habit.

Ona’s voice floats in from the couch before you’re even halfway through the door.

“You’re late.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m immobile. I get to be dramatic.”

You roll your eyes as you kick off your shoes and make your way in. The living room’s exactly as you left it two days ago—throw blanket half-off the couch, a half-zipped physio bag on the coffee table, and a tangle of athletic tape and snack wrappers in the corner like some chaotic altar to the football gods.

She’s sprawled across the couch like she’s auditioning for a very casual soap opera. One foot elevated, ankle still wrapped, hoodie two sizes too big—probably borrowed from Aitana or stolen from lost and found—and a heating pad balanced precariously across her knee.

“I brought bribes,” you announce, tossing the bag of snacks onto her lap.

“If it’s not sugar and it doesn’t crunch, I don’t want it.”

“You’re so ungrateful.”

“I’m injured,” she says, mouth already full of something chocolate-covered. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You sprained your ankle. You didn’t get exiled.”

“Same thing.”

You toss your own drink onto the rug, plop down on the floor next to her usual side of the couch, and reach for the remote. She smacks your hand away without looking.

“It’s already on.”

The TV’s playing a rerun of a La Liga match—one of those mid-table disasters where no one can finish and the camera crew looks bored.

“You’re really out here watching this voluntarily?”

“It’s either this or rewatch the 2021 Champions League final for the fiftieth time. And I’m trying not to feel powerful today.”

You laugh as you grab a cushion and settle in, back against the couch. The room smells faintly of menthol cream, warmed fabric, and that weird minty candle she always forgets to blow out.

It’s easy here.

The kind of easy that doesn’t ask for anything. Just shared space and steady breathing.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you say eventually, opening your drink.

“You say that every time.”

“And yet, I keep showing up.”

“Because I have an espresso machine and no rules.”

“No. Because your playlists are cursed and I feel bad for you.”

She gasps, half-chokes on a cookie, and throws a pillow at your head.

“My playlists are elite.”

“Your playlists have mood swings.”

“They have range.”

You dodge the second pillow, barely.

She grins, smug. You grin back, half-annoyed, fully like at home.

And for a few minutes—between the trash talking and the commercial breaks—everything feels like it’s exactly where it should be.

The match on TV drones on in the background—commentators saying a lot of words without meaning much. You and Ona sit in that familiar stretch of silence that only exists between people who don’t need to fill it.

Until she speaks.

“They still acting weird?”

You don’t ask who she means.

You know.

You keep your eyes on the bottle in your hand, rolling it back and forth across your palm.

“Weird isn’t the word,” you mutter. “More like… cold. Sharp.”

Ona hums. “Alexia?”

You nod.

“And Jana.”

She nods once, slowly. Like she expected that answer. Maybe everyone did.

“They still haven’t said anything?”

“Alexia only talks to me when it’s tactical. Like I’m an extra cone in the drill.”

“And Jana?”

You sigh.

“She doesn’t talk at all. Just stares. Like she’s waiting for me to fuck up.”

“She’s not.” You glance over. Ona shrugs.

“She already thinks you did.”

That sits heavy for a second. Because it’s true. Because the day Jonatan announced the lineup, you felt the crack in the air between you and Jana—sharp, invisible, immediate.

Like she’d drawn a new boundary in her head. One you didn’t ask to cross, but still somehow did.

“You think they hate me?”

“No,” Ona says. “I think they don’t know what to do with you.”

You blink. “What?”

She turns toward you a little, one leg still propped up under a cushion, mug nestled in her lap.

“You didn’t just show up and survive. You showed up and thrived. Fast. Too fast for people like them.”

“People like them?”

“People who were already comfortable,” she says simply. “People who don’t like being unsettled.”

You don’t reply. Not right away. Because part of you wonders if she’s right. If that’s what this is.

Not resentment. Not jealousy. Discomfort.

You’ve disrupted the balance.

And the ones who had control before—don’t anymore.

“It’s weird,” you say finally. “Feeling like you earned something and still being treated like a thief.”

Ona doesn’t argue.

She just sips her drink and leans her head back against the couch.

“You didn’t steal anything,” she says. “You were given something you worked for. If they can’t see that, it’s on them.”

A pause. Then, quieter “Let them figure themselves out. You don’t owe them comfort.”

You stare at the ceiling for a long second. Let the quiet come back. Let it settle in your bones. You don’t say thank you. You don’t need to. She already knows.

you and Ona just sit there for a while—TV still murmuring in the background, bottles slowly emptying, that easy kind of tired pressing into your limbs.

Until she shifts suddenly and looks at you.

“Okay,” she says. “So, if Alexia says something slick to you this weekend, what’s your move?”

You blink. “...what?”

“Like if she comes at you with one of those cold, condescending, Queen-of-Ice lines. What do you do?”

You pause. Think.

“Probably nod. Keep playing. Maybe mutter something under my breath when she walks away.”

Ona shakes her head with mock disappointment.

“No. Unacceptable. We’re going full unhinged this time.”

“You want me to yell at the captain mid-training?”

“Yes. Call her ‘Your Highness’ and then nutmeg her in front of everyone.”

You laugh, sharp and sudden. “Jesus, Ona.”

“She needs to be humbled.”

“You say that like I’m capable of that.”

“You are,” she says, dead serious. “I’ve seen you in tight drills. You move like vengeance in Nikes.”

You stare at her.

“That’s the nicest—and most terrifying—thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Good,” she grins. “Use it.”

You shake your head, but the tension in your chest loosens another notch.

Then—

“And if Jana tries to body you again,” Ona continues, shifting slightly on the couch, “I will limp across the pitch and throw my brace at her.”

“You’re not even cleared to jog.”

“Exactly. Imagine how unhinged I’ll look. Screaming while swinging a knee brace like a medieval weapon.”

“That’s not protection. That’s terrorism.”

“That’s loyalty.”

You laugh again, too hard this time. She grins wide, proud of herself.

“You’re insane.”

“I’m injured and bored. Let me have this.”

You lean back against the couch, shaking your head, a smile lingering on your lips despite everything.

Then she adds, quieter—but still her

“Seriously though. If they come for you, I’ve got your back. Even if I have to roll up on a scooter and swing on someone with a crutch.”

You look at her.

No teasing this time. Just gratitude.

“You’re the weirdest friend I’ve ever had.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

She nudges your shoulder with her sock-covered foot.

[cupofteatoyou]

Hello! I loveeee your writing (who would've thought I'd be an emotional wreck over our mascot)

I have a request, if I may

Alexia is in love with reader, who's dating another teammate. Jealousy and angst (you decide if happy ending and for who, and if reader is a player at Barca)

Oh I would definitely love to write something like this 🫡❤️

[cupofteatoyou]

Dreaming in Blaugrana pt3

The door clicked shut behind you with a dull thud.

Laughter still spilled through the walls of Mapi’s apartment—shouts, clinking glasses, a playlist someone had definitely stolen from Patri’s workout queue. It all felt too loud. Too bright. Like you were watching it from the wrong side of a window.

You tugged your hoodie tighter and stepped out into the night.

The street was quiet, washed in soft orange from the old streetlamps. The air smelled like leftover smoke from the barbecue and damp concrete. Your shoes scuffed lightly as you walked, slow and unhurried, like you didn’t want to be anywhere in particular—just away.

You didn’t hear her at first.

Not until the door swung open behind you and her voice, hesitant and unsure, cut through the quiet.

“Hey.”

You turned.

Alexia stood on the top step, her hand gripping the edge of the railing like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be there. Her jacket was half-zipped. Her curls were a little frizzy from the heat of the room, and her brows were drawn tight.

“I—” she started, then stopped. You waited.

She tried again. “You were just... leaving?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It is getting late.”

She stepped down onto the sidewalk but didn’t come closer. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

Your mouth twisted. “Didn’t think anyone would notice.”

Alexia flinched at that. Just slightly. But she didn’t deny it.

“I noticed,” she said. Quiet. Like it was hard to admit.

You didn’t know what to do with that. So you just nod your head and turned slightly, eyes back on the empty road ahead.

Behind you, she let out a breath. The kind you release after thinking too long. “I wasn’t sure if I should come after you.”

You kept your voice light, but didn’t faced her . “You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to.”

That made you pause.

Alexia shifted behind you, hands tucked into her sleeves like she didn’t know what to do with them. “I keep thinking about that day. About how I just… left.”

You looked down at the pavement. “You didn’t owe me anything.”

“I know,” she said, and then added, softer, “But I still should’ve said something.”

The silence stretched again.

“You know,” she continued, “for a while, I really believed it was the mascot I liked.”

You glanced over, finally. Her face was in shadow, but you could hear the emotion threading through her voice.

“But the truth is,” she said, “you were the one who made me feel safe. Not the fur. Not the foam. Just... you. Underneath it all.”

You swallowed. Hard.

Alexia stepped closer—just enough for her shoulder to brush yours. Barely there. Like she was testing the air between you.

“I got so used to pretending I didn’t need anyone,” she said. “Then there you were. Sitting next to me after training. Not asking anything. Just... being there.”

She looked at you, really looked, and something unspoken passed between you—like she was seeing your face for the first time without the guilt or the weight or the distance.

“I miss that,” she said, her voice a whisper now. “I miss you.”

A gust of wind blew past. You crossed your arms instinctively, but you didn’t step away.

You didn’t want to.

Alexia reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out her car keys, then paused—offering them up like an olive branch.

“Can I drive you home?”

You hesitated. But , you didn’t say no. You nodded, and that was all it took.

She gave you a small smile. Careful. Almost shy.

And the two of you started walking—side by side, silent for a while. But it wasn’t the same kind of silence as before.

It wasn’t avoidance. Or guilt.

It was something softer.

Something new.

She clicked the car unlocked and opened the passenger door for you. Waited until you were in before getting behind the wheel..

Her hand rested lightly on the steering wheel. Her profile calm, but focused. Like she wasn’t rushing this. Like she wanted to get it right.

You weren’t sure where things would go after this.

But for the first time since everything started—

you weren’t afraid to find out.

Alexia had turned down the radio after the first few seconds, fingers adjusting the volume like it was more for comfort than for company. The quiet that settled between you wasn’t uncomfortable—but it wasn’t easy either. It was the kind that buzzed in your chest. The kind that made your hands feel too still in your lap.

Outside the window, the city passed in soft streaks of orange light and blurry storefronts. You could still hear faint echoes of Mapi’s party behind you—shouts, laughter, music—but they faded the farther you got.

Alexia cleared her throat softly. “So…”

You glanced over.

She looked straight ahead, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming absently against her thigh. “Where am I taking you?”

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t know your own address. But because saying it out loud made this real. Made this moment real. Made her real again.

You gave it to her quietly, almost like you were telling a secret.

She repeated it under her breath, testing the shape of it in her mouth. “Yeah… I know that area.”

You nodded, eyes back on the road. “It’s not far.”

She glanced at you again, briefly. “Still glad you said yes.”

Your throat tightened. “To the ride?”

A beat. “To me.”

That caught you off guard.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how.

The only sound in the car was the steady rhythm of the tires beneath you and the soft sigh of the AC. It made everything feel more intimate. Like the two of you had slipped into some pocket of the world where things moved slower—safer.

You looked at her hands on the wheel. The same hands that once reached out for a mascot’s paw like it meant something. Like you meant something. Even when she didn’t know who you were.

Alexia spoke again, quieter this time. “I should’ve said something sooner.”

You stared ahead. “You didn’t have to.”

“Maybe not,” she said, “but I wanted to. I just… didn’t know how to be honest with you once I realized I hadn’t been.”

Your fingers curled into your sleeves. “Me either.”

She turned down your street a few minutes later, slowing in front of your building. She didn’t pull right away. Just let the car idle at the curb, headlights pooling against the sidewalk.

“Thanks for trusting me with it,” she said suddenly.

You blinked. “With what?”

“Your address.” Her voice was light, but not joking. “Letting me get close again.”

You looked at her, and this time, you didn’t look away.

Because yeah—maybe it was just an address.

But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe it was the first thing you’d handed her without hiding.

And maybe she knew that.

It had been three days since the car ride.

Three days since she walked you to your door, since her jacket brushed yours on the sidewalk, since the quiet between you stopped feeling like a goodbye.

And then… nothing.

Not a text. Not a call.

And you weren’t exactly surprised. You knew Alexia—knew how she retreated when things got too real, how she lived inside her own head sometimes longer than was good for her. Still, every time the café door chimed, your heart gave a little tug. Just in case.

It was mid-afternoon, halfway through your shift, when the bell rang again.

You barely glanced up from restocking the napkin holders, already anticipating another regular or someone with too much foam in their order.

Then a voice said, loud and smug:

“Look who’s out here pretending she’s not a celebrity.”

You blinked. Looked up.

Mapi León was sauntering toward the counter like she owned the place, sunglasses on indoors, hair pulled into a loose bun. And behind her—quiet, hesitant, hands in the pockets of her jacket—was Alexia.

Your heart immediately stuttered.

Mapi leaned against the counter, squinting at the pastry display. “What’s the sweetest thing you have that won’t actually kill me?”

You blinked again. “I—I thought you were training this afternoon?”

Mapi shrugged. “Ingrid thinks I’m at the physio. I told her I had a hot date with my blood sugar.”

You laughed softly, then flicked your eyes toward Alexia.

She wasn’t saying anything. But she wasn’t looking away either.

“Hi,” she said, finally.

Your voice almost caught. “Hi.”

Mapi spun toward her with a gasp. “She said hi back. Are we witnessing a soft launch right now? Should I leave?”

Alexia sighed. “Mapi.”

“What? I’m just saying. Eye contact was made. Civil greetings were exchanged. History has been written.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile, and grabbed two cups. “Drinks on the house.”

Mapi leaned over the counter, stage whispering, “You hear that? She likes us.”

“She likes you,” Alexia deadpanned, then glanced at you, a little smile creeping in. “I’m not sure I’ve earned mine yet.”

Your stomach fluttered.

Mapi snorted and pointed at Alexia dramatically. “See? Self-aware. Growth.”

You busied yourself behind the counter—grateful for the distraction—but your hands were a little clumsy, your pulse a little too fast. You could feel Alexia’s eyes on you, even as she pretended to study the drink menu like it had changed since she walked in.

When you slid her coffee across the counter, her fingers brushed yours.

“I didn’t come here for the coffee,” she said quietly.

You met her eyes. “No?”

She shook her head. “I came to see if I still get to look at you like this.”

You blinked. Every nerve in your body lit up.

Before you could say anything, Mapi reappeared—now holding a cookie the size of her face. “Okay, wow, I leave you two alone for five seconds and suddenly it’s The Notebook. Should I leave you with mood lighting? Burn some incense?”

Alexia shot her a look, but there was a flicker of gratitude behind it. Like she needed Mapi’s chaos just to keep her grounded.

You laughed. And this time it wasn’t awkward. It was light. Easy.

“Why don’t you take your cookie and go be disruptive... over there?” you offered, nodding toward the corner table.

Mapi bowed. “As you wish. Lovebirds.”

“We’re not—” you and Alexia said at the same time, then froze.

Mapi cackled. “YET.”

She retreated to the corner with her cookie and her giant grin, and you and Alexia were left in the quiet again—only this time, it didn’t feel uncertain.

Alexia leaned forward on her elbows, her coffee cradled between her hands. “I mean it,” she said softly. “I want to show up. Keep showing up. If that’s something you’d let me do.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

She smiled.

And this time, it wasn’t shy.

It was real. Solid.

Something beginning again.

The day passed like most others did now—slow, quiet, ordinary.

You wiped down tables. Refilled sugar jars. Burned your tongue taste-testing a new syrup no one had asked for. The café stayed mostly calm, save for the usual afternoon rush and an espresso machine that made more noise than necessary.

By the time your shift ended, the sky outside had shifted into that soft golden haze, just shy of dusk. You walked home with your headphones in, hood up, hands in your pockets, letting the city blur around you. Nothing felt out of place. Nothing felt like it was building toward anything.

You got home. Kicked off your shoes. Let your bag drop somewhere by the couch. The place was still, the kind of quiet that settles over everything like a blanket. Comforting, but also heavy. Familiar.

You changed into your favorite oversized shirt. Lit a candle you didn’t really need. Pulled your hair up. Normal things.

Then your phone buzzed.

You didn’t rush to check it. You figured it was another promo text from the café manager or Mapi sending you a cursed meme.

But when you finally did glance at it—

your breath caught.

Unknown number.

No name. No photo. Just a single message.

I would love to see you there. –Alexia

You stared at it.

Attached beneath the message were two tickets.

Barça vs. Levante.

Home match. Front row.

Your thumb hovered above the screen, like touching it might make the whole thing vanish.

There was no pressure. No expectations. No apology wrapped in poetic words.

Just... seven words and her name. Quiet. Personal. Intentional.

She didn’t have to sign it.

But she did.

–Alexia

Your pulse thudded somewhere behind your ribs.

Because that message? That wasn’t for Cat Culer.

It wasn’t performative, it wasn’t an inside joke, and it wasn’t sent to a version of you she couldn’t face.

It was for you.

No mask. No foam. No pretending.

You didn’t respond—not yet.

You just sat down on the edge of your couch, holding your phone like it was something fragile, something real.

You read it again. And again.

And then you let yourself smile.

Because in eight words and two tickets, she said everything you’d been waiting to hear.

No drama. No disguise.

Just her.

And maybe—

a new beginning.

Then match day came.

And you woke up with that familiar buzz in your chest—the one that always used to come when you pulled on the Cat Culer suit. When you became someone who could be loud. Unafraid.

And somehow, you didn’t need the suit this time.

You just needed to show up.

So you did.

You kept it simple—black jeans, team hoodie, no makeup, hair down. You weren’t here to work. Not today.

The stadium felt bigger as a spectator.

The buzz in the air was electric—fans in jerseys shouting, flags waving, the hum of drums pulsing through your ribs. The energy of thousands, but your heart was focused on one person.

You found your seat.

Front row. Just like the ticket said.

It was loud. It was overwhelming. But you stayed.

You scanned the pitch, but she wasn’t out yet. The players were still trickling out from the tunnel, coaches barking last-minute things, photographers darting across the sidelines.

And then—

She appeared.

Hair braided back. Armband snug against her sleeve. Boots already scuffed. That signature walk—composed, grounded, sharp. She looked exactly how she always had on match day.

Except this time, she wasn’t looking at the bench.

She was scanning the crowd.

And when her eyes found you?

She stilled.

Just for a second. Just long enough for you to know she’d been searching.

She didn’t wave. Didn’t smile.

She just looked at you like she knew.

And that was enough.

She turned back to her team, barked something to Mapi, and fell into warmups like it was second nature. But her posture had changed.

And for the rest of that match—every time she drifted to your side of the pitch, every glance toward the stands—she never looked over the crowd.

She looked at you.

Not the mascot.

Not the intern in the background.

Just you.

And for the first time, you didn’t need anything else.

The final whistle had echoed, the stadium now more shadows than sound.

Most of the crowd had begun to thin, the high of the win slowly giving way to the usual post-match rush—families rounding up their kids, fans still shouting chants as they spilled out into the streets, stadium staff moving like clockwork to start the reset for next time.

But you stayed.

You didn’t even realize how tightly you were gripping the strap of your bag until the lights began to dim and the noise faded enough for your pulse to catch up.

You found yourself near the players’ tunnel—not out of place, but not exactly belonging either. Just close enough. Just waiting.

And then there she was.

Alexia stepped out of the tunnel, her jersey damp and clinging to her frame, hair messy and damp, socks slouched from the match. She looked powerful and real and tired in the most human way.

She was talking to one of the staffers. Laughing a little. But then her eyes swept the edge of the stands—and stopped.

She saw you.

And everything else about her seemed to pause.

You didn’t wave. Didn’t smile.

You didn’t have to.

She said something short to the staffer, gave a nod, then crossed the distance between you with long, purposeful strides. You could hear the gravel under her cleats. Feel the beat of your heart in your throat.

When she stopped in front of you, she didn’t look hesitant.

She just looked sure.

“You came,” she said, breath hitching just slightly.

You nodded. “You sent the tickets.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d use them.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” you admitted. “But then… I didn’t want to miss it.”

That softened her.

She glanced back toward the tunnel like she could still hear the team inside—Mapi shouting something about champagne and victory shots—but then turned back to you.

“I should be in the locker room,” she said. “Media, cooldown, all that. But…”

She trailed off, suddenly a little shy.

“But?” you asked, voice quiet.

Her fingers curled around the hem of her jersey. “I kind of want to take you home instead.”

Your breath caught.

She rushed to clarify, cheeks slightly flushed. “Not like—not that—I just meant… can I drive you home?”

You blinked. Then smiled. “You asking out of guilt? Or convenience?”

Alexia grinned. “Would it be awful if I said both?”

“Yes.”

She laughed, then added, gently this time: “I just want more time with you.”

And that? That was the truth underneath it all.

Not about the ride. Or the win. Or the message she sent three nights ago.

Just her, asking if this thing between you still had space to exist.

You nodded. “I’d like that.”

Her smile softened. “Come on. It’s parked in the back. I’ll even let you pick the playlist.”

“That’s suspiciously generous of you.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

You walked beside her through the quiet hallways of the stadium, the adrenaline still buzzing in the walls, the hum of something different alive between you now.

She opened the passenger door for you without thinking. Like it was instinct.

And when you both slid into the car—warm from the engine, seats a little too low, the smell of turf and sweat and something faintly citrus still clinging to her—you didn’t rush to speak.

Alexia turned the key in the ignition. The headlights lit up the road ahead.

And then she glanced at you.

“You okay?”

You looked over. She was watching you like the answer mattered.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I think I am.”

She shifted into drive, smiled to herself, and pulled away from the stadium.

And this time—

she wasn’t catching up.

She wasn’t chasing.

She was just beside you.

Finally.

The car ride had been soft with silence.

Not the kind that presses down on your chest—but the kind that settles in your bones. That quiet hum of something real, something shifting, something both of you were still figuring out how to hold.

When Alexia pulled up in front of your building, neither of you moved for a few seconds.

She didn’t need to ask if this was the place. She remembered the porch. The cracked brick step. The little light above the door that flickered every third blink. She’d seen it before—from the outside.

But tonight wasn’t about standing on the edge anymore.

Her fingers lightly tapped the steering wheel, like she was trying to ground herself. You looked at her. She looked at you.

And in that quiet, she asked without asking.

And you answered without speaking.

You opened the passenger door and stepped into the cold, your breath visible as you looked back at her.

She followed.

You didn’t talk as you climbed the stairs. But your hands brushed once—twice—until finally, hers settled beside yours. A light touch. Intentional. Just enough to make your heart stutter.

You unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment spill into the hallway. She stood just behind you, still on the threshold.

You turned, met her eyes, and said, barely above a whisper, “You don’t have to come in.”

“I want to,” she replied, without missing a beat.

Her voice was low. Steady. Sure.

She stepped inside.

And stopped.

She looked around like she’d walked into something sacred. Not because your apartment was impressive—it wasn’t. The lighting was soft but a little too yellow. The throw pillows didn’t match. A stack of books leaned dangerously sideways on the coffee table.

But still, she looked like she’d been invited into something rare.

She didn’t speak right away. Just moved her eyes slowly across the space.

The half-melted candle on the windowsill. The chipped mug on the counter. The hoodie draped over the back of the couch. The framed photo by the door—one you thought no one would ever look too closely at.

“This is… you,” she finally said.

There was something reverent in her voice.

You felt suddenly, completely seen. And it was terrifying.

You rubbed your palms against your thighs. “Is that… weird?”

Alexia’s eyes found yours.

“No,” she said. “It’s kind of perfect.”

You smiled softly and took her jacket, hanging it by the door.

“Tea? Water? I have terrible apple juice.”

She laughed—really laughed—and shook her head.”I’m good,” she said, voice warm. “I’m not here for a drink.”

You nodded, heart fluttering.

You didn’t move at first. Neither did she.

You both just stood there, in the center of your living room, with the world quieting down around you and the air buzzing between your ribs.

Then, slowly, you stepped toward her.

And she didn’t wait.

Her hands found your waist as yours reached for her face, fingertips brushing over her cheek like you were still trying to believe this was real.

When your lips met, it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t rushed.

It was soft.

Earnest.

A quiet thank you.

A quiet I see you.

A quiet finally.

She pulled back just an inch, just enough to speak. Her breath still tangled with yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the bench,” she whispered.

You smiled. “You were busy falling for a cat back then.”

“I wasn’t,” she said. “I was falling for who was underneath.”

You kissed her again.

Longer this time. Deeper. Like the door had been unlocked, and you’d both finally stepped inside.

When she rested her forehead against yours, you didn’t move.

She stood in your apartment, in your space, and you let her. Fully. Completely.

Not the player. Not the suit. Just her.

And for the first time, you realized something quietly, beautifully terrifying:

She wasn’t leaving.

Not emotionally. Not this time.

She was in.

And you?

You weren’t just letting her stay.

You were letting her belong.

The end

[cupofteatoyou]

And Then There Was You

She doesn’t even have to touch you for your body to burn.

The first time it happens, you’re kneeling at the edge of the pitch, fiddling with a tangled cord, trying to look busy while the players finish drills under a sun-soaked sky.

You hear her before you see her—low laughter, clipped footsteps, a sharp whistle that cuts across the field. And then she passes you.

María León.

Your eyes flick up without thinking. And the world tilts.

It’s not the sharp line of her jaw or the way she moves like tension coiled around grace. It’s not her voice, though it’s the kind that would carry through fog, the kind you’d recognize even in sleep.

It’s what happens inside you.

Your chest pulls tight, like your heart skipped ahead without asking. Like some unseen thread had been yanked—hard—and now you're aware of every inch of your skin. A flush spreads along your spine, heat crawling up the back of your neck.

She doesn't look at you. She doesn't even slow down.

Still, something inside you shifts.

You blink, swallow, tell yourself it's adrenaline. The new job, the pressure, the weight of being around legends every day. That must be it.

But deep down, something older whispers this is different.

And it is.

Because it happens again. And again. And again.

A week later, you’re walking down the tunnel, trying not to trip over the mic cables looped around your shoulder, when you hear footsteps behind you.

They slow.

Your name is called—softly. Not hers. Not yet. But you feel her before you see her. Like the static hum before a storm. Like the echo of a dream you can’t quite remember.

You turn the corner and there she is. Laughing with Ingrid. Leaning into her side, eyes crinkled, relaxed.

She doesn’t notice you.

But your whole body does.

Your stomach turns. Not in a jealous way. Not really. It’s not about Ingrid. It’s the way your chest reacts like it’s been struck. The way your knees go weak like her happiness somehow hurts. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, and it carves you open anyway.

You get out of there fast.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of half-heard voices and blurred footage. You forget to eat. Your skin buzzes like you've touched something you shouldn't.

You’re still trying to convince yourself this is nothing.

But nothing doesn’t feel like this.

Mapi notices quickly.

She always has good instincts—about the game, about danger, about people.

But with you, it’s more than instinct.

She feels it the second she sees you—really sees you—standing behind the camera near the training ground, hair half-tucked into a hoodie, eyes focused anywhere but on her.

Her breath catches. Her balance stutters, just for a second. Enough that Alexia glances over. She covers it with a laugh. Keeps moving.

But something inside her has already shifted.

She doesn’t need time to realize what it means.

Her body tells her first. Her senses flare, all at once. You’re not just a presence—you’re a frequency. One she feels vibrating through the air when you walk past. A warmth at the base of her neck. A scent that clings to her even hours after you’re gone.

There’s no denying it.

You’re hers.

But the second she recognizes it, she buries it.

Because she’s already in love with someone else.

Ingrid is good. Ingrid is safe. She’s kind and steady and warm. Mapi knows the sound of her laugh and the pattern of her breathing. She knows how Ingrid likes her coffee and how she tucks her feet under the blanket on cold nights. Mapi loves her.

And still—her body turns toward you like it’s never belonged to anyone else.

So she doesn’t say anything.

She pretends.

She tells herself it’ll pass. That she’s just overwhelmed. That she can ignore it the way she’s ignored everything else that ever threatened the things she loves.

And for a while, she manages.

She keeps her distance. Keeps her eyes down. Keeps Ingrid close.

But her body betrays her every time.

You start avoiding her.

You don’t even make the choice consciously at first. You just stop lingering near the pitch. You take your lunch at odd hours. You switch your media shifts whenever you know she’ll be around.

You stop breathing when she enters a room. And start holding your breath the moment she leaves it.

But avoidance doesn’t erase the feeling.

Because even without words, without touch, without acknowledgment, something binds you to her. It curls in your chest when she's near. It throbs when she walks away. You feel it in the silence. In the air. In your bones.

And it hurts more than anything ever has.

Because you’re certain she doesn’t feel it.

She doesn’t look at you like you look at her.

Or so you think.

Mapi notices.

She notices everything about you now. Not because she means to—but because she can’t help it.

The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're flustered. The way your fingers tremble slightly when you pass her a mic. The way you avoid her gaze like it hurts to meet it.

And it does hurt. She knows. Because it hurts her too.

Every time she sees you pull away, her chest tightens. Every time you laugh at something someone else says, she wants to be the reason for it. And when you look at anyone else with even a hint of softness, her throat burns.

But she doesn't act on it.

Because acting on it would mean breaking something she promised she’d protect.

So she keeps pretending.

And the pretending is starting to splinter.

One night, long after training, you linger near the tunnel. The sky is bruised blue, the stadium nearly empty, the hush after hours making everything feel too loud.

Mapi walks past you, slowing just a little.

You feel it before you see her. That hum. That pull. That ache.

She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

But as she walks by, your eyes meet for just a second too long.

And for the first time—you see it.

She knows.

Whatever this is, however impossible, however unspoken—she feels it too.

But then Ingrid calls her name from the parking lot.

And Mapi blinks, steps away, and keeps walking.

You’re left standing there, heart in pieces, chest hollow, every part of you screaming with the truth

She knows.

And she won’t choose you.

Mapi lies awake that night.Her body is tired. Her heart is not.

You’re not there.

And you should be.

She sleeps beside someone else, but it’s you she dreams of.

staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Her hands are clenched beneath the blanket, jaw tight, chest aching in that strange, buried way it always does after she sees you.

Ingrid is curled up beside her, one arm resting lightly over her waist. She’s already asleep—steady breaths, skin warm. Familiar.

It should calm her.

It used to.

But tonight, the warmth doesn't reach her bones.

Her skin still buzzes from that second—that look—in the tunnel. You’d glanced at her like the air had disappeared, and for the first time, she didn’t look away.

And it nearly pulled her under.

Now, lying here in the dark, that single moment feels louder than anything that came before it. It won’t leave her. It vibrates beneath her ribs like something alive.

She doesn’t want this. She didn’t ask for it.

And still—it’s there.

You are there.

She slips out of bed when she can’t take it anymore.

Ingrid doesn’t stir.

The apartment is quiet, heavy. She doesn’t bother with lights. Just moves through the dark, hoodie thrown over her tank top, hair tied up messily. She ends up in the kitchen, hands pressed to the counter, forehead bowed.

Her chest won’t stop tightening. Her breath keeps catching.

She feels like she’s breaking from the inside out.

The kettle starts humming before she realizes she’s turned it on. Her body’s moving out of habit. Her mind is miles away—back in the tunnel, back in the sound of your laugh, back in that one second where her heart said go and she stayed frozen.

She doesn’t hear Ingrid at first.

“Couldn’t sleep again?”

Mapi stiffens. Turns slowly.

Ingrid stands in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket, hair mussed, eyes heavy with concern that’s starting to fray at the edges.

Mapi clears her throat. “Just couldn’t shut my brain off.”

Ingrid steps further into the room. She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then—“Is it football?”

Mapi wishes it were. She’d give anything for it to be that simple.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Then nods. “Something like that.”

Ingrid just watches her.

“You’ve been somewhere else lately,” she says softly. “Not just tonight. For a while.”

Mapi doesn’t respond.

“I didn’t want to say anything at first. I figured… pressure. Fatigue. Noise.” Ingrid’s voice cracks faintly. “But it’s not that, is it?”

Mapi swallows hard. Her hands curl around the edge of the counter.

“Mapi.”

She doesn’t want to lie. Not to Ingrid. Not to the girl who helped her breathe again after the worst year of her life. But the truth feels sharp in her throat.

Ingrid’s voice drops. “Is there someone else?”

Silence.

It sits there between them like a wound.

“I haven’t done anything,” Mapi says quickly. “I haven’t touched her. I haven’t said anything.”

Ingrid doesn’t flinch at the word her, but her grip on the blanket tightens.

“That’s not the same as nothing,” she whispers.

Mapi’s eyes sting.

“I didn’t choose it. I didn’t want it.”

“But it’s happening,” Ingrid says. Not a question. A quiet devastation.

Mapi nods, barely.

Ingrid exhales. It sounds like it hurts. “How long?”

Mapi hesitates. “Since the beginning.”

She can’t bring herself to say more. Can’t explain the way her skin vibrates when you’re near. The way her heart breaks in her chest when you laugh and she’s not the reason. The way she knew—knew—before either of you had spoken more than five words.

Ingrid steps back slightly, her voice suddenly shaking. “You love her?”

Mapi’s voice cracks. “I don’t know what this is.”

“But it’s not me anymore, is it?”

That breaks her.

“Ingrid, I still love you,” she says, stepping forward. “I do. I just—I don’t know how to stop this thing I never wanted.”

Ingrid’s eyes fill but she blinks it away. “You’re already gone, Mapi. You just haven’t left yet.”

Mapi flinches like she’s been slapped.

She wants to deny it. To fix it. To reach for the safety she’s known. But her hands stay by her sides, limp.

Because the truth is still there, buried in her chest.

You.

And she can’t lie her way out of that.

Ingrid breathes in slowly. Then turns without another word.

The door to the bedroom clicks shut behind her.

And Mapi stays standing in the kitchen, alone, staring at the cup of tea she never finished.

Mapi should be focused.

The drill is simple. High tempo passing. Fast touch. Quick release. Alexia calls out rotations from the center of the pitch. The rhythm is sharp, controlled. Everyone’s locked in.

Except her.

Because you're there.

Far off, near the bench. Half-hidden behind the dugout wall. Hoodie pulled low, body curled inward, hands moving over your laptop like you’re trying to disappear into it. Like you don’t want to be seen.

But Mapi sees you anyway.

She always does.

And it hits her again—deep, sudden, like a fault line cracking wide open beneath her ribs. That ache. The one that lives in her chest now. The one that flares every time you're near and never fully fades when you're gone.

You haven’t looked at her once.

And that’s what undoes her most.

Because you used to.

You used to glance at her like it hurt to. Like your body couldn’t help it. But now? Nothing. Not even a flicker.

You're shielding yourself. Keeping distance.

And it’s her fault.

You’re trying to be small. To stay hidden. And she knows—she knows—she’s the reason you’re folding yourself in like this.

And still, she can’t look away.

Not even for Ingrid.

Not even for the girl she promised herself to.

Ingrid notices.

She's standing at the sideline, arms folded across her chest, pretending to follow the drill. But her eyes aren’t on the ball. They're on Mapi.

And she knows.

She’s known, in pieces, for a while now. In the silence. In the pauses. In the way Mapi's hands have stopped reaching for her under the blanket. In the way her voice softens when she walks into a room that you're already in.

But now it’s written in her posture.

In the way Mapi leans toward you without even meaning to.

In the way her whole body orients itself like you're gravity.

She watches her girlfriend—not watching her at all.

Watches her instead fall apart in quiet glances toward the girl trying her hardest not to exist.

And it breaks something in Ingrid that she’s been holding together with both hands.

Because this isn’t a crush.

This isn’t doubt.

This isn’t something they can talk through over tea and compromise.

It’s you.

And it’s real.

Training ends.

Players begin peeling off the pitch in waves, sweat-slicked and half-laughing, heads thrown back. Mapi stays behind a few seconds longer, crouching down to retie her boots—anything to delay what she knows is coming.

But Ingrid waits.

She’s quiet the whole walk to the locker room.

Waits until they’re alone.

The door clicks shut. The sounds of laughter fade behind walls. And Ingrid stands in the center of the room, arms at her sides, spine straight.

And then, calmly—too calmly—she asks:

“Are you in love with her?”

Mapi freezes.

The question is soft. Almost casual. Like it costs nothing to ask. But it lands like a hammer.

Her heart stutters. Her breath stings her throat.

“Ingrid—”

“Don’t lie,” Ingrid cuts in gently. Not angry. Just… tired.

Mapi’s head bows. Her hands tremble where they hang by her sides. She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

Ingrid exhales a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. More like disbelief wrapped in pain. “It’s her, isn’t it? The girl on media. The one you pretend not to see.”

Mapi’s throat tightens. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” Ingrid interrupts. “But that doesn’t matter.”

Silence drops between them like a curtain.

“I loved you, Mapi,” Ingrid says. Her voice is shaking now. Not loud. Just breaking. “And you loved me, too. But lately it’s felt like I’m standing in front of you and you’re looking past me—through me—trying to find something else.”

Mapi presses her lips together. She can feel tears threatening behind her eyes.

Ingrid steps forward, hands trembling. “Do you even realize how often you look at her?”

Mapi stays still.

“Every time she’s in the room,” Ingrid whispers. “Even when she’s across the pitch. Even when she’s not saying a word. You look at her like…” She trails off.

“Like what?” Mapi whispers, almost afraid to ask.

Ingrid blinks. “Like you don’t know how to exist without her.”

Mapi turns her face away. One tear escapes, and she doesn’t bother wiping it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice hollow. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Ingrid says. Her voice is heartbreak wrapped in kindness. “But you’re not mine anymore.”

Mapi wants to argue. To say she’s still here. That she hasn’t gone. But she knows it wouldn’t be true. Because her heart has already left the room. And it’s following someone else.

Mapi doesn’t go home after training.

She doesn’t answer her phone either—not when Ingrid’s name flashes across the screen for the third time, not when a teammate texts asking if she’s okay. She drives. Not toward anything specific. Just away.

Away from the weight of the locker room.

Away from the look in Ingrid’s eyes.

Away from the moment that shattered everything she thought she’d been holding together.

When she finally pulls over, it’s in some empty side street, quiet and tree-lined, the kind that’s barely lit. The car hums around her. Her hands stay on the wheel, knuckles white, breath shaking.

She lets her forehead drop against the leather.

She doesn’t cry. Not yet.

She just… breaks quietly.

Because she hadn’t meant for it to happen like this.

She didn’t mean to hurt Ingrid. She didn’t mean to fall for someone else. She didn’t mean for your face to take root in the softest part of her chest and refuse to let go.

But it did.

And now there’s no going back.

She’s already lost something. Let go of someone. Broken something sacred.

And still, her hands are steady when she turns the car around.

The city is dark as she drives. Familiar streets blur past her window, but she doesn’t see them. She only sees your face. The way you looked in the tunnel. The way you never looked at her again.

She thinks of how quiet you’ve been.

How careful.

How much you’ve held in.

And still, you’ve never turned away from her as completely as she deserved.

She pulls into the back lot of the training facility, the one staff use when they stay late. Her stomach churns when she kills the engine. For the first time in days, she doesn’t hesitate.

She needs to see you.

Not tomorrow. Not later.

Now.

The building is mostly dark.

Just one strip of lights on, leading to the media wing. She follows them.

Her boots echo down the hall. It’s the only sound in the whole place—until she rounds the corner and sees you.

You’re at your desk, bathed in the blue light of your monitor. Shoulders hunched. Still in that hoodie. Still tucked small like you’re trying to disappear.

You don’t hear her at first.

She watches you for a second—just a second. Breath caught in her throat.

And then she knocks once, softly, against the doorframe.

You turn.

The moment your eyes meet, your expression crumbles.

You don’t speak.

Neither does she.

She takes a slow step into the room.

You sit up straighter. “Mapi?”

Her voice is soft. “Can I come in?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She shuts the door behind her. Doesn’t lock it. But the world outside disappears anyway.

[cupofteatoyou]

Rewrite the ending

The café is mostly empty, the way you like it.

Rain taps softly against the windows, and the hum of the espresso machine murmurs in the background. You sit by the window, laptop open, fingers idle above the keys. The cursor blinks patiently, like it knows you’re not ready to type.

Your coffee is cooling beside you. You don’t drink it yet. You like to sit in the quiet first—just exist for a few moments before the noise of the world catches up.

Then the door opens behind you.

A small sound—barely a thing. But something shifts.

Not in the café. In you.

You glance up without thinking.

A woman steps inside. Soaked from the rain, dark coat clinging to her arms, shoulders tense like she’s preparing for a fight or fleeing from one. You watch her move toward the counter, pull her hood back, brush wet strands of hair from her face.

She’s… striking. Not in the model-on-a-runway way. In the way old cities are beautiful—weathered, purposeful, like they’ve survived something.

And then she turns slightly.

Her eyes meet yours.

Just for a moment.

A split-second. A heartbeat.

You don’t know her. You’re sure of that. You’ve never seen her before.

And yet—

You can’t breathe.

Your throat tightens unexpectedly, and your stomach flips like you’ve been caught in a lie you didn’t know you told.

She looks away just as quickly. Back to ordering her coffee. Like nothing happened. Like you don’t exist.

But you do.

You do, and now your skin feels wrong. Like something inside you has been stirred.

You drop your gaze. Pretend to work. Your hands feel too warm, your thoughts too loud.

What the hell was that?

Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe your brain’s playing tricks on you.

Still… you feel it. That odd pressure. That invisible thread pulled taut between two people who shouldn’t matter to each other.

You look at her again, discreetly.

She’s sitting now, two tables over. One leg crossed over the other. Coffee untouched. Head slightly bowed like she’s staring at the grain in the wood.

She doesn’t look at you again.

But something about her presence hums against your ribs like the echo of a song you used to know.

You shake it off.

It’s just a stranger. Just a weird moment. Just the rain, and the coffee, and your imagination.

Still, for the rest of the day, her face won’t leave your mind.

And you can’t explain why.

She almost didn’t walk in.

The rain was cold, relentless, slicing sideways through the city like it had a purpose. Her coat was soaked through, her fingers stiff, and her thoughts louder than they had been in weeks. She wasn’t looking for warmth—only stillness. A place to stop remembering.

But fate was cruel like that.

She saw you before the door even closed behind her.

Sitting by the window. Half-lit by gray morning light. One hand curled around a coffee cup, the other resting lazily near her laptop. Hair tucked behind one ear. A soft crease between your brows, like you were thinking too hard about something that didn’t matter.

You looked… peaceful.

Untouched.

Free.

Alexia’s heart slammed into her ribs with violent familiarity.

It was you.

Not a maybe. Not a resemblance. Not wishful thinking playing tricks on her in the haze of memory and grief.

It was you.

And you didn’t remember.

Alexia froze for a second too long. Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. She blinked hard, once, as if that might change something.

It didn’t.

The first time she saw you , you were bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, your skin smudged with ash and sandalwood, your tunic stained from grinding herbs and crushed pomegranate.

You were a healer in a crumbling empire. Half-legend, half-danger, whispered about like a holy woman and hunted like a witch.

Alexia was a soldier then, barely more than a girl, sent to crush rebellions she didn’t believe in. She’d been bleeding when she stumbled into that ruined temple, half-conscious, and you had taken her in.

There had been no words at first. Only warm hands, soft linen, whispered prayers to gods whose names Alexia never learned.

kissed in silence,slow. Touched like the world would burn around them—and it did.

“This love is forbidden,” you’d whispered, forehead to Alexia’s.

“Then let it be,” Alexia had said, already yours.

You were careful. But never careful enough.

When the guards came, they didn’t ask questions.

You were tied to a post at dawn. Ashes scattered before the sun rose.

Alexia had been forced to watch from behind a line of stone-faced soldiers, screaming your name until her throat gave out.

She still heard it sometimes—in her dreams, in the silence, in smoke.

Now, thousands of years later, she was alive again.

Sitting in a café. Laughing at something on your screen. Your soul still the same. Still radiant. Still pulling Alexia in like gravity.

But your eyes were empty of recognition.

Alexia stepped forward. Ordered something she wouldn’t drink. She kept her voice even, but it cracked in the places no one could hear.

She sat two tables away. Close enough to breathe the same air. Far enough to pretend it meant nothing.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t dare to.

Because if she did—

If she let herself go to you , fall into the familiar rhythm of who they’d always been—

You would remember.

And when you remembered… you would die.

That was the pattern. That was the price. Every time their souls collided in love, fate took you away.

Alexia knew the math of it now. Knew what would happen if she gave in.

So she sat still, silent, trembling.

“Do you think we’ll meet again?” You had asked once, on your deathbed in another life.

Your lungs had been failing, and Alexia’s hands had been covered in ink from poems she tried to write for you too late.

“Every time,” Alexia had whispered.

And she had.

But it was always Alexia who remembered. Always Alexia who mourned. Always Alexia who stayed behind.

This time, she promised herself, it would be different.

Even if it killed her. She would not speak your name. She would not ask for a past that could only end in fire.

She would watch you from across the room.

Let you live.

Let you love someone else.

Let you be free of it.

Even if it meant breaking herself all over again.

She tried to stay away.

Tried to drown herself in routine—training, meetings, noise. She buried her phone in her jacket, left her sketchbook under the bed, told herself this was nothing. Just coincidence. Just longing. Just grief.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about the way the light caught in your hair. The way you tilted your head when you were reading. The way your lips parted ever so slightly when you were focused.

She couldn’t stop remembering.

And so she returned.

Once.

Then again.

Then every day.

She came early. Late. At off hours, on purpose, just to see if you would be there. Just to make sure you were still alive.

Sometimes you were. Sometimes you weren’t.

But Alexia always stayed.

Once, she had been a pianist in Vienna.

The year was 1904. Music was everything then—violins, candlelight, aching beauty in every minor key.

Alexia played in hidden halls for women who could never be seen. She remembered you sitting in the third row, always in blue, always with your hands folded over your heart like you were trying to keep it from falling out.

You kissed in the wings of an opera house.

“Your hands were made to build a world,” you’d said.

“Only if I can live in it with you,” Alexia had whispered.

The fire took the theater before the end of the season.

She never found you in the ashes.

She woke up in the middle of the night sometimes, heart racing, hands reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

She stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. Started drawing again.

Endless hands. Smiles. Eyes. A thousand versions of the same woman across time.

You never noticed her. Not really. A glance here, a shift there, but nothing that said recognition. Nothing that said I feel it too.

It was unbearable.

And still, she kept coming.

Once, you were scholars in Alexandria. Books were sacred. Knowledge was dangerous. you hid scrolls under your robes and kissed behind marble pillars. When the fires came, she had tried to protect you. But the smoke had taken her voice before she could scream.

In the café, present-day, Alexia rubbed at her chest like she could quiet the pain there.

You sat two tables over, tucked into a corner, typing with your usual focus. You didn’t know. You couldn’t possibly.

But sometimes—just sometimes—you would pause. Blink. Look up, as if something had brushed your shoulder or whispered your name.

Then you ’d shake it off, sip your coffee, and go back to your screen.

Alexia lived for those moments. Hated herself for them.

Because if she saw youreyes change—if she saw even one flicker of memory—she didn’t know if she could stay silent.

And if she spoke, if she reached across time and said I found you again, then it would begin all over.

The remembering. The loving. The dying.

She gripped her cup harder. It was cold.

She nearly didn’t see you today.

The café was crowded. Too loud. People jostled past, chairs scraped, music buzzed from the speakers overhead. Alexia almost turned around. Almost convinced herself to leave.

Then she saw you —by the window, struggling with a heavy backpack and a broken laptop charger, your expression pinched in quiet frustration.

Alexia hesitated. Her steps slowed. She didn’t plan to stop. Just observe. Just one more glance.

But then—

“Excuse me?”

The voice hit her like lightning.

You were talking to her.

Alexia blinked. Froze. For a second, she thought she’d imagined it.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, with an awkward little laugh. “You just… you look like someone who probably carries a charger.”

Alexia stared at you .

Words refused to come.

“I mean, you don’t have to—just forget I asked. Totally fine.”

But she was already reaching into her bag. Your fingers brushed. Only for a second. But it was enough to unravel something inside her.

“Thanks,” you said, plugging it in and slumping with relief. “You might’ve just saved my entire week.”

Alexia gave a faint smile. Said nothing. Her throat was burning. Her chest too tight.

“Have we met before?” You asked, almost casually.

Alexia’s heart stopped.

“No,” she lied. “I don’t think so.”

You tilted your head slightly. Studied her. “You seem familiar.”

Don’t say it. Don’t remember.

But your eyes were kind. Open. Still unknowing. Still safe.

“Anyway,” you said, “thanks again. I owe you one.”

Alexia nodded once. Then turned and walked out before you could say anything else.

She stood outside in the rain, hand shaking around her keys, and knew—deep in her bones—she was going to lose her resolve.

Again.

Once, she had been a Roman soldier. You , a merchant’s daughter with ink-stained fingers. They had run away together, stolen horses, kissed under stars.

You had died in a storm, arms around Alexia, whispering, “I’ll find you next time.”

And here she was.

Again.

Alexia pressed her back against the stone wall and shut her eyes.

She had stayed away for so long. But now… she’d spoken to her. Touched her. Heard her laugh like it belonged to her again.

She knew what would happen next.

And she couldn’t stop it.

It was just supposed to be a favor.

One quiet moment. A charger handed over, no questions asked. She told herself it didn’t mean anything. That the tether didn’t tighten when their fingers brushed. That her breath didn’t catch when you smiled at her like she was just a person—not a ghost, not a memory, not someone cursed to remember.

But the next day, you smiled again.

And waved.

And Alexia... waved back.

She hated herself for it.

At first, it was nothing more than casual acknowledgements. A nod across the café. A shared glance when the barista accidentally dropped a tray. A quick laugh when the playlist played the same song three days in a row.

Then the space between you started to shrink.

Literally.

You started sitting closer—first out of necessity, then choice. A chair pulled out two tables over. Then one. Then next to her, just once, on a rainy Thursday when the café was packed.

“Mind if I steal this seat?” Alexia shook her head before she could think.

This is how it starts, she told herself.

This is how it always starts.

That day, you talked more.

Not much—safe topics. Coffee, work, music. You joked that the café should hire her at this point. Alexia smiled and made a comment about loyalty. Your eyes met. Something in Alexia’s chest clenched hard.

There it was again—that light. That warmth. The same thing she’d fallen in love with in every version of you. You didn’t know. But Alexia saw it. Felt it. Lived it.

And then—

“Do you mind if I ask your name?”

She paused. A beat too long.

“Alexia.”

You smiled. “That suits you.”

Alexia wanted to ask your name, too—but she already knew it.

She’d known it in every language she’d ever spoken.

Once, you were stargazers in the desert.

Alexia wandered the dunes, searching for purpose. You taught her constellations with ash on her fingers, eyes lit like galaxies.

You spoke in symbols, in firelight and silence. You danced barefoot in sandstorms.

“You’ll find me again,” you said once, pointing to the stars. “Just follow the pattern.”

You died of a fever that night. Alexia screamed at the sky until her voice was gone.

She couldn’t stay away.

She started showing up earlier. Just in case.

Started reading books she couldn’t focus on. Just to look busy.

You didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you started seeking her out.

One morning, you set your drink down beside Alexia’s without asking.

“I figured I owed you a coffee after that charger rescue,” you said.

Alexia stared at the cup. It had her name written on it.

The sound of it in the you’r voice made something inside her shatter quietly.

“Thank you,” she said, barely above a whisper.

You sat in silence. It was comfortable, but not casual.

Your bodies leaned toward each other in that unconscious way gravity works when something ancient and familiar is near.

You glanced at her and said, “You know… it’s weird. You feel like someone I should know.”

Alexia forced a smile. “Maybe you’re just good at recognizing people.”

But her hands trembled. Because deep down, she was starting to hope again. And hope had killed her before.

But she kept showing up.

You didn’t exchange numbers. You never said “let’s meet tomorrow.” But you always found yourselves at the same table, near the same window, at the same strange hour between morning rush and mid-day peace.

Sometimes she brought a book.

Sometimes you brought two croissants just in case.

Sometimes you both forgot why you came.

But you stayed.

She never flirted. Not really.

And yet…

There was something about the way she listened to you. The way she tilted her head like your words mattered. The way her eyes softened when you talked about things that didn’t matter to anyone else—your playlist for rainy days, your weird superstition about odd numbers, the story of how you once got lost in your own apartment building when you first moved in.

She laughed at your jokes. Not a lot—but when she did, it was soft, surprised. Like she hadn’t done it in a while.

And God, you loved that sound.

You didn’t know much about her. She never said. You never asked.

But something about her felt familiar.

Not her face.

Her presence.

Like déjà vu you couldn’t shake.

Like remembering a dream you hadn’t had yet.

You didn’t say that, of course. It sounded insane. But you felt it, in the strange quiet moments between coffee sips and glances held a second too long.

Sometimes, when she looked at you—really looked at you—you could swear she was mourning something.

And once, after a long silence, she said, “You remind me of someone I used to know.”

Your heart had squeezed unexpectedly.

But when you asked who, she only shook her head.

“No one you’d know.”

You didn’t press. You didn’t need to.

Because the truth was: you felt it too.

A pull.

A thread.

Something tugging from underneath your ribs every time she walked in.

You hadn’t kissed. Hadn’t touched. Hadn’t even called her anything but Alexia.

But somehow, it already felt like something dangerous was beginning.

And you didn’t know why… but sometimes, you felt afraid of what might happen if you let it go too far.

Like a storm was coming.

And part of you had walked through it before.

It started with the rain. Because somehow, it always did.

One moment, the sky had been clear—light spilling through the café window, music playing low behind the whir of the espresso machine. The next, the clouds cracked open and drenched the city like someone had pulled a lever. A storm, sudden and wild.

Your head tilted against the glass—laughed. “Great. I left my umbrella at home.”

Alexia looked up from her cup, heart catching in her throat at the sound of that laugh. The sound that haunted her. The sound she remembered from a thousand years and a thousand lifetimes ago.

“You could wait it out,” she said softly. Then, after a pause—trying to sound casual, failing—“Or… we could go somewhere. There's a gallery not far. It's small. Empty. I go there when I need quiet.”

You turned, amused. “Are you asking me on a date?”

Alexia blinked. She hadn’t meant to. Not really.

But her answer was still: “Yes.”

You smiled, that same warm, open smile that always wrecked her. “Then lead the way.”

You walked under a small black umbrella, close—closer than you had any right to be. The sidewalk was slick beneath your feet, rain pouring off rooftops, the city blurring like a dream.

Your arm brushed against Alexia’s again and again. She didn’t move away. Neither of you did.

And Alexia…

She wasn’t thinking anymore.

She was feeling. Remembering things she shouldn’t. Knowing exactly how this would end and doing it anyway.

The gallery was tucked between old buildings, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of place. Inside, it was silent—white walls and golden lighting, art that didn’t shout, just whispered.

You wandered slowly, drawn toward a piece at the end of the room. A painting of stars and fire, brushstrokes wild and luminous, like a galaxy collapsing into itself.

You stared at it, unmoving. “This feels… weirdly familiar,” you said quietly. “Do you ever get that? Like something’s already lived inside you before you even see it?”

Alexia didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Because all she could see was the curve of your profile, your hair catching the light, your body turned toward something you didn’t even realize you’d once painted, lifetimes ago.

Alexia took a step closer. Then another. The space between them narrowed, full of everything they weren’t saying.

You turned.

Your eyes met.

And it happened.

Alexia leaned in and kissed you .

It was soft—so soft it almost didn’t feel real.

But you didn’t pull away.

You moved into it like your soul recognized the shape of the moment. Like your mouth had been waiting for Alexia’s. Like this had already happened, and you were just remembering how it went.

One hand, gentle against Alexia’s cheek.

Alexia’s fingers brushing your waist.

Rain tapping against the windows like a heartbeat just outside.

You stayed like that for longer than you should have. Neither of you speaking. Your foreheads resting together, breath warming the space between you .

Then you whispered, “That felt like… more than it should’ve.”

Alexia’s voice was barely audible. “Because it is.”

You didn’t go back to the café. Instead, you found a tiny bistro tucked beneath an awning. The storm had settled into a steady, romantic drizzle, the kind that made the world feel a little quieter.

You sat outside. Ordered pasta and shared a bottle of red wine. The candle between you flickered, and you told stories—of childhood mishaps, weird dreams, songs that got stuck in your head and never left.

Alexia laughed. Genuinely. And more than once.

Each time, you looked almost surprised. Like you didn’t expect to be the one to cause it.

And Alexia just kept falling.

Every word. Every glance. Every time you said her name like it wasn’t heavy with history.

She was falling again, just like always.

And she didn’t know how to stop.

Later, when you reached your door, the moment stretched again. Time slowing between you like it wanted you to stay in it.

You looked up at her, eyes soft. “Come in?”

Alexia’s heart clenched.

She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But if she crossed that line, she wasn’t sure she could ever pull back.

Her fingers grazed the reader’s hand.

“I… I can’t. Not yet.”

A flicker of confusion in the your expression. But you didn’t push.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Tomorrow?”

Alexia hesitated.

And then, because she was already breaking all her rules “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

But when the door closed and she was alone on the other side… she didn’t move.

Because she knew.

The moment she kissed you, the thread knotted again.

And this time, she didn’t think she’d survive cutting it.

It started slow—like a question neither of you dared ask aloud.

You kissed in the quiet of her apartment, mouths brushing with a hesitance that made it feel sacred. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… intentional. Like every movement asked, Are you sure? Is this okay? Can I stay?

Clothes slipped away one by one, soft laughs in between. Gentle touches replaced words. And when Alexia finally ran her fingers along your side—when you sighed and leaned in without fear—it felt less like discovery and more like remembering.

Your bodies fit like something ancient. Like this was a rhythm you’d danced to before, even if you couldn’t name the music.

Alexia wasn’t thinking about what came next. Not yet.

She was focused only on the way your fingertips traced down her ribs. On the curve of your smile when you looked up. On the way your voice softened to a whisper when you said Alexia’s name like it meant something more than just letters.

The bed creaked beneath you . Sheets tangled around your legs. Time stopped caring about hours. Outside, the city exhaled.

There was no urgency.

Just touch.

And trust.

Alexia moved carefully, tenderly, like she was handling something fragile—something she’d broken once before and never forgiven herself for.

She kissed every place you guided her to. Held you gently when you arched into her touch. Listened to every quiet sound with reverence, with awe.

And you —God, you were so open. So trusting. You didn’t hold back. Didn’t flinch. You looked at Alexia like you already knew her. Like you had in every life before this and somehow still believed you wouldn’t leave.

There was a moment—when you were chest to chest, breath to breath, hearts pressed like matching puzzle pieces—when Alexia wanted to say it.

Not “I love you.”

Something heavier.

Something like We’ve done this before.

You’ve died in my arms before.

And I swore I wouldn’t let myself touch you again, not like this.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she kissed you. Softly. Slowly.

And you whispered, “You feel like home.”

After, you lay there—skin damp, bodies warm, limbs tangled like you ’d always been meant to be this way.

You curled into Alexia’s side without a second thought. One arm draped over her stomach, your head resting beneath her chin. Your breath was steady. Content.

And Alexia…

She held you .

But her chest ached.

Because even in that perfect quiet, surrounded by warmth and heartbeat and trust, a single truth throbbed behind her ribs

I can't watch her die again.

She should’ve left hours ago.

The room was quiet now, soaked in the hush of the early morning. No cars, no voices, just the hum of the city beyond the window—muffled and distant. The kind of silence that made you feel like you were the last person left in the world.

Alexia lay still beside you , not breathing too deep, not moving at all. As if even a shift would shatter this fragile peace. Her arm was curled protectively around your waist, skin warm and sticky with the softness of afterglow. Her body should’ve felt relaxed—sated, even.

But every part of her was tight. Tensed. Like her heart was a fist clenched around a secret too painful to carry any longer.

You were asleep, lips slightly parted, your cheek nestled against Alexia’s shoulder. You looked so content, so trusting—your body wound gently around Alexia’s like this was where you belonged. Like your soul remembered it too, even if your mind didn’t.

Alexia blinked up at the ceiling. Her eyes burned, though she wasn’t sure from what—exhaustion, tears, or the weight of inevitability. Maybe all three.

This night was never supposed to happen.

She’d been careful. She’d stayed away. She’d played the stranger, the cold one, the quiet regular at the café who smiled just enough but never lingered too long. She’d trained herself not to meet those eyes—those same damn eyes that had haunted every version of her life.

But you had laughed. Smiled. Had called her name like it was a song you’d forgotten the lyrics to.

And Alexia had failed. Again.

She’d lived too many lives.

Watched this soul fade in too many forms.

A battlefield, once. Smoke thick in the air, blood soaking the ground. Her love had worn armor and courage, a sword clutched in her trembling hands. Alexia had screamed when you went down, had crossed enemy lines just to hold your body while the light faded from your eyes.

Another time, in a life thick with plague and ash, you’d shared a quiet cottage in the hills. She remembered feeding you broth when the fever took hold, wiping sweat from your brow, whispering lullabies from a time before memory. She remembered holding cold hands when the end came—kissing your forehead and begging whatever god would listen to take her instead.

There had been a war in the 1940s. A red dress in the corner of a smoke-filled club. A stray bullet meant for someone else.

A car crash in 1974. Alexia had arrived seconds too late.

A drowning in 1803.

A fire in 1611.

A duel in the snow in 1436.

Every time, it ended the same.

She chose me. And she died for it.

And yet.

Alexia had found you again.

Different hair. A new voice. A new laugh. But the soul—that soul—was the same. It called to her across time like it had never stopped looking.

And now, here you were . In this lifetime. Radiant. Kind. Entirely alive.

Alexia had sworn she wouldn’t interfere this time. Wouldn’t touch you . Wouldn’t love you.

She’d failed all of it in one night.

One kiss. One breath. One moment of selfishness.

And now she was back here—wrapped around her soulmate, skin against skin, heart against heart, feeling everything she’d sworn to avoid. Knowing it couldn’t last. Knowing that staying meant risking it all over again.

Because the pattern was too cruel, too consistent.

Love her.

Lose her.

Live with it.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, letting out a soft sigh. You nuzzled into Alexia’s chest, one hand tightening where it rested above her heart.

A smile tugged faintly at your lips.

That smile nearly undid her.

It was the same smile she'd seen across centuries. In candlelight, in moonlight, in lamplight. In the middle of a battle. In a farmhouse with snow outside. In an overcrowded hospital bed.

That smile had followed her through time like a promise.

Alexia shut her eyes.

She kissed your forehead—lightly, reverently. Let her lips linger just a moment longer than she should’ve. Then she whispered the same thing she had in 1852, in 1916, in 2002:

“I’m sorry.”

And then she slipped out of the bed.

The air felt colder the second she stood.

She moved carefully—each step a quiet betrayal. She found her shirt and pants where they’d been abandoned in the rush. Pulled them on with shaking fingers, her movements painfully slow, as if her body didn’t want to obey.

Every rustle felt loud.

Every breath, like a confession.

She glanced back once—just once.

You were still asleep, your body curled into the space Alexia had just vacated. One hand stretched out like you were reaching for something.

Your lashes fluttered. A sigh escaped your lips.

And Alexia knew: she wouldn’t remember this. Not fully. Not in a way that mattered. The soul might ache, might feel the echo of her absence—but her mind would search for her without knowing why.

And maybe that was mercy.

Alexia swallowed the lump in her throat and turned away.

She paused at the door, hand resting on the knob like it might anchor her to the moment forever.

Then she whispered, “Live.”

Not goodbye.

Not I love you.

Just live.

Because if walking away meant you might survive—if keeping her distance was the only way to cheat fate—then Alexia would do it.

Even if it destroyed her.

Especially if it meant you would never have to know what it cost.

The door closed with a click.

Soft. Final.

Alexia stepped into the hallway and exhaled like she hadn’t breathed in hours.

Her footsteps echoed down the stairs. Out into the street. Into the early morning air, where the sky was just starting to shift into blue.

The city was waking up. People would begin again. The world would turn.

And somewhere upstairs, in a warm bed tangled with shared memories and stolen peace, the girl Alexia had always loved was still sleeping.

Still safe.

Still alive.

And Alexia…

Alexia walked away.

Alone.

Again.

[cupofteatoyou]

Dreaming in Blaugrana pt2

You didn’t move for a long time.

Not after the door closed. Not after her footsteps faded down the hall. Not even when the buzzing in your ears quieted enough for your own heartbeat to feel loud again.

You just stood there. Half-in, half-out. Of the suit. Of your lie. Of everything.

The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of everything she didn’t say.

You peeled the rest of the suit off slowly, like maybe if you did it gently enough, the shame would come off with it. It didn’t.

The Cat Culer head still sat on the desk beside you, grinning like it didn’t understand what it had done. Like it hadn’t broken something.

You wanted to shove it in the duffel. Hide it. Burn it.

Instead, you slumped into your chair and stared at the empty doorway, Like maybe she'd come back.

She didn’t.

And even if she did, you weren’t sure which part of you she’d be looking for—the mascot, or the lie.

You thought the worst part would be her finding out. The embarrassment. The exposure. But it wasn’t.

The worst part was knowing she wasn’t upset that it was you.

She was upset that it was you the intern.

Because that version of you—the one who ran cables, clipped mic audio, nodded silently while she barked directions—wasn’t someone she’d ever let close. Wasn’t someone she’d let in.

It wasn’t about the secret.

It was about where you came from.

You were staff. And in her world, that meant something. It meant distance. It meant professionalism and protocol and polite nods that never cracked into anything real.

You weren’t just behind a mask. You were behind a camera. Behind a badge. Behind everything she kept herself safe from.

Because around staff, Alexia had rules.

Around staff, she wasn’t a person—she was a product.

An image. A brand. A checklist of the right words and the right smile and the right lighting.

She gave interviews like a machine. Took direction without flinching. Let the boom mics dangle inches from her face without ever acknowledging the person holding it.

To staff, she was the captain.

To staff, she was untouchable.

And she liked it that way.

Because being “Captain Putellas” meant she didn’t have to be anything else.

She could shut the door behind her eyes and coast through every interaction on muscle memory. Professional. Polished. Distant. Safe.

And you broke that.

Not just as the mascot—but as you.

Because the whole time she’d been opening up to Cat Culer—laughing, venting, offering pieces of herself she didn’t give to anyone else—she hadn’t realized it was someone who already saw her when she didn’t mean to be seen.

Someone who’d filmed her on her worst days. Caught her quietest moments. Chosen what parts of her got shown to the world.

You weren’t a stranger.

You were staff.

And to her, that was the same as betrayal.

Because you weren’t supposed to be real.

You weren’t supposed to matter.

Not outside the suit. Not in her world.

And now?

Now she couldn’t figure out where you ended and the lie began.

You blurred the line.

And for someone like Alexia—who lived her life inside clean boxes, perfect soundbites, and tightly managed control—that wasn’t just uncomfortable.

was terrifying.

Because if she admitted the intern could be someone she’d fall for...

Then what else had she gotten wrong?

Then maybe the walls she’d built weren’t really walls at all.

Maybe they were windows. And she’d been seen this whole time.

You still showed up.

Not as often. Not with the same spark. But enough that no one questioned it.

The suit still fit. The paws still bounced. The tail still swung when you needed it to. But every time you pulled the head over your face, something in you flinched.

It wasn’t comforting anymore. It wasn’t safety. It felt like a lie.

And not the fun kind—the kind with pranks and silent jokes and wide-eyed kids tugging at your fur. No. It felt rotten now. Like wearing someone else’s skin. Like stepping into a character that no longer belonged to you.

Because being Cat Culer used to feel like freedom. Now it felt like hiding.

And the worst part? She didn’t even look for you anymore.

After that night, after the mascot head on the desk and the silence that felt too final—Alexia never brought it up again.

You saw her in passing. On the pitch. In hallways. In media rooms filled with lights and noise and tension so thick it held everyone hostage.

She nodded, sometimes. Once, maybe, she said hi. But it wasn’t for you. It was for the space you filled. The staffer. The silhouette. The role.

You weren’t the one she confided in anymore. That person didn’t exist. You weren’t you, either. Not really. Just something in between.

Because Cat Culer still danced at halftime and hugged kids and made Mapi snort-laugh on the sidelines. But every cheer felt heavier now. Every high five, more hollow.

You'd become a ghost wearing fur.

And the truth clawed at you more every time you put the suit on.

That you’d once meant something to her. That she’d laughed with you, shared with you, trusted you—not because of who you were, but because of who she thought you were.

And now? Now even pretending felt disgusting. Because she wasn’t falling for the mascot anymore. And she definitely wasn’t falling for you. It wasn’t just the silence.

It was the way things changed in small, invisible ways. Quiet shifts only you seemed to notice.

Alexia didn’t come to you during warmups anymore. Not to sit beside you. Not to nudge your shoulder. Not to talk about drills or bad boots or long days.

She used to look for you. Now, she looked through you.

Sometimes, she arrived early, trained hard, and left before you even zipped up the suit. Other days, she stayed late—but the second you stepped onto the pitch, foam paws flopping, tail bouncing like always, she’d suddenly remember a meeting. A lift. A stretch.

You could count the number of words she’d said to Cat Culer in the last three months on one hand.

And none of them had been for you. Not really.

Once, you joined Mapi and Patri on the grass for a mock drill—the kind where you were the “opponent” and everyone took turns sliding in to tackle you like chaos gremlins. The girls were cackling. Patri tried to fake a red card. Ingrid filmed the whole thing for Instagram.

You glanced up, heart flickering.

Alexia stood near midfield, arms crossed, watching. For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe— But when you tripped dramatically over a cone and flailed backward in your usual slow-motion death fall, she didn’t smile.

She turned away.

Walked straight toward the bench and didn’t look back.

Another time, you heard her on the sideline. Mapi was complaining about losing a passing game to the mascot, and Alexia—without missing a beat—just muttered:

“Stop letting the cartoon outplay you.”

Not “they’re good.” Not “they’re funny.”

Not you.

Just the cartoon.

Like you were nothing more than fur and foam and a dumb tail flopping in the wind.

And that stung more than silence.

Because at least silence could pretend it didn’t know you.

This? This was cold. This was careful.

And maybe worst of all—this was what boundaries looked like. Rebuilt. Reinforced.

You didn’t know what hurt more— That she couldn’t look at you the same way anymore Or that maybe she never would again.

It wasn’t just you who noticed. Mapi saw it too.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just started watching a little more closely. Her eyes would flick to Alexia whenever you entered a room. She’d go quiet when Alexia walked past without a word. Without a glance.

One afternoon, you were sitting on the edge of the grass in full costume—legs stretched out, paws resting in your lap—when Mapi jogged over and dropped beside you with a sigh.

She didn’t say much. Just passed you an energy drink and pulled her sweatband off with a wince. Her knee was taped again. Same as always. You bumped her shoulder lightly with your foam arm. She smiled, distracted.

Then her eyes drifted across the field. Alexia was walking off. Alone. No wave. No playful jab. No shoulder bump. Just... gone. Mapi watched her for a beat too long.

“You notice it too, huh?” she muttered finally. You didn’t move.

Mapi didn’t look at you, just twisted the cap off her drink and stared straight ahead. “She doesn’t talk to you anymore. Not like she used to.” You stayed still. Silent.

“I mean, I get it. She’s not good with... this kind of thing,” she added, gesturing vaguely. “Feelings. Shit that doesn’t fit into her little system. Especially when it comes from someone she wasn’t expecting.”Another pause,Then, softer: “But still. It’s shitty.” Your chest tightened.

Mapi leaned back on her palms and exhaled hard. “She used to look for you, you know. Like, before anything started. I'd catch her scanning the field, waiting for the cat to show up. Like it made her day better.” She didn’t say it to be cruel. Just honest.

“But now?” she continued. “Now she sees you coming and turns the other way.”

You dropped your foam head into your hands, mask hiding your face even though she couldn't see it.

Mapi nudged your foot with hers. “Whatever happened… it’s eating both of you.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. And she didn’t push.

She just sat beside you until the sun dipped low enough to paint the pitch in gold again. Until the others filtered off the field. Until you were the only ones left.

Then she stood, brushing grass off her shorts. And before walking off, she said it—low and certain: “She’s mad. But not at you.She’s mad that she let herself care.” And you just sat there, head in your paws, heart somewhere it couldn’t reach her. Not anymore.

You lasted a few more weeks. Not because you wanted to. Because you didn’t know how to stop.

You kept showing up like muscle memory. Like the act of being there might make something inside you feel right again. You filmed interviews with shaking hands. You sorted clip reels until your eyes blurred. You stood in the media room with your hoodie pulled tight, trying to shrink small enough that even the silence wouldn’t see you.

You laughed when Mapi joked. Nodded when Carla gave instructions. Played the part. But it was all mimicry now. Hollow.

Even the mascot didn’t feel like yours anymore.

Every time you reached for the suit, your chest clenched. The fur felt heavier. The paws, stiffer. The Cat Culer head, once something like safety, sat on its shelf like a stranger. Its smile looked smug now. Cruel.

You still wore it sometimes. But only when you had to. And every time, it felt a little more like punishment. Because no matter how good you were at pretending, she never came back.

Not like before.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you weren’t here for her. That this was still your job. But the truth was... it used to be more than that.

Cat Culer had given you belonging. Had made you feel like someone. Had carved out a space where you could breathe, even if it was through mesh eyeholes and three inches of foam.

Now it just felt like pretending to be a version of yourself that no longer existed. And being you—just you—wasn’t enough to stay.

So one quiet Friday, when the team was away for an away fixture and the office was nearly empty, you cleaned out your locker.

You didn’t leave a note.

No email. No message. No goodbye. Just silence. Because there wasn’t anything left to say. Not to the club. Not to the staff. And definitely not to her.

You didn’t want to explain yourself. Didn’t want to answer questions or sit through awkward sympathy or worse—understanding. You didn’t want to hand over a flash drive or leave behind a letter. You didn’t want to wrap it up in closure.

You just wanted it to stop.

So you walked away.

One morning, you packed your things from the locker flat you’d barely had time to decorate, and by the afternoon, you were gone. The uniform stayed in the locker, untouched. The duffel with the mascot suit still zipped and heavy in its corner. The lanyard probably got deactivated without anyone noticing.

And that was fine. That was the point.Because you didn’t want to be remembered. Not as the intern. Not as the mascot. Not as the girl she used to talk to. You wanted to be no one again. It was easier.

Now you made coffee.

Six-hour shifts behind a corner café bar, pressing espresso and wiping down counters while your coursework blinked at you from a half-broken laptop in the backroom. It was quiet, mostly. You liked quiet now.

There were no jerseys. No cameras. No mascots. No her.

You could breathe here.

No one cared who you were. No one stared. No one expected you to smile or perform or hold yourself together just long enough to get through another shoot.

Here, you were just another face in an apron. Another student trying to make rent. Another girl watching strangers walk past the window and wondering what it would feel like to be unafraid again.

And some nights, when you closed the shop alone and the world felt still in a way it hadn’t in months, you wondered if she even noticed you were gone.

If she’d said anything. If she missed the silence beside her. If she missed you—even if she know who you were.

But most nights, you didn’t think about her at all. You couldn’t. Because if you did, the ache would come back. The one that told you she almost saw you. And then chose not to.

You didn’t expect anyone to reach out. Not really.

You’d vanished so quietly, it felt like erasing yourself. Like closing a door behind you and pretending the room never existed. You assumed that once you were gone, life at the club would move on—faster than you did. Cleaner.

And mostly, it did.

Except for Mapi.

She found you a week later.

Not through some big dramatic search, but through the most Mapi way possible—an Instagram story.

You’d posted a blurry photo of your cappuccino art, not even thinking. No caption. Just foam and sunlight and a chipped ceramic cup. You barely had ten followers.

But she saw it.

Two hours later, she walked into the café like she owned the place. A hoodie pulled over her curls. Sunglasses. Casual as ever.

She didn’t say hi. Didn’t say I missed you. She just leaned on the counter, popped a piece of gum into her mouth, and said, “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

You blinked at her. “How did you—”

She held up her phone and tapped your post. “Amateur mistake. Next time, don’t geo-tag.” You laughed before you could stop yourself.

And just like that, she made herself a regular.

She started showing up every couple of days. Never in team gear. Always in that deliberately under-the-radar way that screamed don’t recognize me while still somehow drawing attention anyway.

She’d sit at the corner table by the window and call it her spot after the second visit. Always asked for the same drink—iced coffee, no sugar, oat milk—and always insisted she wasn’t here for you.

“Free coffee,” she’d say with a shrug. “That’s the only reason I show up. You owe me for years of emotional trauma.”

And sometimes, she’d stay for hours—sunglasses pushed up into her hair, ankles crossed, flipping through a magazine she didn’t read. Other times, she wouldn’t even order. Just walk in, ruffle your hair behind the bar, and walk out again with a smirk and a wave.

It was stupid. Pointless. Quiet. But it meant everything. Because she didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t ask about the club. Or the suit. Or Alexia.

She didn’t ask why your hands still trembled when you steamed milk. Or why you sometimes went quiet when certain songs came on the speaker.

She just kept showing up.

And that told you enough.

She wasn’t there for the coffee. She was there for you. Even if she’d never admit it out loud. And for the first time in months, you let yourself believe it—Maybe someone had seen you after all.

Late afternoon. Slow shift. You were wiping down the espresso machine when your phone buzzed in your apron pocket. You almost ignored it. Probably spam. Probably nothing. But something made you check.

It was a picture. No words, no explanation—just a glitter-covered digital flyer with Mapi’s face photoshopped onto a unicorn mid-gallop, a party hat tilted over one eye, confetti raining from the sky behind her. It said “MAPICHELLA – You’re Invited (Not Optional)” in Comic Sans.

You blinked. Then the second message came through:

MAPIII: "My birthday. You're coming."

Just like that. No greeting. No room for debate. You stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Your first instinct was to say no. To type something polite. Gentle. A soft excuse.

“Can’t make it.” “Busy that night.” “Hope it’s fun.”

But before you could craft your letdown, another message arrived.

MAPIII: "Don’t even think about saying no. I know where you work, remember?"

Of course she did.

You smiled, despite yourself, even as something tight coiled behind your ribs.

"I’m not really good at parties."

There was a pause. Not long. But long enough to feel the weight of it. Then…

MAPIII: "Good thing I didn’t invite you for your party tricks. I invited you because I want you there."

Simple. Blunt. Real.

And you hated how much it made your chest ache. Because it had been months. Months of you slipping away, letting the city swallow you, rebuilding your world with silence and coffee beans and textbooks. You hadn’t asked anyone to look for you.

But Mapi had. And she never stopped.

You stared at the screen, unsure what to say. Part of you wanted to ask who would be there. To calculate your risks. To figure out how much proximity to her you could survive.

But you didn’t. Because deep down, you already knew. And even deeper—you knew it wouldn’t matter.

"Won’t it be… weird?"

You didn’t specify. Didn’t say her name. You didn’t have to. Mapi replied almost instantly.

MAPIII: "You being not there is what’s weird.You showing up and eating cake like a half-functioning human? That’s normal. You’re my friend. Come."

Your throat tightened. You started typing another excuse, fingers shaking just a little.

But then the last message came in.

MAPIII: "If you don’t show up, I’m sending someone to drag you there. In your apron. With a to-go cup glued to your hand."

That got a laugh out of you. The kind you hadn’t felt in weeks—sharp, involuntary, genuine.

You didn’t text back. Didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no either.

And that night, when your shift ended, you lay in bed with the party flyer still open on your phone, thumb brushing over the glitter filter like it might tell you what the hell you were supposed to feel.

Because part of you wanted to forget. Part of you wanted to stay buried. But part of you—stupid, fragile, stubborn—missed something.

Not the job. Not the mascot. Not even the past.

You missed belonging. And maybe—just maybe—you missed her, too. Even if you weren’t ready to admit it. You didn’t even want to come.

You’d told Mapi that. Twice. Maybe three times. She ignored you every single time.

So now here you were—pressed into the corner of someone’s apartment you didn’t recognize, wrapped in the softest hoodie you owned like it might shield you from the noise, the lights, the memories.

The party was loud. Overfull. Bright. Glittered with birthday balloons and half-empty bottles and a playlist that jumped between club bangers and chaotic throwbacks no one ever admitted to knowing all the words to. People moved like water—shifting, laughing, clinking glasses—and you were doing a decent job of blending in.

Until you weren’t.

“—and this one,” Mapi’s voice cut through the crowd like a spotlight, and your stomach dropped. You turned just in time to see her grinning like a troublemaker on stage, her drink raised, one arm gesturing straight toward you.she was drunk, no she was wasted. You know she didn’t meant to outed you, not like that.

“Faceplanted so hard in the Cat Culer suit during halftime once. I swear, if we’d had that on video, it would’ve gone viral.” The words hit before you could duck.

Someone turned.

Then another.

And then—

“Wait... you were the mascot?”

A few eyes widened. Jaws dropped. One hand literally slapped another person’s shoulder.

“No way.”

“Shut up. That was you?”

“Yo, I knew it. I knew you had to be an athlete under there. You were too good.”

“Okay, but like... you’re actually stupid hot. Why the hell were you hiding in a giant cat costume?”

You laughed—awkward and soft and not quite real. “Bad decisions. Mostly.”

Someone from the far side of the kitchen shouted, “Y’all, we’ve been tackled by a supermodel this whole time and didn’t even know?”

The teasing kept rolling.

“I swear, you danced better than half the squad.”

“You were better at interviews too, honestly. You had the drama down.”

“You did that backflip at the open house! I thought that was a stunt double!”

Compliments wrapped around you like confetti—bright, silly, kind.

But beneath all of it, something sharp pressed against your ribs.

Because not one person said, “Wait, weren’t you the intern too?” Not one, “You filmed that Barça documentary, right?” Not “Didn’t you do all the graphics during the Liga campaign?” Not even a faint, “Weren’t you the girl holding the mic at the tunnel?”

They didn’t remember that version of you.

The one who stayed late, edited their highlights, clipped their press quotes.

They remembered the cat. The chaos. The costume.

Not the person.

And you tried not to let it show, but your smile wavered. Just a little.

That’s when Mapi appeared beside you, like she felt the shift without needing to hear a word. Guilty was shown at her face.

She leaned in, voice low so only you could hear. “Hey. I’m sorry it’s just slipped” You looked at her. Didn’t trust yourself to speak.

Her smile faded—still warm, but quieter now. “You okay?”

You nodded, even though your throat was tight.

She didn’t push. Just stood there with you, shoulder to shoulder, holding space like it was second nature.

“They’re not trying to forget,” she said gently. “They just never knew where to look.”

Your eyes burned for a second too long. You blinked it away. And then—

You felt it.

That pull. That static in the air. The weight of someone’s gaze settling between your shoulder blades.

You turned.

And there she was.

Alexia.

Near the hallway, half-shadowed by a flickering string of fairy lights. Drink in hand. Still. Composed. And looking directly at you.

Your breath caught.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

Her expression didn’t change. Not much. But her eyes—they were quietly wrecked in a way that no one else would’ve noticed.

Just you.

Because you’d seen them soft before. Lit up with laughter, with trust. You’d felt her shoulder brush yours in a silent joke, watched her smile like it belonged only to the cat who couldn’t speak.

But now?

Now she didn’t smile.

She didn’t come closer.

She just looked at you.

And in that one look—without a single word exchanged—you felt the full weight of the distance she’d built between you.

Not cold. Not cruel.

Just… unreachable.

And then she blinked.

And looked away.

And left.

Like she hadn’t been staring at the version of you she couldn’t quite face.

You swallowed hard and turned back toward the crowd, where the laughter hadn’t stopped. Where the music kept pulsing like nothing had broken.

But something had.

Not publicly. Not loudly. Just… quietly. Inside your chest.

Mapi was still next to you. She didn’t say anything this time. Just placed a hand on your back and left it there.

Warm. Steady.

And you didn’t have to say a word for her to understand. You were grateful And you were hurting. At the same time.

You were cornered by the snack table, balancing a plastic cup and a half-full plate of chips, when Patri appeared beside you like she’d been summoned by the scent of your awkwardness.

She leaned a forearm on the counter, too casual to be casual, and looked you up and down with a grin that didn’t hide what it was.

“Didn’t recognize you without the fur,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.

You laughed, nervous but polite. “Yeah, I get that a lot tonight.”

“Right,” she said, eyes still on you. “It’s just… weird. You were funny as hell in the suit. And now you’re just…” She tilted her head, her grin sharp and easy. “Kind of stupidly cute. Unfair, really.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

She chuckled at your reaction. “Relax. I’m not trying to marry you. Just saying—if I’d known it was you under there, I’d have started flirting months ago.”

You smiled, the practiced kind. Friendly. Harmless.

“That’s sweet,” you said, trying not to sound like you were dodging it, even though you absolutely were.

Patri leaned a little closer. “Is it working?”

You laughed again, the sound light but distant. “You’re very charming.”

Once again, you felt it.

A gaze.

You didn’t have to look—you knew.

But you looked anyway.

Alexia stood by the far wall, pretending to be in a conversation that wasn’t holding her attention. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes weren’t.

They were on you. On Patri.

[cupofteatoyou]

Dreaming in Blaugrana

The first rule of being Cat Culer? Don’t break character.

No talking. No gestures that are “too human.” Be goofy, be silent, be the lovable cat that makes kids laugh and grown players roll their eyes—but in a fond way.

You were good at it. Almost too good.

What started as a fun, side gig to make some extra money during your internship had turned into something... more. Somehow, you’d given Cat Culer a personality—something between chaotic little sibling and emotional support animal. The fans loved it. The staff loved it.

And now, annoyingly, the players did too.

You weren’t just the mascot who danced during warm-ups and waved from the sidelines anymore. You were in it. Integrated. Like some strange, silent member of the squad who just happened to be covered in fur and couldn't speak.

Sometimes, the team would warm up around you. Vicky had started a ritual of kicking the ball at your feet to see how many times you could clumsily bounce it back before tripping over your tail. Aitana once tied a sweatband around your paw during a training session and told the staff you were “rehabbing an injury.” Even Patri tried to teach you the team handshake—painfully slowly, like she was working with a toddler.

But it was Mapi who first saw you as something more than a walking cat suit.

At first, she just teased you, like she did with everyone. She tossed her training bib over your head once and told you to “earn your spot.” She’d sneak behind you and tug your tail, then whistle innocently like she wasn’t the one who did it. Classic Mapi chaos.

But after a few weeks, the teasing turned into something more familiar. Something gentler.

She’d wave you over during breaks, gesture for you to sit beside her on the bench like it was normal. She started talking to you—not just playful jokes, but actual talking. About how training had gone. How she was tired of certain drills. How the new boots she got were “literally trying to kill her.”

You couldn’t respond, of course—not in words. But you’d nod, shrug, act things out when it felt right. You became her sounding board.

Some days, she brought an extra snack and just handed it to you without a word. A granola bar. A piece of fruit. Once, an entire slice of pizza smuggled in a napkin, handed off like contraband.

One quiet afternoon, she flopped down beside you on the grass after training, her curls still damp, and sighed. “You know,” she muttered, “you’re actually a decent listener.”

You mimed writing that down in a little notebook. She snorted.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

It started with a dare.

Something stupid—classic Mapi.

“Bet you can’t nutmeg me,” she challenged, already halfway into a pair of too-big goalie gloves she’d found in the locker room. The rest of the team had filtered out after training, and the sun had started dipping low, casting long gold shadows across the empty pitch.

You—still suited up as Cat Culer—pretended to crack your knuckles, gave her a dramatic nod, and stepped up to the ball.

Mapi widened her stance like she was guarding the Champions League final.

You tapped the ball forward, danced left, feinted right—and slipped it between her legs.

She let out an indignant squawk and spun around. “No. No way. That was illegal. There’s dark magic in that foam.”

You threw your paws up in celebration and did a full-body wiggle, which only made her groan louder.

“You are such a menace,” she said, laughing. “I swear, I don’t know how none of us have figured out who you are yet.”

You sit down on grass slowly, gave her a thumbs-up with one plush paw.

She walked over and plopped down beside you. “I’ve always wondered who’s behind that thing, you know. Like—do they hire a stunt double? Is it one of the interns?” Her eyes glinted, teasing.

You froze.

Mapi nudged your foam elbow with hers. “You gonna tell me or is this a lifelong secret kind of situation?”

There was a beat of silence. Then another.

And then—without letting yourself think about it too hard—you reached up, grabbed the mascot’s oversized head, and pulled it off in one slow, silent motion.

The air hit your face like a wave.

Mapi blinked. Her mouth parted in surprise, eyes scanning your features like she was making sure she was seeing right.

“No way,” she whispered. “You?”

You gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah. Surprise.”

For a second, she just stared. Then—suddenly—she burst out laughing.

“Holy shit,” she said, slapping her thigh. “You’ve been Cat Culer this whole time?!”

You nodded, heart pounding.

“You’re the intern! The one who helps with post edits and carries tripods like they’re sacred.”

“Guilty.”

Mapi grinned wide, shaking her head. “I can’t believe I’ve been emotionally bonding with the intern in a cat suit.”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “I didn’t mean for it to be a thing. It just kind of… became one.”

Her smile softened a bit. “Hey. Your secret’s safe with me, okay?”

You met her eyes—grateful, nervous, kind of dizzy. “Thanks.” You preferred it that way Because when the suit came off, you weren’t Cat Culer.

You were just… you.

The new girl.

Quiet. Polite. The one who held boom mics just out of frame, who adjusted camera angles in the rain, who edited clips at midnight so the club’s socials would be ready for the next day.

Technically, part of the media team—but more like the background noise of it. Your job was to capture the spotlight, not stand in it.

You’d shared maybe four conversations with Alexia outside the suit. And "conversations" was a generous word. They were more like transactions.

“Lighting’s too harsh.”

“Where do I stand?”

“Let me know when this is done.”

No eye contact. No small talk. Not even a nod.

She wasn’t mean. Just… clipped. Cold. Efficient. She said what she needed to say and moved on. You were just another staffer in black Barça gear with a badge around your neck and a checklist in your hand.

She didn’t know your name. Probably didn’t realize you had one.

You could’ve been swapped out for someone else the next day, and she wouldn’t notice.

And it hurt.

Even though it shouldn’t have.

You told yourself it was fine. She had other things to worry about—pressure, performance, expectations that never seemed to loosen. She didn’t owe you anything. She didn’t have time to smile at every intern fumbling with a tripod.

But still…

It was strange. Jarring, even.

Because when you were in the suit—when the fur was zipped up and your face was hidden and your voice silenced—that’s when she smiled. When she sought you out. When she saw you.

Not the person underneath. Not the girl with tired eyes and a half-eaten protein bar in her pocket. But the character. The mask.

Cat Culer was allowed into her world.

You weren’t.

And no matter how many times you told yourself it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t personal—

It still felt personal.

But in the suit?

She looked for you.

She laughed with you.

Like she didn’t even realize that just an hour earlier, she'd walked right past you—barely sparing a glance, barely recognizing you as a person, let alone the one she’d end up sitting beside in silence, sharing a moment that felt achingly close to something real.

Something you wanted to be real.

It was confusing. Unfair, even.

Because outside of the suit, you were no one.

Just the girl behind the lens. The one holding the mic.

The one taking up space but not attention.

You were used to being behind the scenes, but this? This was different.

She didn’t just ignore you. She didn’t see you.

Not until you stopped being you.

And yet you kept coming back.

Today was one of those rare, quiet afternoons—the kind where time slowed down just enough for your thoughts to catch up to you. No matches. No press. Just the sun low in the sky, spilling gold across the grass like it was painting over everything you couldn’t say out loud.

The stadium was mostly empty. A few distant voices. The echo of water running in the showers. The sharp, clean scent of freshly cut pitch.

You could’ve gone home. Everyone else had.

You should’ve.

Instead, you suited up.

You weren’t even sure when it had stopped being part of your job. When slipping into the oversized fur and foam had become something you needed. Maybe it was gradual. A slow shift you didn’t notice at first—how Cat Culer started feeling safer than your own skin.

When you wore the suit, no one judged.

No one asked questions.

You didn’t have to perform you, you just… performed.

And they loved you for it.

The players—especially Mapi—treated you like family. Even the staff smiled more. Fans waved, kids screamed your name. But most of all… she saw you.

Alexia.

In the suit, you were someone worth walking toward.

Someone worth talking to.

She would joke. Nudge you with her elbow. Give you that quiet little smile she rarely wore around anyone but teammates. A smile that felt rare, almost private. Like a gift.

And yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have let yourself read into it.

But how could you not?

When it felt like the only time she actually saw you was when you were hidden behind fur and mesh eyeholes?

The irony stung. That she connected with the version of you that wasn’t real—wasn’t even allowed to speak. That this—this character you created to survive the sidelines—was somehow more lovable than the real thing.

And still, you pulled the head over your face.

Still, you zipped it up.

Because the truth was…

It hurt less to be seen as a cartoon than to not be seen at all.

The suit was hot. Suffocating, even.

The kind of heat that stuck to your skin, that crawled down your spine and made every breath feel a little heavier. But you didn’t take it off.

You couldn’t.

Not yet.

You stayed near the edge of the pitch, wandering the sideline with your usual exaggerated movements—half warm-up, half act. Knees high, arms flopping in all the wrong ways, tail swaying with each bounce. The sort of routine that had become muscle memory now. Familiar. Safe.

It was stupid, probably. No one was watching. No cameras. No kids. No coaches.

Just the empty stadium stretching around you, golden light pouring in from the last slant of the sun, and a silence so thick it felt like it could swallow you whole.

And then—

“You know you’re not on the clock, right?”

You turned so fast your oversized feet nearly tripped over themselves.

Alexia stood by the railing, one arm resting casually against the metal, the other folded across her chest. She was still in her Barça training gear, hair damp from a quick shower, the tips of it curling slightly as they clung to the sides of her face. Her expression was unreadable—half teasing, half tired. But she was smiling.

At you.

At Cat Culer.

Not the girl inside.

You gave a familiar shrug—shoulders high, paws out, head tilted dramatically to the side like a guilty cartoon.

She let out a quiet laugh. Just one breath. Soft, but real.

“You just like the attention, don’t you?” she said, stepping down from the railing and walking toward the bench behind you. “Can’t go one day without being a menace.”

You placed a paw to your chest in mock offense, shaking your head like how dare you?

Another breath of laughter, and she sank down onto the bench with a heavy sigh, legs spread, elbows resting on her knees. The kind of posture that said I’m done for the day. That she didn’t have to be Captain Putellas right now. Not here. Not with you.

It wasn’t the first time she’d sat near you like this.

But it never failed to catch you off guard.

Slowly, cautiously, you lowered yourself beside her. The fur brushed her sleeve for just a second. Your heart skipped.

Alexia was quiet. Just breathing. Letting the air fill in the spaces between the words she wasn’t ready to say. Then finally, voice low: “I think my legs are turning against me.”

You made a small stretching motion, cartoonishly showing off your ‘injured’ legs in solidarity. She smiled without looking at you.

“I’ve done, like, eight interviews this week,” she muttered. “They ask the same stuff every time. Like they want me to say something groundbreaking, but only if it sounds good in a headline.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

That was the thing about the suit. You couldn’t speak. So you listened. You heard people in ways you never could outside of it.

She sighed again, voice softer now. “I think I’m just tired of being who everyone expects me to be.”

That line hit you straight in the chest. Deeper than anything else she’d said.

Because you knew that feeling.

More than you wanted to admit.

“I’m the captain. The face of the team. I can’t mess up. Can’t be off. Can’t even be quiet for too long without someone thinking something’s wrong.”

She turned her head slightly, eyes on the pitch, but her voice was directed toward you. “But you… You don’t care about any of that, do you?”

You slowly shook your head.

Not in judgment. Not in pity. Just… listening.

“It’s nice,” she murmured. “Being around someone who doesn’t expect anything.”

She paused.

Then: “I talk to you more than I talk to half the staff.”

You went still.

There it was. The part that always hurt.

You were part of the staff. She’d walked right past you hours ago, when you were setting up lights for post-training interviews. She’d looked through you like you didn’t exist. Like your presence didn’t matter.

But now? In this suit? You were someone she opened up to. Someone she could breathe around.

And you couldn’t say a single word back.

You lifted your paw and gently bumped it against her shoulder. Just once. A plush, silly gesture. A peace offering. A silent I’m here.

She looked over, and for the briefest moment, her face softened. Not the public smile she wore for cameras. Not the polite mask she used in interviews.

Something smaller. Warmer.

“You’re not so bad, gato.”

You wanted to tell her it was you.

That you weren’t just this suit. That you were listening.

That you saw her, even when she didn’t see you.

But the words stayed trapped inside the costume.

And your silence made it easier for her to keep pretending.

She stood with a quiet grunt, brushing imaginary dust from her sweats.

“See you around,” she said. Then paused.

Added, more gently:

“Don’t work too hard.”

And then she walked off. Just like that.

Leaving you on the bench, still in the suit, paws resting in your lap, body aching from the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

The stadium was quiet again. Empty. Still.

She didn’t know you.

Not really.

But for a moment—for that moment—she saw something in you.

Even if it wasn’t the version you wished it had been.

It was getting harder. Harder to keep track of which version of yourself people were talking to. Harder to separate the suit from the skin underneath. Harder to pretend it didn’t sting when Alexia smiled at Cat Culer like an old friend… and barely nodded at you the next morning in the media room.

You were crouched low behind the training cam—hoodie up, fingers adjusting the focus, keeping quiet like always. You liked the quiet. You had to. It was easy to disappear when no one was looking for you.

Alexia passed behind you. You felt her presence before she even spoke.

“Camera’s in the way,” she said.

Not cold. Not cruel. Just… indifferent.

Like she was speaking to a wall. Or a chair. Or another piece of equipment she didn’t know by name.

You muttered, “Sorry,” and scooted out of the way.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t glance down. Didn’t realize you were the same person she’d sat with on the bench yesterday, shoulder to foam shoulder, sharing pieces of herself like secrets whispered into the night.

You watched her walk off, and something hollow settled in your chest.

It wasn’t her fault. Not really. You weren’t someone she was supposed to notice.

You weren’t a teammate. Or a coach. Or anyone with enough authority to be worth remembering.

You were just… staff.

One of dozens of faces tucked into the background of her world. The quiet girl behind the lens. The one who clipped post-match quotes and adjusted microphones and sent edited reels for approval before most people had even finished their breakfast.

You were the one who waited in tunnels for interviews to wrap, who carried backup batteries in your pockets and held Cat Culer’s oversized head in your lap during travel so it wouldn’t get crushed under gear bags.

You did your job. You blended in.

You shifted back behind the camera, hit record, and told yourself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Because you remembered every moment. Every soft glance. Every laugh.

Even if she didn’t know they’d ever been yours.

And every day, it got harder to pretend that being half-seen was enough.

But later that afternoon, suited up and pacing the tunnel outside the pitch, tail swaying in loose, idle arcs behind you, you felt her before you saw her.

It was always like that with Alexia.

A shift in the air. A weight in the silence. Like her presence had its own gravity, and you couldn’t help but be pulled toward it.

“Guess who’s early today?” came her voice from the tunnel entrance—low, teasing, touched with something lighter than you ever heard when she talked to media or press.

You turned, paws to your chest like who, me?

Alexia grinned, and you felt it hit you square in the ribs.

“I knew it,” she said, stepping closer, arms crossed over her chest in that relaxed, effortless way that made her look like she belonged to the moment. Not the captain. Not the face of a franchise. Just... a woman with tired eyes and a crooked smile.

Her tone with you was different here. Softer. Unpolished.

Not the rehearsed charisma she pulled out for interviews. Not the carefully edited warmth of someone used to being seen from behind a lens.

Just real.

She leaned her shoulder into the wall beside you like it was habit now—like finding you here was part of her routine. Like you were her routine.

“You’ve got good timing,” she said, tilting her head slightly toward the field. “Mapi and Patri are already out there arguing over who gets to play with you first. Pretty sure Patri has a full game plan. Tactics and everything.”

You let out an exaggerated shiver, paws flailing in mock fear, and Alexia laughed—really laughed.

And something in your chest cracked open just a little more.

“I swear,” she said through a breath, shaking her head, “you’ve got everyone wrapped around your paw.”

She paused.

Then added, offhand—but too easily:

“Even me.”

Your whole body went still.

Even me.

You knew it was just a phrase. A playful throwaway. Something she didn’t even think about.

But you felt it anyway. Like it had weight. Like it had meaning.

And worse—you wanted it to.

You lifted your plush thumb in a slow, shy thumbs-up, and she rolled her eyes in that familiar, fond way. But there was something behind it. A softness that didn’t exist anywhere else. Not with the press. Not with the fans.

Just here. Just with you.

She nudged your foam shoulder with hers—gentle, warm. Nothing anyone else would notice. But to you? It was enough to make your knees weak inside the suit.

And you hated how much you wanted to lean into it.

How much you wished you could stay in this stupid costume just to stay in her orbit a little longer.

Eventually, the rest of the players filtered onto the field in waves—half-laced boots, tangled ponytails, loose energy from a long day and not enough sleep. The air buzzed with lazy chaos.

You stepped out with them, tail bouncing, paws waving, and instantly Mapi was on you—trying to toss a training bib over your head, shouting “Get over here, ratón!” while you ducked and scrambled and flailed dramatically in slow-motion.

The girls were in stitches. Patri egged her on. Ingrid filmed the whole thing. Someone tossed you a cone like a weapon and you wielded it like a sword.

But through it all—every dance, every ridiculous skit, every exaggerated pratfall—you felt her watching.

Alexia.

Not hovering. Not orchestrating.

Just… present. Just there.

You heard her laugh when you tackled Mapi and held her down in victory. Heard her whistle when you attempted the latest TikTok dance and butchered it in the best way.

You didn’t have to look to know her eyes were on you. You could feel it.

And then the cameras arrived.

Lights. Lenses. Boom mics and branded windbreakers. They swarmed like a reminder that this was still a job, still a performance.

But when Alexia leaned in—quietly, casually, just loud enough for the crew to hear—it didn’t feel like performance at all.

“You’re the real star of this team, huh?” she whispered near your foam ear, voice low and laced with a grin.

You froze for half a second.

Then nodded.

What else could you do?

You were sweating inside the suit. Your heart was a thunderstorm.

But on the outside, you were calm. Cute. Carefree.

You were the mascot she liked.

Not the girl she didn’t see.

Later that night, long after the stadium had emptied and the echo of cleats had faded into memory, you sat curled up in the dim glow of the media office. The only sound was the quiet whir of the desktop fan and the occasional click of your mouse as you scrubbed through hours of footage.

Your hair was still damp from the world’s fastest shower, the scent of hotel soap clinging faintly to your oversized hoodie. Your knees were pulled tight to your chest in the rolling chair, ankles crossed, fingers moving on muscle memory. The kind of work you could do half-asleep.

But you weren’t asleep. Not even close.

You were too focused on the screen—on every frame where Cat Culer bounced through training, taunting teammates and soaking in the chaos. You zoomed in. Watched it again. Slowed it down.

Alexia, in the background.

Her eyes.

Tracking the mascot.

Not once. Not twice. Over and over.

Lingering in shots she didn’t need to be in. Smiling at moments no one else caught. Laughing, just slightly, even when the camera wasn’t on her.

You paused the clip.

Frame by frame, you scrolled to the moment her gaze landed right where yours would’ve been—if she’d only known who she was really looking at.

It wasn’t in your head.

It wasn’t.

She saw you.

Just not… you.

A quiet knock against the doorframe jolted you from your spiral.

“Yo,” came a familiar voice.

You blinked, turned, and found Mapi lounging casually in the doorway. She looked like she’d just finished a shower herself—hair damp, socks mismatched, water bottle tucked under one arm and a bag of off-brand chips in the other.

She gave you a once-over, like she was evaluating your life choices. “You’re always here. Don’t you ever sleep?”

You tugged your hoodie down over your knees, suddenly aware of how small you looked in the chair. “Deadlines,” you mumbled.

Mapi made a noncommittal sound and strolled in, dropping into the seat beside you without asking. She peered at the monitor. “You were on fire today. The kids are gonna eat this up when it goes live.”

You blinked. “You mean… Cat Culer?”

She raised an eyebrow, giving you a sideways glance like don’t play dumb.

“Obviously.”

You let out a soft laugh, but it didn’t sit right in your throat. There was something about the way she was looking at you now—curious, amused, but… sharper than before.

You felt your smile slip. “What?”

Mapi tilted her head, eyes narrowed slightly. “Nothing,” she said slowly. “Just... you and the gato. Same height. Same build. Same—how do I put this nicely—chaotic little limbs? I am suprised I didn’t realized it before or others… you are really good at hiding ”

Your heart tripped over itself.

She tapped a chip to her bottom lip thoughtfully. “You’re not, like... secretly training for Cirque du Soleil, are you?”

You shook your head too fast. “No. I mean—I just—”

Careful.

Mapi snorted. “Relax, I’m joking. Kind of.”

Your eyes darted back to the screen, needing somewhere to hide. Alexia’s face was frozen mid-laugh, body tilted toward the mascot, eyes soft in a way that made your throat go dry.

Mapi followed your gaze. Her voice dropped, just a little. “You know… she likes her.”

Your hands stilled on the keyboard. “Who?”

She gave you a look. “The gato.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “She likes the mascot?” you said, hoping that maybe answer of that question would make it sting less.

“Yeah,” Mapi said with a shrug. “More than she likes most people.”

She said it so easily. Like it was no big deal.

But it was.

Because it meant Alexia had made room in her heart for something that wasn’t you.

It meant the warmth wasn’t meant for your name, or your face, or the real version of yourself sitting here, half-curled in an office chair with tired eyes and raw nerves.

She liked the suit.

She liked the part of you you could never keep forever.

You stared at the screen again, at the still image of her laughter, frozen in time. So close. So far away.

“That's something,” Mapi had said.

It was.

And it wasn’t.

Because you knew how this story usually went.

You were the invisible girl. The one behind the mask.

The one who stayed after the lights went out, cleaning up the pieces of other people’s moments.

It was an off-day for media staff—no filming assignments, no urgent emails, no TikTok drafts or caption rewrites waiting in the queue. The team had a closed training session, no press allowed, just players and coaches and the hum of routine.

By all accounts, you should’ve stayed in bed. Slept in. Breathed.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you were there before most of the players, slinking in through the side entrance with your staff pass tucked inside your hoodie, like even that was too bold. You walked slowly, deliberately, as if convincing yourself that every step was justified. As if the weight of the camera slung across your shoulder was reason enough.

Maybe it was habit.

Maybe it was something lonelier than that.

Because staying home meant silence. Meant stillness. Meant your mind running laps around itself with nowhere to go—loops of what-ifs and what-are-you-even-doing and she-laughed-at-you-yesterday-but-was-it-real?

So you came here instead.

You didn’t suit up. The costume was still in the staff locker room, tucked into its usual oversized duffel bag like some sleeping beast. Today, you couldn’t bring yourself to put it on. Not yet. Not until you figured out why you needed it so badly.

Instead, you lingered at the edge of the pitch, hugging your hoodie tighter around yourself as you fiddled with the camera. Checking battery levels that didn’t need checking. Adjusting light exposure even though the sun hadn’t moved. You acted like you were preparing to shoot something, like you were gathering B-roll for a nonexistent project.

Truth was, you didn’t know what you were doing.

You just… couldn’t not be there.

The players began arriving in pairs and small clusters, loose and sleepy from the early hour, their voices carrying in bursts of Spanish and Catalan. Some waved. Some nodded. Most didn’t notice you at all. You blended in like always—part of the furniture. A blur behind the lens.

Then she walked in.

Alexia.

Even from across the field, she changed the air. It was subtle, but undeniable. Her stride was confident, loose hoodie tied around her waist, hair scraped back in that way that made her look effortlessly in control. People shifted as she passed. Some greeted her. Some didn’t dare. But all of them noticed.

You watched from your corner, not daring to lift your camera, not even pretending now.

You told yourself it was curiosity. Professional habit. A media reflex.

But really, it was gravity.

She had it. That quiet pull. That way of moving like she belonged to the space and the space belonged to her.

You told yourself not to stare. Not to expect anything.

Still, you searched her face from afar—looking for a trace of recognition, some hint of softness she only ever gave the mascot.

But her expression was unreadable. Focused. Her eyes scanned the field, the layout, the drills—not you.

She never looked in your direction. Not once.

And that should’ve been okay.

You weren’t her teammate. You weren’t her friend. You weren’t anyone.

But the silence where her smile used to be?

It echoed.

You adjusted the lens on your camera—though it didn’t need adjusting—just to give your hands something to do. Just to remind yourself you were real. Even if she didn’t see it.

Especially because she didn’t see it.

And maybe it would’ve been easier if she had never laughed with you.

Never leaned into your shoulder.

Never whispered, “Even me.”

But she had.

And now every glance that didn’t come your way hurt more than it should.

Because she saw the suit.

Not you.

Not yet.

Maybe then it wouldn’t have mattered that she didn’t look at you today.

But she had. And it did.

You busied yourself filming Mapi and Ingrid warming up—banter, light jabs, the usual chaos. It was easier to focus through the lens. The viewfinder gave you distance, let you pretend. Through it, everything had edges. Framing. Control.

You could hide behind autofocus and ISO settings and pretend the gnawing in your chest wasn’t real.

Mapi was spinning a ball on her finger while Ingrid shouted something half-sarcastic in Norwegian when you caught movement from the corner of your eye.

Mapi jogged over.

You dropped the camera slightly, instinctively straightening up like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

She squinted at you under the morning sun, sweat dampening the edge of her hairline. Her tone was quieter than usual. Gentler. “You good?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… needed some extra footage. B-roll. Might use it for the mini-doc.”

Mapi didn’t buy it.

Didn’t even pretend to. She crossed her arms, hip cocked slightly. “You’re filming warmups on a closed training day. You didn’t even tell Carla you were coming in.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Just wanted to be useful.”

Mapi gave you a long look. The kind that peeled back your layers even when you weren’t ready. She tilted her head slightly, lowering her voice. “You know you don’t have to put on the suit every time you want to be seen.”

That hit harder than you expected.

You let out a half-laugh—dry, automatic. “I’m not trying to be seen.”

She raised a brow, unimpressed. “Then why do you look like someone kicked your dog?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You blinked too fast and looked back down at your camera, adjusting your grip like that was the problem. Like if you just focused hard enough, everything else might fade.

Mapi didn’t press. But she stayed close, silent for a beat longer than usual. Then, without warning, she gently bumped her elbow into yours.

“For what it’s worth…” she murmured, “I think she’s starting to notice.”

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

Mapi didn’t look at you. She tilted her chin toward the field instead, voice low, unreadable. “Look.”

Your eyes followed the motion.

There, just past the midfield line, stood Alexia. Hands on her hips. Posture loose but alert. Her gaze drifted across the field—casual, scanning—but when it passed over you… it paused.

She looked once.

Then again.

Slower this time.

Like she was trying to place something. Like she didn’t quite understand why she was looking at you at all—but couldn’t help it.

Your pulse stuttered.

Mapi didn’t say anything, but you felt her watching you carefully. Not with judgment—just that quiet, unnerving perceptiveness she slipped into when she thought people were hurting.

“She doesn’t know it’s you,” Mapi said finally, voice low. “But something in her does. You’re not as invisible as you think.”

You swallowed hard.

Didn’t answer.

Because if you did, you weren’t sure what would come out.

Later that afternoon, you suited up.

You told yourself it was for content. Just a few silly videos to keep engagement up. Something harmless for the socials—Cat Culer doing crossbars or mimicking warmups or being chased by Mapi again.

But deep down, you knew.

You did it because you missed the way Alexia looked at you when she thought you were someone else.

Because the ache of being ignored that morning hadn’t gone away. And this? This was the only version of yourself she saw.

The moment your paws hit the edge of the pitch, the atmosphere shifted.

Patri lit up and waved like you were a long-lost sibling. Ingrid shouted something loud and impossible to decipher, but her grin said enough. Mapi didn’t even hide her smirk—just threw you a lazy salute and mouthed, “Showtime.”

And then there was Alexia.

She turned as if pulled by instinct. As if she’d felt you before she even saw you.

And she smiled.

It wasn’t wide or showy—barely even noticeable if you weren’t looking. But you were always looking.

It was a smile that reached the corners of her eyes. That softened her whole face. That made your stomach twist.

She walked over like she always did now, no hesitation, no curiosity. Like you were already part of her routine.

“You’re late,” she said, arms crossed, eyes bright with quiet amusement. “We had a whole debate earlier. Mapi swears you dance better than half the team. I told her she’s dramatic. Don’t make me look bad.”

You covered your face with your paws and gave a sheepish head shake—me? never.

Alexia snorted. “Coward.”

So you gave her a tiny shimmy. Just enough to get a laugh. Foam hips swaying in exaggerated rhythm.

It worked.

Her laugh was instant—unfiltered and real—and it tore something open inside you.

Because it wasn’t a laugh she gave to the cameras. Or to reporters. It was the kind she gave when she forgot to guard herself. The kind you’d never heard outside the suit.

You couldn’t help it. You leaned into her, just slightly.

She bumped her shoulder against your padded one without missing a beat. The same way she always did. It felt like a secret ritual now. A quiet way of saying you’re here.

Then—quietly—“You’ve been weird lately.”

You stilled.

Her tone wasn’t suspicious, exactly. Just… observant.

“Not bad weird,” she added quickly, glancing toward the field. “Just different. Like you’re… distracted.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held your stupid foam paws in front of you and tried not to panic.

“Don’t know what it is,” she said, quieter now, almost to herself. “Just feels like something’s shifted.”

Your breath caught.

She was noticing. Maybe not enough to connect the dots. But enough to feel it. Enough to sense that something wasn’t adding up.

You raised one paw and tapped your chest, then pointed at her—You know me, the motion said, you already do.

Alexia looked at you, really looked. Her eyes lingered like they were searching for a crack in the surface. A tell. Something to anchor what she was feeling.

She gave you a crooked smile. The kind that felt too intimate. Too knowing.

“Yeah. Maybe I do.”

Your heart stuttered.

Because maybe she did.

And maybe she didn’t.

But whatever this was—it was slipping past the boundaries you’d built. She was reaching into something you weren’t sure you could keep hidden much longer.

And the longer you wore the mask, the more it started to feel like it was the real you.

Or worse—like it was the only version she wanted.

That night, long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and most of the players had filtered out with echoes of laughter and slamming lockers, you stayed behind.

You told yourself it was to finish uploading footage, to organize the next day’s social queue, to label files and adjust sound levels.

But really—you were hiding.

Your back ached from hours of crouching. Your hands still trembled, your whole body buzzing from the heat and adrenaline that clung even after the mascot head came off.

It sat on the desk now—Cat Culer. Big foam smile. Empty eyes. Watching you.

Mocking you.

You stared back at it like it had betrayed you.

Because in a way, it had.

She’d fallen for someone who wasn’t real. Not entirely. Not fully. And the terrifying part wasn’t that she might find out.

It was that maybe she never would.

The door creaked open.

You froze.

Footsteps. Light. Familiar.

Then a voice—casual, distracted. “Sorry—forgot my charger.”

Your stomach dropped.

You turned just as Alexia stepped into the room.

She paused instantly.

Eyes on the suit first—still clinging to your body, tail and torso intact—then slowly lifting to the mascot head on the table. And finally… your face.

Your real face.

Exposed.

Still flushed. Still damp from the heat.

The room shifted. The silence tightened.

Her brows pulled together, confusion flickering behind her eyes. She opened her mouth like she might say something—then stopped.

Her expression flattened. Neutral. Guarded.

“I, uh…” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the locker behind you, though she didn’t move to grab anything. “I didn’t know you were…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t have to.

The air between you was full of everything she didn’t say.

You wanted to speak. To explain. To apologize. To do something rather than nothing. But nothing made it past your lips.

She lingered there for one breath. Then another.

And finally, her voice low and distant, she said, “I gotta go.”

She turned before you could answer. Before you could stop her.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And just like that, the silence returned.

The only sound left was your own breath, shallow and uneven, echoing back at you through the empty grin of the mascot head beside you.

[cupofteatoyou]

What if she chose me -pt2

You’re not sure what wakes you first—the faint golden light slipping through the curtains or the weight draped heavily across your legs.

You blink blearily at the ceiling, your head pounding just enough to regret every shot Mapi cheered you into. The hoodie you slept in has twisted halfway around your torso, your mouth is dry, and you're pretty sure your left sock is missing.

And then you feel it.

An arm, definitely not yours, tightening around your waist.

You glance down.

Mapi is wrapped around you like a very clingy, slightly snoring octopus. One leg thrown over yours, her face smooshed against your shoulder, one hand tucked under your hoodie like she's trying to absorb your body heat through osmosis.

You try to move.

She groans softly and immediately tightens her hold, nuzzling closer with a dramatic sigh. “No,” she mumbles into your collarbone. “You live here now. You’re mine.”

You blink. “Mapi…”

“Shh.”

“We have training in three hours.”

“Shhhh.”

You try again, gently tapping her back. “I need water.”

“You need love.”

“I need Advil.”

“You need cuddles.”

You’re almost laughing now, your body sore and your brain foggy but your heart a little lighter than it’s been in weeks. “Do you do this with everyone?”

“No,” she murmurs. “Only my special Norwegian daughter.”

“Mapi,” Ingrid calls from somewhere down the hall, her voice calm but edged with suspicion, like a mother who knows her child is up to something.

You barely manage to lift your head off the pillow. “Do I… say something?”

“No,” Mapi whispers against your neck. “If we’re very still, she won’t see us.”

“Ingrid’s not a T-Rex,” you hiss, trying not to laugh.

But it’s too late.

Footsteps approach. Then a pause.

Then—

“María Pilar León Cebrián”

Mapi freezes.

You glance toward the doorway just in time to see Ingrid appear, dressed in a sleek black training hoodie, one eyebrow raised, arms crossed, and somehow looking extremely unimpressed for someone whose girlfriend is currently wrapped around a semi-conscious defender like a human blanket.

“What did I say?” she asks.

Mapi lifts her head just slightly, eyes still closed. “That I should wake her gently.”

“Gently doesn’t mean ‘kidnap her and emotionally imprint like a baby duck,’” Ingrid deadpans.

Mapi doesn’t move. “She needed comfort.”

“She needed electrolytes.”

“She needed love.”

“She needs pants.”

You look down. Mapi’s hoodie is still hanging off your frame, and your sweatpants have somehow twisted halfway down one hip. You groan and cover your face with your hand. “This is the weirdest hostage situation I’ve ever been in.”

Ingrid walks over, crouches down, and rests a hand on Mapi’s back. “Bebita, I love you, but if you don’t let her up, she’s going to miss breakfast, hydration, and the last ounce of her will to live.”

Mapi lifts her head with a groan, hair a wild halo around her face. “Fine,” she mutters, rolling off you with the grace of a very hungover barn cat. “But I want it on record that I’m being emotionally evicted.”

“You can re-cuddle her after she’s conscious and fed,” Ingrid says, standing up and offering you a hand.

You take it, stumbling to your feet, still wobbly but grateful.

“Coffee?” Ingrid offers, ever the anchor.

“God, yes,” you whisper.

From the couch, Mapi’s muffled voice groans, “I want one too—extra love, extra sugar, and someone please tell my calves to stop screaming.”

“You did a cartwheel in platform boots,” Ingrid reminds her.

“A queen must suffer for her art.”

You and Ingrid exchange a look.

Then laughter.

You follow Ingrid into the kitchen, the quiet shuffle of your socks on the tile somehow sounding louder in the early-morning hush. The place is sun-drenched now, soft golden light pooling through the windows, casting long lines across the counter cluttered with the aftermath of last night—empty bottles, half a lime, one rogue glittery boot.

Ingrid moves like she’s done this a hundred times. Which, honestly, she probably has. She goes straight to the counter and starts fiddling with the French press like it’s a second language.

You hover awkwardly for a second.

Then—

“Sit,” she says gently, without looking up. “You look like a baby deer that got hit by a karaoke machine.”

You half-chuckle, dragging yourself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Feel like it too.”

She finishes pouring and slides a mug across the counter toward you with both hands—like it’s sacred.

“Anchor,” she says, simply.

You lift the mug with both hands and take a sip.

“God, yes,” you whisper, eyes closing as the warmth spreads through your chest.

She turns back to the stove without fanfare and grabs a pan with practiced ease. Cracks eggs with one hand. Tosses bread into the toaster. She moves through it all without speaking, but somehow, it’s not awkward—it’s kind. Like she knows what people need without having to ask.

You sit with the coffee pressed to your lips and just breathe for a minute.

“Toast or no toast?” she asks.

“Toast,” you say. “If it’s not cursed.”

“No promises,” she says, but her tone’s warm.

A few minutes later, she sets a plate in front of you. Eggs. Toast. A few slices of avocado arranged into something vaguely artistic.

You blink. “Did you just… food-style my breakfast?”

She shrugs, leaning on the counter across from you, sipping her own coffee. “If we’re gonna suffer, we might as well suffer like people with taste.”

Mapi groans again from the other room. “Did someone say toast?!”

“No one said toast,” Ingrid calls back. “Go back to pretending you’re dead.”

“I’m not pretending,” Mapi says loud enough to be heard . “I’m haunting.”

You smirk into your coffee, cutting into your toast with the edge of your fork. “At least haunt something useful. Like my quads. They’re still trying to evacuate my body.”

“Can’t help you,” she groans from her cushion-grave. “The afterlife doesn’t include cardio.”

Ingrid, who’s been moving through the kitchen like it’s a calm storm only she knows how to navigate, rolls her eyes—though a soft smile’s tugging at the corner of her mouth. She finishes her toast, wipes her hands on a dish towel, and throws a glance toward the oven clock.

“We’ve got just under two hours,” she says. “Plenty of time before we need to leave.”

“For what?” you ask, suspicious.

“Shower. Rest. Hydrate. Mentally prepare for war.”

Mapi lets out the world’s most dramatic sigh as she enters kitchen “I choose to rest in pieces.”

You grin around your mug. “You’re so annoying in the morning.”

“She’s annoying at every hour,” Ingrid says, reaching toward chair to grab a clean towel which u just noticed. She tosses it to you without missing a beat. “Here. Go shower before you start smelling like Mapi.”

“I smell like adventure and bad decisions,” Mapi croaks, still standing in kitchen entrance..

You take the towel gratefully and start heading toward the hallway, then pause—glancing down at the hoodie and sweatpants you're still wearing. The same ones from last night. The only ones you own here.

You head back in kitchen “Uh… problem.”

Ingrid raises a brow. “What kind of problem?”

“I didn’t bring anything to change into,” you say. “I wasn’t exactly planning to get… emotionally adopted mid-party.”

“You’re lucky I’m tall,” Mapi whines.

You raise an eyebrow, glancing at Ingrid. “Wait, how tall is she actually?”

Ingrid smirks“Officially? Five-five.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“She insists it’s five-six on a good day.”

“That day doesn’t exist.”

Ingrid snorts . “The woman wears platform boots to stretch into average height.”

“This is slander. I am perfectly average-sized.”

“You’re average-sized if the average is a feral gremlin with glitter in her hair,” you call over your shoulder.

“I am a petite force of nature,” Mapi yells. “Respect the brand!”

You look at Ingrid, deadpan. “You Should start keeping a stepstool in the locker room”

“She already has one,” Ingrid says, stone-faced. “She just tells everyone it’s a ‘meditation platform.’”

You wheeze. “I’m going to get hit with a hairbrush.”

“Worth it.”

Mapi, who is now back on coach,lets out a high-pitched “I heard that!”

Ingrid returns with a Barça training top and a pair of sleek black shorts. Both clearly too big for her—clearly meant for someone else—but they’re clean, folded, and smell faintly of her eucalyptus laundry detergent.

She hands them to you with a small smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll look better in it than I do.”

You hesitate, something warm blooming in your chest. “You sure?”

She nods once. “It’s yours until laundry day.”

“Thanks,” you say, a little softer than you meant to.

Mapi makes a fake gagging sound from the couch. “This is gross. Stop being wholesome. I haven’t had enough caffeine to feel my feelings yet.”

You flip her off as you pass the living room, towel and borrowed clothes in hand. “I’m showering. Try not to die until I get back.”

“No promises,” she calls after you.

You shut the bathroom door behind you, press your back to it, and exhale.

The quiet hits you like steam before the water even starts running. You twist the knob and wait as heat fogs the mirror, the air growing thick and warm. You strip off yesterday’s sweat and spilled tequila, stepping under the stream with a hiss of relief.

Hot water. A clean shirt. A moment to just… exist.

No pressure. No eyes watching.

Just you. Here.

Breathing.

Alive.

You scrub your face. Run your fingers through your hair. Let yourself lean into the tile, forehead pressed against the wall as water runs down your spine.

The ride to Ciutat Esportiva is short, but your nerves stretch it longer.

Mapi’s leaned dramatically against the window beside you, sunglasses still on like she’s allergic to the sun and accountability.

“Reminder,” she mutters without opening her eyes, “if I collapse during warmups, avenge me.”

Ingrid sighs. “If you collapse, I’m dragging your body to the physio room and pretending I don’t know you.”

The locker room is mostly quiet when the three of you step inside.

The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead, the air still fresh and cool, untouched by the whirlwind it’ll become in twenty minutes when the rest of the team arrives. For now, it feels like a brief pocket of peace—or at least, the kind where only Mapi is talking.

She walks in like she owns the place. Hood still up, steps dramatic, one boot slightly untied.

“If I die on the pitch today,” she says once again, tossing her duffel into the open cubby beside Ingrid’s, “bury me in glitter and dramatic lighting.”

“You’re not dying,” Ingrid replies, already opening her locker and starting to pull out her boots. “You’re stretching. Dramatically.”

“Same thing,” Mapi mutters. “My hamstrings are writing their will as we speak.”

You trail behind them, bag slung over your shoulder, still dressed in Ingrid’s Barça top and borrowed shorts. You find your assigned cubby again—tucked a few down from Ingrid’s, a bit separate from the noise that’s yet to arrive—and settle onto the bench slowly.

Your body aches in a familiar, almost reassuring way. Legs heavy from yesterday’s drills. Shoulders tight. A dull throb along your calves from the half-chaotic dancing at Vicky’s place and the full-speed pressing drills before that.

“You okay?” Ingrid’s voice cuts in, quieter now. She’s crouched down, lacing her boots with easy precision, eyes flicking to you once without pressure.

You nod, managing a faint smile. “Yeah. Just… first full day nerves.”

Ingrid nods once. “Good. That means you care.”

“She cares too much,” Mapi calls from across the bench, flopping dramatically onto her side like she’s posing for a magazine called Tactical Cramp.

“She was rehearsing defensive rotations in her sleep.”

Your mouth drops open. “You don’t even sleep in the same room.”

“I heard it through the wall.”

“That’s because you scream-snore,” Ingrid adds casually.

Mapi points at both of you without sitting up. “This is slander, and I will be pressing charges. Emotionally.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you start peeling off your hoodie. It’s warm in here now, the kind of close, heavy locker room warmth that settles in before movement begins.

Ingrid’s already finished changing. She tosses you one of her extra water bottles and moves toward the mirror to tie up her hair, her reflection calm and unreadable.

Mapi, still halfway horizontal, props her chin up in her hand and eyes you.

“You seriously ready for this?” she asks. Not teasing. Just… curious.

You pause, bottle half-open.

“Not really,” you admit. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

Mapi grins. “That’s the spirit.”

She finally sits up—slowly, painfully, like her joints are filing a complaint—and slaps a hand onto your shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “If you mess up, I’ll yell louder than the coaches so no one notices.”

“She will,” Ingrid confirms from the mirror. “Unfortunately.”

Then—

A sharp gasp.

You turn just in time to see Mapi freeze mid-sock, one knee on the bench like she’s mid-proposal. She’s staring at you like you just descended from Mount Olympus holding a football in one hand and vengeance in the other.

“Okay,” she announces, dramatically loud. “WHAT is your body made of?”

You blink. “I—what?”

She steps closer like she’s inspecting a crime scene. “you were all hoodie and mystery all this time. Now? You’ve got arms.You’ve got back. You’ve got architecture.”

From her locker, Ingrid sighs. “Mapi…”

“No, no,” Mapi cuts her off, gesturing wildly. “Look at her! This isn’t a footballer’s body. This is a Marvel phase-four stunt double. This is ‘I bench press defenders for fun.’”

You’re about to laugh—and then the door to the locker room swings open with a sudden clang.

Vicky strides in, mid-sentence, something half-spoken on her lips—until she sees you.

And she stops. Dead.

The door thuds shut behind her as she takes in the scene: you standing there in the snug training kit, mid-change, and Mapi gesturing like she’s conducting an orchestra.

Vicky’s eyebrows lift slowly, her expression flickering through at least three stages: surprise, appreciation, and then something more playful.

“Well, damn,” she says. “Good morning, Noruega.”

Mapi throws her hands in the air. “RIGHT?! Finally, someone gets it!”

Vicky doesn’t even look away from you. “I mean, I knew you were hiding something under that hoodie, but this is—”

“Objectification,” you mutter, fighting a smile.

“Admiration,” Vicky corrects. “Also, who let you walk around looking like a Nike campaign? We’re trying to focus here.”

And just as you’re about to fire back—

The door opens again.

This time slower. More footsteps.

You glance up just in time to see Alexia walk in—shoulders stiff, jaw tight, expression unreadable—and just behind her, trailing a few paces back, is Jana.

Your heart drops half a beat before you catch it.

Jana’s eyes flick over the room once, sharp and assessing. Her gaze lands on you for a single beat too long, her lips pressed into a line. And then—just as quickly—she looks away.

Alexia, meanwhile, doesn’t say a word. But the way she looks at Jana, then at Vicky, then briefly at you? It’s not nothing.

It’s tension. Coiled, quiet, dangerous.

The whole locker room shifts by a degree. No one speaks.

Vicky breaks the silence first, tossing her boots down and flopping onto the bench like she didn’t just witness a scene straight out of a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers fanfic.

“Well,” she says. “Training’s gonna be fun today.”

Mapi nods solemnly. “I feel like I should stretch before the drama.”

You sit back down, heart still thumping, the atmosphere thick with unspoken words and charged glances.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, all you can think is Game on.

The scrimmage is fast.

Sharp touches. Narrow spaces. Everyone’s pressing like it’s the Champions League final, not a Friday morning.

You’re running on instinct now. Ball, space, timing. Sweat slicks down your back, your thighs burn, and every time Jana gets near the ball, something in your brain flicks sharper.

Maybe it’s tension. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s still the echo of her slap.

You don’t even think.

It happens fast.

One mistimed slide. The kind you’ve done a hundred times before. You clip Jana’s ankle—barely—but she goes down with a sharp exhale, skidding across the turf. Your heart lurches.

“Shit—Jana, sorry!” you gasp, already rising.

You don’t even get the words out fully before—

“Are you serious right now?!”

Alexia’s voice cuts through the air like lightning cracking down the middle of a cloudless sky.

She’s storming toward you, fury in her stride, braid swinging behind her like a warning.

You straighten immediately, instinct screaming defensive posture. “I didn’t mean to—”

“She’s just getting back from injury,” Alexia spits, gesturing wildly. “And you’re out here throwing slide tackles like it’s the damn World Cup final?”

“She’s fine,” Jana mutters from the ground, sitting up.

But it’s too late.

Alexia’s locked in. On you.

And then—

Mapi.

She appears like a windstorm in glitter boots, stepping between you and Alexia so fast it’s almost comical.

“Excuse you?” Mapi says, holding out her arms like she’s physically shielding you from verbal radiation. “If you’re going to yell at my child, you go through me first.”

Alexia blinks. “Your what?”

“She’s mine,” Mapi snaps. “We’ve bonded. We’ve had trauma. There were Jell-O shots involved. She is under my emotional custody now.”

You stand behind Mapi, blinking in shock. “Wait, what—?”

“Stay out of this, bebita,” Mapi says over her shoulder. “Mommy’s working.”

Alexia scoffs. “She just wiped out one of our most important players!”

“And you’re screaming like she broke her leg on purpose,” Mapi fires back. “Maybe she just made a mistake. It’s called being new. Not war crimes.”

“She could’ve reinjured her!”

“She didn’t!” Mapi shouts, arms flailing.

“I’m protecting my players.”

“I’m supporting mine.”

“She’s not even yours to support!”

“She’s wearing my wifes hoodie and stole my heart in one night, Alexia. Try to keep up.” Her voice is fire, biting through the thick air. She means every word, and you can feel her standing there—fierce, protective, ready to burn the whole pitch down for you.

But Alexia—

Alexia’s not backing down.

She scoffs, bitter, sharp. “You think this is cute? You think this is just about breakfast and banter?”

Mapi takes a step forward, but Alexia beats her to the next line.

“She could’ve reinjured her. You don’t come into this squad, two days in, and throw yourself into players like that.”

Mapi’s arms fly wide. “It was a mistimed slide, not a tackle from hell! If Jana didn’t roll twice and make it dramatic, no one would’ve even blinked!”

Alexia’s jaw tightens. “You don’t get to decide what’s dangerous.”

“And you don’t get to decide who’s allowed to make mistakes!” Mapi shouts.

You stand frozen between them, breath heavy in your throat, still tasting turf and adrenaline and regret. The argument plays out like you’re not even there, voices crashing back and forth like waves.

But then—

Alexia looks at you.

Just for a second.

And that’s when it hits you.

This isn’t about today.

Not really.

The heat in her eyes isn’t about a slide or a bruise or tactical discipline. It’s about the night before. About Jana. About you.

You feel it, as sharp as a blade behind the ribs.

Alexia isn’t just angry that you clipped Jana’s ankle.

She’s angry that you stayed.

That you didn’t storm out after being slapped. That you didn’t cry or rage or demand an apology. That no one forced you out.

You see it now—etched into the rigid lines of her face.

You made it harder for her to hate you.

You didn’t say a word yesterday. You didn’t run.

You stayed.

And that, somehow, is the part she can’t accept.

Your hands are still, but your chest burns with the weight of understanding.

You glance at her again. Her mouth is set. Her shoulders rigid. She doesn’t look at you anymore.

But she doesn’t have to.

You know now.

And it hurts more than anything she could’ve said.

The tension is suffocating.

Mapi’s chest rises and falls with fury, her fists clenched. Alexia’s back is turned now, but her silence carries more heat than her shouting. Ingrid hasn’t moved from her spot a few paces away—still, unreadable, eyes fixed on you.

And you?

You’re standing in the wreckage of the moment, pulse pounding, throat dry.

That look Alexia gave you still hasn’t left your skin.

You didn’t say it out loud.

But you know.

And maybe that’s worse.

“Okay,” a firm voice cuts through the air, smooth and cool like water over flame.

Marta.

She walks in from the side of the pitch, face unreadable but eyes direct—serious. Not angry. Just done with the heat.

“Everyone take a second. Cool down,” she says, and there’s no room for argument in her tone. “We’re training. Not tearing each other apart.”

Mapi huffs, pacing a short circle like a tiger in a cage. “She started—”

“She escalated,” Marta says calmly, cutting her a look. “But if this keeps going, the only thing we’re doing is making it harder to move forward.”

Another voice follows her—lighter, but still grounded.

Caroline Graham Hansen.

“She’s right,” she says, her voice soft but steady, brushing her hair out of her face. “This can’t turn into sides. Not over one tackle.”

Her eyes find you.

Not judging. Not patronising. Just watching you. Seeing more than most would in a glance.

“It was messy,” Hansen adds. “But not malicious.”

You nod once, tight.

“She knows that,” she continues, voice quieter now. “Even if she’s not ready to say it.”

You don’t respond.

Because you can’t.

The weight of Alexia’s look still sits on your chest like a stone.

Mapi moves to your side again, quieter now, but still seething. Her hand brushes your arm—checking in, steadying, like a tether that refuses to break.

“She didn’t deserve that,” Mapi mutters.

Marta exhales. “Maybe not. But neither does the rest of the team.”

She glances between you and Alexia—still across the pitch, saying nothing.

“There’s already been enough damage,” Marta says, eyes narrowing. “Don’t let it grow legs.”

Mapi doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t argue, either.

Ingrid finally steps forward, her hand ghosting over the back of your shoulder. “C’mon,” she says softly. “Let’s move.”

Hansen nudges Mapi with her elbow, a quiet look exchanged between the two of them. Not playful. Not sharp. Just grounding.

And finally, slowly, the team starts shifting back into motion. The circle breaking. The storm dispersing.

But you’re still standing in the center of the mess it left behind.

Not because of what you said.

But because of what you know now.

And once you know something like that…

…it never really leaves.

[cupofteatoyou]

The secret between us-pt2

You stood frozen, hand still wrapped around the doorknob like letting go might let the past spill in.

Your breath hitched. "It's about your daughter."

For a second, everything slowed — like the world outside your doorstep had fallen into a hush, waiting to hear what you'd say.

You glanced behind you, instinctively.

Your daughter was still curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, fully entranced by cartoon explosions and pastel chaos. Oblivious. Safe.

Alexia followed your gaze. Her jaw clenched just slightly — and in that moment, you could see it.

The recognition.

The fear.

The need to know.

You stepped outside and shut the door behind you, careful, firm. Not slamming it — just... separating your lives with quiet desperation.

The porch light bathed you both in a pale, golden wash. She looked taller somehow, more grown, but there was still something in her that felt heartbreakingly familiar. The way her eyes searched yours like a question she didn’t want the answer to.

You spoke first.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Alexia’s mouth twitched like it almost wanted to smile, but it didn’t. “You think I don’t know that?”

Silence settled like snow.

Then, quietly — raw:

“She has my eyes.”

You looked away, jaw tightening. “Alexia—”

“No, don’t—” her voice cracked, and she ran a hand through her hair like she was trying to keep herself from unraveling. “Don’t lie to me. Not now.”

You said nothing.

You didn’t have to.

Alexia exhaled like she’d just been hit. Her back pressed against the porch railing, head tilting toward the night sky. Like maybe if she stared hard enough at the stars, they’d answer for you.

“I saw the pictures,” she said, voice quieter now. “At first I thought I was going crazy. But then I kept looking. The way she looks at you. The way she holds her hands. Her laugh—” she blinked hard, like it physically hurt to say it. “It’s mine.”

Your fingers gripped the edge of the doorway behind you. “You don’t get to show up here after all these years and pretend like you’re entitled to anything.”

“She’s my daughter.”

You finally met her eyes, sharp and wounded. “She’s mine. I raised her. I held her when she had nightmares, I walked her through fevers and first words and scraped knees and—where were you? When I needed you?”

“I didn’t know,” Alexia nearly shouted. “You left, remember? You left and you never looked back.”

“I left because you couldn’t choose between loving me and loving the version of yourself the world wanted. I left because I was tired of breaking quietly in the background of your spotlight.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. She didn’t have an answer for that. Not one you’d believe.

“Does he know?” she asked finally. “Your boyfriend. Does he think she’s his?”

You keept quite, maybe if u didn’t answered she would give up.

Alexia’s eyes closed like she’d been slapped.

“She deserves to know who she is,” she whispered. “And I deserve to—”

“To what?” your voice rose. “To be part of a life you never made room for?”

Alexia took a step closer.

You didn’t move.

“I don’t want to fight,” she said, softer now. “I just want to know her. I want her to know me. That’s all.”

You studied her.

The girl you once loved.

The woman who broke you.

And something in you flickered — not forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But something adjacent to grief.

“She doesn’t know who you are,” you said finally. “To her, you’re just a stranger.”

Alexia’s voice barely held together. “Then let me change that.”

The door creaked behind you as you leaned back against it.

“She’s asleep in twenty minutes. I won’t let you talk to her.”

Alexia’s eyes darkened. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Your breath caught, pulse spiking. “Excuse me?”

“She’s mine too,” Alexia snapped, taking a step forward. “You don’t just get to lock me out of her life like I was never part of it.”

Your hand gripped the door tighter. “You weren’t part of it. You never even knew—”

“Because you didn’t tell me,” she cut in, her voice rising. “You made that decision for both of us.”

You could feel your jaw trembling, but you clenched it tight. “I did what I had to. For her. For me. You think I didn’t cry every night for the first two years? That I didn’t want to call you when she took her first steps?”

Alexia’s hands were balled into fists at her sides now. “Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t choose us!” you snapped, voice finally breaking. “Because back then, you chose everything else. Football. Control. Silence. You wanted the world, Alexia, and I couldn’t ask you to give it up.”

Her mouth opened—but she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t deny it. Not fully.

“I gave her everything,” you continued, eyes wet now. “And you think you can just knock on my door and claim her?”

“I’m not claiming her,” she hissed, barely containing herself. “I’m fighting for her.”

You laughed, bitter and small. “You haven’t even asked her favorite color.”

Alexia’s breath hitched. “I’ll learn. I’ll know it all. I’m not walking away again.”

You stepped forward, your voice low and cold. “You already did.”

She stared at you for a moment — jaw tight, throat working. And then, quietly, her voice changed. Not loud. Not cruel. Just… edged.

“If you keep her from me…” Her eyes locked on yours. “I will take this to court.”

The words dropped between you like a bomb.

The blood drained from your face.

Alexia kept going, her voice shaking but firm. “You know I have the resources. I know how this works. You think I’ll let you erase me? I won’t.”

Your heart was pounding in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” she whispered. “Because I have to.”

Silence.

Your daughter laughed at something on TV in the room. Oblivious. Soft. Safe.

And you felt your spine straighten — not in fear, but in fury.

Alexia took a step forward, her jaw set. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I’m asking for a chance. A chance to be there for her. I won’t stand by and let you erase me from her life.”

“You are erased,” you hissed, voice rising. “You left. And now you think you can come back and pick up where you left off?”

The words stung more than you wanted to admit. The memory of Alexia mentally and emotionally leaving you all alone while she chased her dreams —of her absence in your life, of your daughter growing up without her—was still fresh, still raw.

Alexia’s expression faltered, her gaze flicking toward the window behind you, where she knew your daughter was probably asleep. She inhaled sharply. “I’m not asking for your permission to be her mother. I’m asking for a chance to prove it. Don’t make me go through the courts.”

The threat landed like a punch. You felt it in the pit of your stomach, the weight of it, the fear that this might really escalate.

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your composure. “You can’t just expect to come in and take everything you want. My daughter’s not a pawn in your game.”

But as you said it, your words felt hollow, as if even you weren’t sure you believed them anymore.

A muffled giggle echoed from inside the house,once again and for the briefest of moments, you both froze.

Your daughter’s voice rang out from the doorway.

“Mommy? Who’s that?”

Your heart skipped a beat. There was no way to prepare for this.

You turned quickly, your thoughts racing, and for a brief moment, Alexia’s gaze softened. Her eyes flickered to the door, the door she hadn’t been able to walk through in.

Your daughter stepped into the doorway, a bowl of strawberries in her hand, her face sweet and innocent. She glanced at you, then at Alexia, and without missing a beat, she smiled brightly. She pointed with one small finger and asked curiously, “What does the lady from the bathroom do here?”

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. The words hung in the air like a delicate thread, threading the past into the present.

Alexia’s expression faltered for a moment, her lips parting as if she wasn’t sure how to answer. She glanced up at you, the question clearly throwing her off guard.

Your daughter was still waiting, her little brow furrowed, her voice soft and full of innocence. “She looks sad. Does she live here too?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. Your mind raced, trying to figure out how to navigate this moment. Alexia hadn’t been around for so long. How were you going to explain this?

Before you could speak, Alexia cleared her throat and looked down at your daughter. Her voice was gentle, almost hesitant. “I’m… I’m…I found something your mom lost . I thought I’d drop it off.”

Your daughter nodded slowly, processing the response in her own way. Her gaze flickered between you and Alexia, then back to the strawberries. "Are you going to stay? 'Cause we can share these all night if you want!"

Your heart clenched. It was so simple, so pure—your daughter offering comfort without knowing the weight of the situation.

Alexia swallowed hard, blinking back the emotion that suddenly filled her eyes. She reached for a strawberry, her hands trembling ever so slightly. “Maybe just for a little while,” she said, her voice soft. “If that’s okay.”

Your daughter grinned, as if this was just another one of her daily adventures. “Okay!” she said brightly. Then, without hesitation, she reached out and wrapped her small hand around one of Alexia’s fingers—tiny and trusting—and gave it a tug.

“Come on,” she added, pulling gently. “It’s cold out here. You can have some strawberries inside.”

Alexia blinked, stunned by the soft weight of that little hand in hers, by the quiet acceptance of it all. And before she could say a word, she was already being led toward the front door—tiny footsteps padding beside hers.

You stood frozen for a heartbeat, watching your daughter tug Alexia across the threshold like it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was a part of you—buried deep and frayed from the years—that wanted to stop it. That wanted to scoop your daughter up and shut the door and keep everything exactly the way it was. Safe. Simple. Untouched.

But then you caught the flicker in Alexia's eyes as she glanced down at the small hand curled around hers. A flicker of something she hadn't let herself feel in a long time.

The tension between you and her hadn’t dissolved. Not even close. But in that moment—gentle and surreal—you realized one thing

This was no longer just about you And nothing was going to be simple anymore.

Your daughter had long since surrendered to sleep, her tiny frame curled up on the couch, soft breaths barely audible over the faint hum of the television. One hand still clutched the corner of her favorite blanket, the other resting loosely against the empty bowl of strawberries.

You stood from your spot by the armrest, brushing your palms against your jeans and moving toward her, ready to scoop her up and carry her to bed.

But before you could reach her, Alexia’s voice cut through the quiet.

“I’ll take her.”

You paused, your hand hovering above your daughter’s shoulder. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

You looked at her for a beat. She wasn’t asking. She was already kneeling, arms gentle and practiced as she slipped one beneath your daughter's back, the other beneath her knees. Your breath caught for a second—just at the sight of it. How easily it came to her. Like nothing had ever been taken.

Your daughter stirred only slightly, her head instinctively tucking against Alexia’s shoulder, lips parting in a sleepy sigh. It nearly shattered you.

Alexia held her like she’d been doing it her whole life.

And maybe she should have been.

You followed close as she carried her down the hallway, the hush between you heavy but no longer bitter. When you reached your daughter's room, Alexia didn’t ask where to put her. She just knew.

She laid her down with impossible care, brushing a stray curl from her forehead before stepping back.

You stood by the doorway, arms crossed, more for self-protection than anything else. Your voice was quieter than you expected. “Thank you.”

Alexia stood over the bed for a moment longer than necessary, eyes lingering on the small, sleeping form nestled into the sheets. just stood there, still and quiet.

“She looks like perfect mix of us,” she said, finally, voice soft. Alexia didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t have had to do it alone.”

That hung there for a beat.

Then Alexia straightened, turning to you, her features calm — too calm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You blinked, throat tightening. “Because it was complicated.”

“No,” she said, sharper now. “It wasn’t. You made it complicated.”

You turned slightly, not wanting to argue with your daughter in the next room, but Alexia followed you out silently — her footsteps quiet until you both reached the kitchen again, the door to your daughter's room gently closed.

Then she snapped.

“You decided I didn’t deserve to know.” Her tone was trembling, but not weak. Angry. “You didn’t even give me the chance to be there.”

You leaned on the counter, spine tense. “You were never there, Alexia. Not really. You were gone every other week, training camps, sponsorships, flights. The day I found out, you were in Qatar doing interviews. I was alone.”

“So you punished me for having a career?” Her arms folded across her chest. “That’s what this is?”

You stared at her, eyes wet now. “No. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want her to grow up watching me cry after every voicemail you didn’t return. After every time I waited for you to come home and you didn’t. I didn’t want her to feel second to a sport.”

“That wasn’t fair,” Alexia said, breath shaking. “You don’t get to decide what kind of parent I would have been.”

You looked at her — really looked at her — and it hurt more than you expected.

“I know,” you said quietly. “And I’ll never stop being sorry for that.”

Alexia flinched at the sincerity in your voice — like it wasn’t what she expected.

“I was scared,” you admitted. “And I didn’t trust you to choose us.”

“I would’ve,” she whispered.

You nodded slowly. “Maybe. But I couldn’t bet her life on a ‘maybe.’”

Alexia turned away, gripping the edge of the sink like it was the only thing keeping her steady.

“I missed everything,” she said, almost to herself. “Her first steps. Her first words. You stole that from me.”

The guilt hit you like a wave, heavy and cold. “I know.”

She turned again, her eyes red-rimmed now. “So what happens now?”

“I’m not asking for everything,” she said, eyes locked on yours, tired but steady. “I’m not asking you to tell her tonight. Or to rewrite your whole life. But I need to be part of hers. Please.”

You stared at her, uncertain.

Alexia swallowed. “I know I don’t have the right to demand anything. I know I missed years I’ll never get back. But if there’s even the smallest window... just let me see her. Let me be near. Let her get to know me, even if she doesn’t know the whole truth yet.”

You leaned back slightly, arms still folded. “And what would that even look like?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Park visits. Weekend walks. You don’t have to lie to her — just... don’t hide me. Let me be her friend. Let me earn being more.”

The silence after that was thick. Heavy. Your heart was hammering again — not with rage this time, but fear. Fear of opening the door to something that could change everything.

You looked away for a second, then back at her. Her eyes were glassy, but there was no pity there. No guilt-trip. Just quiet resolve.

“She likes strawberries,” you said, finally. “And cartoons that don’t make sense. She talks a lot, but sometimes she just wants someone to sit with her and listen. No noise. Just... presence.”

A beat.

“Then I’ll be there,” Alexia said. “However I can.”

You nodded, slowly. “One step at a time.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, like the words were more than just relief. Like they were a promise.

You didn’t smile. Not yet.

But you didn’t tell her to leave, either.

[cupofteatoyou]

What if she chose me

You were seven years old when you first saw the crest.

Not on a wall or a shirt—but on a screen, late at night, tucked under your blanket with the sound low so your parents wouldn’t hear. It was a Barça match, blurry and fast-paced, the kind that didn’t need subtitles to understand. And even then, you knew. The way they passed, the way they moved, the way they belonged to something bigger.

You didn’t have the words for it, not then. But you remember whispering to yourself, “One day.”

You didn’t mean play for them. That seemed impossible.

You just meant… be good enough.

Now, you’re twenty, and you’re standing in the marble-lit hallway of Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, the crest you once saw through a screen now on the wall in front of you—taller than you, shining under soft lights.

It still doesn’t feel real.

You press your fingertips against the side of your thigh to ground yourself. You’re not here as a fan, not anymore. You’re here as a player. A loan deal, six months. No guarantees. Just a chance.

But for you? That’s everything.

You drag your suitcase further into the lobby, where a staff member greets you with a practiced smile and warm Spanish you mostly understand. They walk you through the entrance, past glass trophy cases and framed photos of legends—some still in the locker room, some now part of the club’s history.

Every step echoes a little louder than it should.

Stay calm. You earned this.

The locker room door opens with a soft click.

You hesitate for half a second before stepping in.

It’s quieter than you expected—spacious, sleek, the scent of liniment and fresh laundry in the air. Some of the girls are already inside, voices low in Catalan and Spanish, the occasional laugh echoing off the white tile. You feel like you’ve just walked into a room you’ve imagined a thousand times but never thought you’d actually enter.

Your boots feel too loud against the floor. Your duffel bag feels heavier than it is. You offer a small smile to no one in particular.

“Hi… I’m Y/N.”

A few heads turn.

Alexia Putellas looks up from tying her boots, offering a nod. Ingrid Syrstad Engen—familiar, Norwegian—gives you a kind smile. A few polite waves follow. Not cold. Not unwelcoming. Just… curious.

They’ve seen players come and go.

You’re not the first loan deal. Maybe not the last.

Still, a spot is pointed out to you near the end of the row. You sit down, quietly unpacking your gear, hands moving on autopilot while your mind races.

Then you feel it—a glance.

You look up and meet eyes with someone across the room.

Jana Fernández.

Sharp jawline, dark hair tied in a braid, eyes that hold more than they give away. She’s sitting two rows down, water bottle in hand, gaze steady. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away.

You hold the stare for a moment, unsure whether to nod or look down.

She makes the choice for you. Looks away, like you’re not worth thinking about.

You try not to take it personally. But the sting is there, soft and quiet.

Training is a blur.

The pace is wild. Intensity like you’ve never known. But still, the joy rises under the nerves. This is what you dreamed of. Running beside legends, defending in drills that test your instincts, hearing the whistle blow and your name shouted in thick accents. It’s overwhelming. It’s exhausting.

It’s everything.

After the final whistle, as the players gather in small groups to chat or head to the gym, you sit on the edge of the bench and breathe in slowly.

You made it through day one.

A hand appears in your periphery. A bottle of water.

Jana.

You glance up at her, surprised.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say anything.

Just places the bottle beside you and walks away.

But she noticed.

And somehow, that means more than any words could.

The moment you step back into the locker room, the energy is already different.

Music’s playing — someone connected a speaker — and the air’s loud with the rustle of jerseys, boots hitting tile, teammates joking in fast, effortless Spanish you’re only starting to understand.

You make your way to your spot, peel off your training bib, and sink onto the bench with a quiet breath. You’re sore in places you didn’t even know could be sore. But you feel… good. Solid. Like you didn’t mess it up today.

You're pulling off your boots when someone flops dramatically onto the bench beside you.

“Okay,” Vicky López says, already halfway through a protein bar, “you’re officially not bad.”

You blink at her, caught off guard. “Thanks?”

“No, like—legit. You didn’t fall over, didn’t panic under pressure. I’m impressed.”

“I’ll frame that,” you deadpan.

She grins. “You should. I don’t give those out lightly.”

Across the locker room, someone throws a towel at her. “You said that to the last girl who joined.”

“She fell during rondos!” Vicky fires back, then turns to you again, eyes gleaming. “Anyway. Important question. What are you doing tonight?”

You pause, confused. “Tonight?”

“Yeah. My place. Party. It’s chill—just some music, drinks, people. You should come.”

You glance around. A few girls are listening in now—Patri smirking from her locker, Ingrid giving you a subtle nod like you should. The air shifts a little.

“I don’t know,” you say slowly. “I don’t really know anyone yet…”

“You know me,” Vicky says proudly, like that solves everything. “That’s enough.”

“She doesn’t need to be dragged into things already,” Jana’s voice cuts through from a few lockers down.

She’s sitting with one leg pulled up, towel slung around her shoulders, tying her hair back in a tight ponytail. She hasn’t looked at you since you walked in.

“She just got here.”

You meet her gaze, your throat tightening just a little. Her tone isn’t mean, but it’s firm. Distant. Like she’s already made up her mind about you.

“I can decide for myself,” you say, not defensive—just even.

She blinks once. Holds your stare a second longer than necessary.

“Suit yourself,” she mutters, standing up.

She walks off toward the showers without waiting for a response.

Silence clings for a second after she disappears behind the tiled wall.

Patri exhales, low. “She’s been like that for a while now. Don’t take it personally.”

“She used to be fun,” Vicky adds. “Before…”

She trails off, eyes flicking toward where Jana just went.

You look back down at your hands, still gripping the wristband Vicky pressed into them. Bright blue, a little wrinkled, but something about it feels like a bridge.

You don’t know if you’ll go.

But something in you wants to.

Not to fit in.

Not to prove anything.

Just to remind a certain someone that you’re not here to hide.

You get back to the apartment later than you thought you would, muscles aching and head still spinning from the day. You toss your bag down, let yourself sink into the edge of the bed, and just breathe.

The wristband Vicky gave you is still tucked in your bag. You pull it out, turning the soft blue fabric between your fingers. It feels ridiculous to let one little thing mean so much. But somehow… it does. Like saying yes to the wristband means saying yes to being here. To trying.

You grab your phone.

|you: are you serious about the party?|

Vicky replies in under a minute.

|vicky: YES|

|vicky: i literally invited you in front of everyone|

|vicky: don’t make me regret being nice|

|vicky: want the address?|

You hesitate. Thumb hovering over the keyboard.

You think of Jana. The way she said “She just got here.” Like you weren’t ready. Like she already made her mind up about you.

You exhale through your nose and type:

|you: send it|

Three dots. Then…

|vicky: [location sent]|

|vicky: come around 9|

|vicky: dress normal, no weirdo scandi club fits please|

|vicky: i’m joking|

|vicky: kinda|

You shake your head, smile despite yourself, and drop your phone on the bed.

You’re going.

The apartment is already packed when you arrive.

Music pulses through the walls, bass heavy, something reggaeton mixed with pop. Laughter spills from the open windows, and inside, the air is warm with perfume, cologne, and the kind of energy that only comes from people who play hard and party harder.

You step in slowly, awkwardly adjusting your jacket, wristband snug around your wrist — Vicky’s mark of approval, apparently.

You recognize a few faces right away.

Patri’s dancing in the corner with Mapi, already half a drink in, both of them shouting lyrics way too loud. Ingrid waves when she spots you and points you toward the kitchen.

Vicky appears seconds later, bounding up like a golden retriever.

“She came!” she shouts over the music, grabbing your hand and pulling you inside. “I was this close to betting you’d ghost.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises.”

“You look nervous,” she teases, grabbing two plastic cups. “Here. Fix that.”

You take the drink, not asking what’s in it.

You sip slowly. The burn hits your throat, but it’s not bad.

She leans in, grinning. “If you want to impress everyone, don’t throw up on the floor. That’s like, step one.”

“Good to know.”

The longer you stand there, the more the nerves settle into the background hum of the party. A few girls nod at you as they pass. Someone compliments your sneakers. You laugh at something Mapi shouts from across the room.

You start to feel… okay.

“Enjoying yourself?” someone asks beside you.

You turn to find one of the younger Barça B players — pretty smile, warm eyes, clearly tipsy.

“Yeah,” you say cautiously.

“You’re the new defender, right? From Norway?”

“That obvious?”

She laughs. “Just the accent. And the fact that everyone keeps talking about how you’re not afraid to go in hard.”

You smile. “Guess that’s true.”

She steps closer. “I like that.”

And it’s subtle — not pushy — but there’s definitely a something in her tone. Flirty. Curious. Like she’s testing the waters.

She sips from her drink, then adds, “Also that you’re aggressive as hell. I like that in a defender.”

You laugh once under your breath. “I just like winning the ball.”

“I like the way you move,” she says, almost too casually — but it lands. Direct. Her eyes linger just a second longer than friendly. “You’ve got presence. That’s rare.”

It’s flattering. She’s cute. Charming, even.

But something inside you pulls — not toward her.

Away.

You glance across the room, toward the edge of the crowd, and feel your stomach drop slightly.

Jana’s there.

drink untouched in her hand, talking to no one. But now her eyes are locked on you.

Hard to read. Not angry. Not disinterested.

Just focused.

She sees the way this girl is standing close. Sees the way her hand brushes lightly against your arm mid-conversation. Sees everything.

And she doesn’t look away.

“You okay?” the girl asks, noticing your shift.

You turn back, force a small smile. “Yeah, just needed some air.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You lift your cup. “I’ll be back.”

You leave before she can say anything else, weaving your way through the dancing bodies, past the music, the drinks, the heat of the room — until the door to the balcony swings open, and the night hits your skin like relief.

You lean on the railing. Exhale.

And before you’ve even fully breathed in the quiet—

The door opens again.

You glance over your shoulder just as Ingrid Engen steps outside, closing the door behind her gently.

Her brows lift slightly when she sees you. “Ah. I figured I saw you slip out.”

You straighten up a bit. “Needed a minute.”

She walks over, leaning against the railing beside you — not too close, not assuming, just familiar.

“Same,” she says. “Those parties get loud fast.”

You nod, letting the quiet stretch between you for a second.

“I’m Ingrid,” she says then, offering her hand out casually. “I know you probably know that already. Still—figured I should say hi properly.”

You shake her hand, and your smile comes easier than expected. “Yeah. I do. But hey.”

She smiles back. “You holding up alright?”

“I think so. It’s a lot, though.”

“Barça tends to be,” she says, laughing softly. “Especially when you’re new.”

You glance at her. “You had this too?”

“Oh, definitely. Even being from Norway didn’t help much at first. But you’ll find your rhythm.”

You shift, appreciating the weight in her tone — not fake or performative, just real.

“You were good today,” she adds. “Not just technically. You’ve got presence.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That a Norwegian compliment?”

“It’s a teammate compliment.”

You huff a laugh. “I’ll take it.”

She glances sideways at you. “If you ever need someone to talk to — about the team, adjusting, whatever… you don’t have to do it alone.”

You pause. Something about the way she says it makes you believe her.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

She nods once. “We take care of our own.”

You and Ingrid stay out there for a while, letting the party carry on without you. Inside, someone’s yelling along to Bad Bunny. Mapi’s laugh cuts through the noise like a firework. The bass thumps through the wall, but out here it’s all muted.

Comfortable.

“You’ve been here long enough to feel like part of the furniture yet?” Ingrid asks, resting her chin in one hand, her elbow on the railing.

You smile a little. “More like a borrowed lamp someone’s gonna return in a month.”

She snorts. “A very solid Norwegian lamp.”

You both laugh softly, and the quiet settles in again — familiar now. Easy.

But there’s something still twisting in your chest. Still caught between your ribs from earlier.

You sip from your drink, then say it before you can second-guess:

“What’s the deal with Jana?”

Ingrid’s brows lift just slightly, but there’s no judgment in it — just curiosity. Like she expected you to ask eventually.

“She say something to you?” she asks, voice gentler now.

“Not really. That’s kind of the point,” you reply. “I don’t know. She just—looked at me like I wasn’t supposed to be here. Since training.”

Ingrid breathes out through her nose. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“So what is it?” you ask, eyes on her. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she says immediately. “Not even close.”

You wait. Let her find the words.

“She’s… complicated,” Ingrid says finally. “Not in a dramatic way. Just—Jana doesn’t let people in easily. Especially not lately.”

“Something happen?”

Ingrid hesitates. “You didn’t hear about her and Jill?”

You blink. “Jill Roord?”

She nods. “Yeah. They were together. For a while.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It didn’t end great.”

You can hear what she’s not saying in her tone. And something clicks in your mind: the guardedness, the cold stares, the way Jana’s jaw tightens when she sees you talking to someone else.

“She got hurt,” you say quietly.

“Bad,” Ingrid confirms. “Jill cheated. Jana didn’t tell many people. Just kind of… shut down.”

You look down at your cup, processing. “Makes sense now.”

“She’s not mean,” Ingrid says after a second. “But she’ll push you away before you even get close enough to matter.”

You nod slowly. “Too late for that, maybe.”

Ingrid tilts her head, smiling. “So she has gotten to you?”

You laugh softly. “Let’s just say I notice when someone’s looking at me like they want to set me on fire.”

“She’s probably just scared,” Ingrid says. “But if she keeps staring like that, maybe she should be the one explaining herself.”

You huff. “Yeah. I’ll hold my breath for that.”

Ingrid grins. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

You both laugh softly, the kind of quiet laugh that feels like you’re sharing a secret — and maybe, in some way, you are.

Then—

The balcony door swings open with zero chill.

“Ingrid!”

Mapi’s voice slices through the calm like a drumroll. She’s halfway into the doorway, one hand braced against the frame like she’s been looking for Ingrid in every room and finally hit jackpot.

“There you are! Come inside, we’re doing shots and I need someone to stop Patri before she sings Dancing Queen in full German again.”

Ingrid groans dramatically. “She warned me she was learning the lyrics.”

Mapi takes a step forward — then spots you.

“Ohhh! You!” she says, eyes lighting up. “New kid!”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Norway. Hair. Eyes like you’ve seen things. Let’s go.”

“I—what?”

“No thinking. Only chaos. Come on.”

Before you can argue, Mapi loops one arm through Ingrid’s and one through yours and starts pulling you both toward the door like you’ve known each other for years.

Ingrid just laughs. “Welcome to the real initiation.”

“Wait, what’s happening—”

“Tequila,” Mapi grins wickedly. “And maybe terrible karaoke. Definitely some regret.”

You barely have time to set your cup down on the balcony table before you’re pulled back inside — back into the heat, the noise, and the absolutely unhinged vibe of a full-blown Barça night out.

You barely make it two steps inside before Mapi has you halfway to the kitchen island — which now looks more like a war zone. Open bottles, empty glasses, limes scattered like casualties, someone’s jersey tossed over a chair for absolutely no reason.

“Alright, rookie,” Mapi says, releasing your arm to start aggressively preparing shots. “Tonight we erase whatever Scandinavian filter you’ve got on your soul.”

“I’m not good with this drink—”

“No,” she cuts you off immediately. “That’s not how this works. You came to our party, you play our game.”

Ingrid’s behind you now, leaning against the counter with a smirk like she’s seen this movie before.

“She doesn’t usually lose,” she murmurs.

“I’m not trying to win,” you say, laughing nervously.

“Exactly,” Mapi grins, pushing a shot glass into your hand. “So just don’t fight it.”

She knocks one back herself with zero hesitation, then waits — eyebrow raised, hand on hip.

You stare at your glass. Then at her.

Then throw it back.

It burns. God, it burns.

Mapi howls in triumph. “There she is! Now we’re cooking!”

“You didn’t even tell me what that was.”

“Tequila,” Ingrid says, not even pretending to hide her amusement. “Probably.”

“Probably?!”

“Next round!” Mapi shouts, already refilling the glasses.

You don’t know what time it is anymore. The kitchen clock is sideways, your shoes are gone, and Mapi is balancing a lime wedge on your head while shouting, “DON’T MOVE!”

You are crying laughing.

“I can’t hold still,” you wheeze. “You’re shaking!”

“I’m not shaking,” Mapi says, swaying slightly. “I’m dramatic. There’s a difference.”

“Pretty sure we passed ‘dramatic’ like three drinks ago.”

Someone takes a picture. Maybe Ingrid. Maybe Patri. You’re too gone to tell — all you know is you’re sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room, and Mapi has somehow convinced you to help her choreograph a girlband dance routine to a Spanish remix of “Barbie Girl.”

“Okay!” she shouts. “From the top! And this time, don’t miss the hair flip.”

“I’m Norwegian, we don’t flip things.”

“Well tonight, you’re Catalan!” she slurs dramatically, spinning in a circle and nearly taking down a lamp.

You double over in laughter.

At some point, she forces a pair of ridiculous sunglasses onto your face and declares, “You are now Beyoncé. Embrace it.”

You embrace it.

The music’s so loud now that your thoughts have rhythm, and your cheeks hurt from smiling, and someone hands you another drink and it’s too late to ask what’s in it.

Ingrid, who’s now sitting on the back of the couch like royalty, shouts over the music, “You two are menaces!”

“You’re just jealous we’re iconic!” Mapi yells, doing the worst cartwheel anyone has ever seen.

You cheer like she’s just landed a gold medal.

Then—suddenly—Mapi grabs your hand.

“Come with me,” she stage-whispers. “I have to show you the Important Secret.”

You stumble after her down the hallway, barely holding your balance, giggling like you’re sneaking out of class. She opens a random door dramatically.

It’s just the coat closet.

You both stare at it.

“This isn’t the kitchen,” Mapi mutters.

You burst out laughing again and slump against the wall.

She leans her head on your shoulder. “I like you, Norway. You’re fun when you’re not trying to impress everybody.”

“I was never trying,” you mumble.

“You were trying not to take up space,” she says, oddly soft for how drunk she is. “Now look at you. Life of the damn party.”

You smile.

Drunk, blurry, light-headed — but grateful.

You're barely recovering from Mapi’s failed cartwheel when Vicky appears out of nowhere with a tray full of Jell-O shots and a devilish smile.

“There she is,” she grins at you. “Noruega, how’s the liver holding up?”

You blink. “It’s… it’s hanging in there.”

“She’s thriving,” Mapi announces proudly, draping herself over your back like a dramatic scarf. “She did a whole hair flip choreography. She’s basically Shakira now.”

“I need proof,” Vicky smirks. “Do it again.”

“Absolutely not,” you laugh.

But then Patri strolls over, sunglasses on top of her head even though it’s well past midnight, and says, “If she doesn’t, I will.”

“She doesn’t even have hair to flip!” Mapi yells, scandalized.

Patri shrugs. “Then I’ll flip your hair.”

And suddenly she’s grabbing Mapi by the back of the head and violently whipping her hair around like a shampoo commercial gone wrong.

Everyone’s laughing. You almost choke on a lime.

Vicky sets the tray down in front of you with a wink. “Alright, team challenge. Pick a shot, any shot. One of them has double tequila.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

Mapi rubs her temples. “Vicky, you said you weren’t drinking tonight.”

“I lied,” she says sweetly.

You, Mapi, Patri, and Vicky all reach for different Jell-O shots and count down like it’s an Olympic final.

Three. Two. One.

Down they go.

You don’t know who got the double shot — but five seconds later, Patri lets out a scream-laugh and slams her hands on the table. “I GOT IT. I SEE TIME.”

“Time isn’t real!” Mapi yells back, flailing a towel in her direction.

Vicky leans into you, conspiratorial. “You might want to drink some water before you wake up in someone’s bathtub.”

You glance around. “That an option?”

She grins. “If Mapi has anything to say about it? Always.”

You laugh again, shoulders loose, heart light. when someone brushes past you a little too hard — not aggressive, but not an accident either.

You look up.

Jana.

She doesn’t stop, just walks past toward the kitchen — fast, tight-shouldered. Not like she’s in a hurry.

More like she’s pissed.

You hesitate for a second. Then follow.

She’s standing by the fridge when you catch up, pouring water like it’s the most intense thing anyone’s ever done. She won’t look at you.

“Hey,” you say carefully.

She glances at you — once, quick. “Shouldn’t you be doing shots with your new fan club?”

You blink, thrown. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Your stomach knots, alcohol buzz flickering.

“I was just having fun. Like… everyone else?”

Jana scoffs under her breath. “Right. The way you’re fitting in already, you’ll probably be on posters next week.”

You stare at her. “Where is this coming from?”

She slams the fridge shut harder than necessary and finally looks at you — really looks at you.

“You show up, all wide-eyed, pretending you’re just here to help. And one day in, you’ve already got Ingrid whispering in your ear and Mapi wrapped around your little finger.”

You blink, stunned. “You think I’m pretending?”

“I think you’re temporary,” she snaps. “So don’t act like this is your team.”

Silence.

Your chest tightens. Not from the words themselves — but how much they feel like a slap.

You take a slow breath. “You don’t know anything about me.”

She doesn't answer.

Just grabs a glass and turns away, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. Like she’s already decided this conversation’s over.

And maybe it should be.

But the alcohol’s still humming in your blood, your chest still tight from the way she looked at you like you were nothing but noise.

So you mumble it—more to yourself than her, voice barely above a whisper.

“No wonder she cheated on you.”

The second the words leave your mouth, your stomach drops. you know you can’t take them back.

Jana freezes.

The glass in her hand trembles, her knuckles turning white around it. She doesn’t turn, not at first — just stands there with her back to you, like she’s trying to decide whether to walk away or burn the entire room down.

Then, slowly, she turns.

Her eyes find yours.

And they are shaking with rage.

You barely whisper, “Jana—”

And then it happens.

The slap.

Quick. Sharp. The sting blooming across your cheek before you even register the movement.

The whole world holds its breath.

Even the bass from the speakers feels distant now — muffled, underwater. It’s like time has stalled, just long enough for the weight of what she’s done to settle between you.

Your hand slowly lifts to your cheek, the sting blooming hot beneath your skin.

You look at her.

Really look at her.

And for a second… you don’t recognize her at all.

Jana’s chest is heaving. Her jaw is locked. Her eyes aren’t just angry — they’re full of something uglier. Something sharp. Defensive. Desperate. Like she’s spent too long trying to keep people out, and now that someone’s gotten close, all she knows how to do is destroy.

“Don’t ever say that to me again,” she breathes, low and lethal.

“WHAT. THE ACTUAL. FUCK?!”

Mapi’s voice cuts through the air like a knife.

You both turn at the same time.

She’s standing in the kitchen doorway, eyeliner smudged, plastic tiara slightly askew, holding a bag of tortilla chips like she was just about to offer snacks and instead walked straight into a crime scene.

Her eyes go to your face.

Then to Jana.

Then back to your face.

She doesn’t even blink.

“Did she just hit you?”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out.

Mapi drops the chips. “Nope. Uh-uh. Not tonight. No one touches my emotionally repressed Scandinavian daughter.”

Jana starts to speak. “It’s not—”

“Don’t.” Mapi holds up a finger like a furious teacher with a wine buzz. “Don’t even try. I don’t care how tragic your breakup was, you do not slap someone because your little ego got poked.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Jana says, jaw clenched.

“Oh really?” Mapi fires back. “Then what was it? Sparring practice? A friendly love tap? Because I watched you swing, and that wasn’t ‘pass the salt,’ that was assault.”

Your head is spinning. The slap, the adrenaline, now this.

“Mapi, it’s fine,” you try to say, voice shaky.

But she spins on you just as fast. “No, bebita, it’s not fine. I leave you alone for five minutes and someone tries to rearrange your face? Absolutely not.”

Jana’s arms cross. “She said something she shouldn’t have.”

Mapi lifts an eyebrow. “So you slap people when they say something you don’t like to hear? Interesting tactic.”

The room goes dead silent.

Even you flinch.

Jana looks like she might lunge.

But Mapi doesn’t move.

Just steps between you and her, eyes steel.

“You need to walk away, Fernández,” she says, voice low now. “Because if you don’t, I swear to god, I’m going to say something that’ll make whatever she said look like a love letter.”

Jana doesn’t respond.

She just stares at you for a beat longer — eyes cold, jaw locked — and then turns on her heel and storms out.

The door slams.

The music keeps playing, oblivious.

You finally exhale.

Mapi turns back to you, her expression softening. She cups your face gently with both hands, her thumbs brushing your cheek like she’s checking for damage.

“Mi vida,” she murmurs, dramatically. “Who do I have to fight in your honor next?”

You crack a tired, broken laugh.

And then you let her pull you into a hug so tight it almost knocks you over.

You’re sitting cross-legged on Mapi and Ingrid’s couch, wrapped in a giant hoodie that smells like Ingrid’s perfume and clinging to a half-full glass of something suspiciously red and definitely alcoholic.

Your cheek still stings.

Your heart still hurts.

Mapi is on her third drink. Possibly fourth. No one’s sure. She keeps calling it a “sip” but her glass has been refilled three times and she’s started monologuing about violence and heartbreak like she’s the lead in a telenovela.

“If I ever see her near you again, she’ll wake up in a locker. A real one. Not a metaphor.”

You blink.

Ingrid raises an eyebrow, slowly lowering her own glass.

“A locker?” you ask.

Mapi nods solemnly, like this is a deeply considered threat. “Full-sized. Metal. Cold. Like her soul.”

Ingrid snorts into her wine. “You’re not the mafia, Mapi.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mapi replies. “The mafia would never wear these boots.” She sticks out her leg dramatically — black platform stompers with rhinestones that spell "QUEEN" on the sides.

You try to stifle your laugh, fail miserably, and end up half-snorting into your drink. Ingrid meets your gaze across the couch and gives you the same look she’s probably used since day one: this is my life now. I stopped fighting it in 2019.

Mapi catches the silent exchange and narrows her eyes. “Are you two laughing at me?”

“No,” Ingrid says way too quickly.

You nod. “Definitely not. Just… admiring your commitment to organized crime cosplay.”

“I’m not cosplaying,” Mapi says, standing up like she’s about to make a formal speech. “I’m declaring war.”

“Is it a soft war?” Ingrid asks, deadpan. “Like one with glitter grenades and confetti knives?”

Mapi points at her. “Don’t tempt me.”

You’re still giggling when she sits back down, huffs dramatically, and leans her head against your shoulder.

“I’m serious,” she mutters. “She doesn’t get to do that to you. I don’t care if she’s broken. So are we. But we don’t hurt people.”

You glance at Ingrid, who gives you a small smile over the rim of her glass.

Mapi’s still draped across you, a little too heavy, a lot too warm, and absolutely unbothered by personal space as she refills your glass with unsteady hands.

“You know what?” she says suddenly, voice high with inspiration. “I’ve decided.”

Ingrid doesn’t even look up from where she’s scrolling on her phone. “God help us.”

“I’m adopting her,” Mapi declares, gesturing to you with flourish. “Officially. Emotionally. This is my daughter now.”

You choke on your wine.

“What?”

“She’s Norwegian. You’re Norwegian,” Mapi says, turning to Ingrid. “It’s meant to be. You’re the chill one. I’m the dramatic one. She’s like… the balanced product of our dysfunction.”

“I literally met you today,” you say, laughing.

“Exactly. And already I would kill for you. Or bake for you. Or both.” Mapi throws an arm around your shoulders like she’s claiming territory. “She’s tall, sad, and defensive. That’s our brand.”

Ingrid raises her glass with zero resistance. “Welcome to the family, I guess.”

“She’s a defender too,” Mapi adds proudly. “It’s fate. She came from the fjords to be ours.”

You’re full-on giggling now. “I don’t think that’s how adoption works.”

“Shh,” Mapi says, placing a dramatic finger to your lips. “You don’t need paperwork when there’s love. And trauma.”

Ingrid finally looks over, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Should we give her a spanish middle name? Or are you just going to start calling her ‘bebita’ like everyone else?”

Mapi gasps like she’s just remembered something life-changing.

“Oh my god. She needs a Spanish name. She can’t be fully adopted until she has one.”

You blink. “I—I don’t think that’s a requirement.”

“It is in this house,” she says, pointing dramatically to the ceiling like she's invoking the spirit of a very dramatic ancestor. “You are no longer just a Norwegian lone wolf defender. You are now…” She pauses, gears clearly turning in her wine-soaked brain.

Ingrid mutters, “Here we go.”

Mapi pauses, eyes lighting up like she’s cracked the code of the universe.

“Catalina María.”

You stare. “That’s not even close to my name.”

“It is now,” Mapi declares, grabbing a throw pillow like it’s a legal document. “Your full name is officially Y/N Catalina María León engen Y/L/N.”

Ingrid’s mouth twitches. “She’s got more names than most royalty.”

“Exactly.” Mapi beams, proud. “She deserves this. Look at her. Mysterious. Brooding. Dangerous in the box. Probably has a tragic backstory involving snow and betrayal.”

You sigh, dramatically sipping your wine. “You’ve read too much fanfiction.”

“She is fanfiction,” Mapi says. “And now she’s ours.”

Ingrid lifts her glass in your direction. “To Catalina María León engen. Defender. Daughter. Destroyer of attackers.”

You clink glasses, dazed but smiling.

It’s well past 5 a.m. now.

The wine’s gone. The lights are dimmed. And the chaos has finally calmed — mostly because Mapi is, at last, unconscious.

Sort of.

You and Ingrid are seated on the floor, backs against the couch, quietly nursing glasses of water. The room smells like wine and vanilla candles and warm furniture.

And on the couch?

Mapi.

Sprawled across it like a crime scene.

One arm slung off the edge. One leg kicked straight into the air, resting against the back of the couch like she was mid–karate move and then just… shut down. Her hoodie is halfway off one shoulder. She’s still wearing one boot. The other is missing.

She’s drooling.

You try not to laugh, but it bubbles out anyway.

“She looks like she died doing yoga,” you whisper.

Ingrid leans her head against yours, watching her girlfriend fondly. “She always sleeps like this after she declares war on someone.”

“Is this a normal thing?”

“Oh yeah,” Ingrid says. “She once threatened a ref and then passed out in the team bus with a tactical board on her chest. No one even questioned it.”

You blink.

She adds, “She also gets very clingy when she wakes up, so you might want to be gone before sunrise.”

“Noted.”

You both fall into a quiet silence, just watching Mapi snore softly with one sock halfway off and her arm twitching like she’s fighting someone in her dream.

Ingrid hums. “You okay?”

You take a second.

Then nod. “Yeah. I think I am.”

She squeezes your hand gently.

[cupofteatoyou]

The Secret Between Us

The last place you wanted to be was on a red carpet. But he asked you to come — and you went, like you always did when he looked at you that way. Like you were something breakable to be protected. Even if your heart wasn't all in it. So here you were.

Camera flashes lit up the night as youand he stepped out of the car. His hand rested at the small of your back — reassuring, comforting. Your daughter clung to your other side, her small hand grasping yours with a tight hold.

You fixed the hem of her skirt and smiledat her gently. "Just stick with me, okay?"

She nodded, her large eyes darting over the lights, the crowd, the noise.

You weren't a celebrity. Not like him.

You hated this person of attention, always did. But you insisted it would be okay — that you had to be seen. And some part of you wanted to think that. That you were here. That the past wasn't anymore.

But then you saw her.

Alexia.

Standing across the room, near the stage, looking stronger — and more distant — than ever. Her suit crisp. Her face expressionless. Surrounded by other players and reporters, she looked completely in her element

You didn’t look her way. Not directly. Not even once.

But you felt her there. Like gravity.

Still, you stayed close to him. You smiled softly when he leaned in to ask if you were okay. You nodded. You always nodded. And your daughter — sweet, sharp-eyed, and blissfully unaware — hummed quietly as she sipped apple juice through a paper straw.

You almost made it through the night.

Almost.

But kids never time anything well.

“Mommy,” she tugged at your hand, standing on tiptoe. “I have to go.”

You glanced up at your partner mid-conversation, gave a quick squeeze to his arm. “We’ll be right back.”

You threaded through the elegant chaos of the hall, gently guiding her along the marble floor until you found the restroom near the corner of the venue — quiet, dimly lit, tucked behind a velvet curtain.

It was almost peaceful inside. Cool tile. Soft lighting. No cameras. No stage lights. You breathed easier the moment the door shut behind you.

You helped her into one of the stalls, humming something under your breath to calm your nerves — and hers.

She chatted softly while you fixed the bow on her dress, completely unaware of the world outside that door. Completely unaware of the woman standing by the sinks.

You didn’t notice her at first.

Not until you straightened up, turned around—

And froze.

Alexia.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Your stomach dropped.

You met her eyes in the mirror. Alexia. She looked just as composed as she had across the room — if not more so. Her expression unreadable, her presence overwhelming in the quiet of the bathroom.

“Didn’t think you were the award-show type anymore,” she added casually.

You gave a small, polite smile. “I’m not.”

A beat passed. Her eyes flicked toward the stall door, where your daughter was humming to herself behind it.

Alexia raised a brow. “She yours?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t know you had a kid,” she said, drying her hands on a paper towel. “Guess a lot’s changed.”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It has.”

She didn’t press. She just gave you that look — the one she used to give when she was biting back something sarcastic.

“You and him, huh?” She nodded toward the door, meaning your boyfriend. “He’s… tall.”

You blinked, caught between confusion and amusement. “He plays football.”

“Figures.”

There was a weird silence then. You knew her well enough to tell when she was holding something back — and she clearly had something to say. But she didn’t. Not yet.

Before either of you could fill the quiet, the toilet flushed, and your daughter came out of the stall. Alexia glanced down at her again, offering a faint, polite smile — more awkward than warm. “She looks like you.”

You smiled gently. “Thanks.”

“She’s cute. Definitely not yours, though — she’s too confident.”

That made you laugh, just once — short and quiet — and Alexia smirked like she’d won something.

But your chest still ached.

Your daughter padded over to the sink, standing on tiptoe as she tried to reach the faucet. You instinctively leaned forward to help her, but she waved you off with a stubborn little frown.

“I got it, Mommy,” she said proudly, sticking her chin up just a little. “I’m a big girl now.”

You smiled softly, backing off with your hands raised in surrender. “Okay, okay. Big girl rules.”

She managed to twist the tap on with both hands, the water splashing a little as she struggled to keep it at just the right pressure. Her brows furrowed in deep concentration while she lathered the soap across her tiny fingers.

Alexia watched the whole thing in silence, arms crossed loosely over her chest.

Something about the scene must’ve amused her, because she let out a quiet chuckle. “Bossy little thing, huh?”

You glanced at her. “She knows what she wants.”

“I can see that,” she said, her tone light, but her eyes didn’t leave your daughter’s face.

Your girl rinsed her hands and reached for a paper towel, standing on tiptoe again to get one from the dispenser. You moved to grab it for her, but she beat you to it, yanking one free with a proud little “Ha!”

Alexia raised a brow. “Big girl energy.”

“Every single day,” you said, smoothing a wrinkle in your dress while your heart thudded in your chest.

You could feel Alexia’s curiosity, even if she wasn’t voicing it.

“She’s got your attitude,” she added with a small smirk, glancing briefly at you. “God help your boyfriend.”

You gave her a tight smile, saying nothing.

Your daughter finished drying her hands and walked up to you, hugging your leg as she looked up at Alexia with a shy, curious expression.

“Mommy?” she asked in a whisper, still holding onto you.

“Yes, baby?”

“Who’s that?”

Alexia let out a soft laugh, crouching slightly so she was closer to her height. “Just a friend of your mom’s,” she said, her voice warmer now — instinctive, without thinking.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Because the way she looked at your daughter — even for a second — held something deep. Unspoken. But still… she didn’t see it.

Not yet.

You reached down and gently stroked your daughter’s curls, your voice quiet. “Say goodbye, sweetie.”

“Bye, nice lady,” she said, and Alexia gave a small wave in return, still crouched.

“Bye, big girl.”

She stood, brushing invisible lint off her pants. Then she looked at you one last time, her voice lower this time.

“She’s… great.”

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “She is.”

And then you turned, walking your daughter out of the bathroom with your heart hammering, wondering how much longer you could keep this secret.

“There you are.”

You glanced up to see your boyfriend walking toward you through the hallway, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his tailored suit. That soft, easy smile was already on his face — the one that never failed to calm you, even when your chest was buzzing with nerves.

“Hey,” he said, bending slightly to meet your daughter’s eye level. “You okay, mi reina?”

She nodded proudly. “I washed my hands myself .”

“Oh?” he gasped dramatically. “Look who is growing up quickly!”

She giggled, slipping her hand into his without hesitation as he stood again. “Come on,” he said warmly, offering you his other hand. “They’re about to serve dessert.”

You took it, grateful for his steady presence as the three of you walked back through the ballroom. You tried not to glance back toward the hallway. You didn’t want to think about who was still in there. About whether she had heard your daughter’s voice. About whether she had noticed.

Your daughter tugged on her boyfriend’s hand. “Do you think it’s chocolate?”

“I hope so,” he said. “Otherwise we’ll have to file an official complaint.”

She laughed, totally enchanted, and for a moment — just a moment — you let yourself breathe.

You reached your table and he pulled your chair out for you before helping your daughter into hers. The moment was smooth, natural, familiar. No fanfare. No awkwardness. Just comfort. And stability.

You sat down, smiling faintly, and watched as he leaned over to whisper something to her. She covered her mouth to hide a burst of laughter, and he looked over at you with a wink.

And you thought — this is the life you chose.

Not chaos. Not heartbreak. Not ghosts of what used to be.

The days since the award show had passed in a blur, but Alexia couldn't seem to shake the encounter. It wasn't just the awkwardness of the bathroom moment — though that certainly hadn't helped. It was the nagging feeling that there was something she was missing. Something in the way you held yourself, the way you’d interacted with your daughter. And now, in the stillness of her office late one evening, she couldn't stop thinking about it.

At first, she told herself it didn’t matter. You were long gone from her life. You’d chosen to leave, and so had she. There was nothing left to discuss. Except for the kid.

She hadn't given it much thought at the time, but the more she thought about it, the more unsettled she became. The little girl — she’d seemed so familiar. But she couldn’t pinpoint why.

It wasn’t until Alexia was scrolling through social media a few days later that she noticed it — and the realization hit her like a punch to the gut.

There was a photo of you and your daughter, your arms wrapped around her protectively at some recent charity event. But it was the child’s eyes that held Alexia’s gaze, frozen to the spot.

Those eyes.

It wasn’t just a resemblance. It was unmistakable. The same deep-set, almost-melancholy shade of brown Alexia had carried with her all her life. The same intensity, the same sharpness that anyone who had spent enough time with Alexia could recognize. Her heart stuttered in her chest, and her breath caught in her throat.

She leaned closer to the screen, narrowing her eyes, not believing what she was seeing. The child’s gaze locked with yours in the photo — the same soft curve of your smile, the same way you tilted your head as you spoke to her. But it was the eyes that pierced her.

She blinked slowly, trying to shake the thought, but it refused to leave. The child’s gaze seemed to pierce through the screen, almost as if it was beckoning her to understand something she wasn’t ready to face.

The more she stared, the more the weight of it all settled in her chest, tightening like a vice. This doesn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real. She couldn’t have missed this. The child wasn’t hers — was she?

Her heart raced again, a mix of confusion and frustration. She had always prided herself on knowing things, on reading situations clearly. But now, nothing made sense. She had seen you move on. She had seen you happy with your boyfriend, a life she never expected, but this… this was different.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that no one in your family had eyes like that. Not you. Not your boyfriend. No one. It couldn’t just be a coincidence, could it? Her fingers gripped her laptop tightly, the screen still illuminated with that haunting image. She wasn’t sure if she was looking for answers in it, or if it was just the only thing she could focus on as her mind spiraled into uncertainty.

Her gaze drifted down to the other photos that followed — the ones of you laughing with your boyfriend, the way your daughter seemed to belong in the mix. And then, she saw it again. The connection. The little girl’s eyes, her eyes. They were so much like hers, it felt like something in her was unraveling.

Alexia’s breath hitched. She couldn’t stop the tide of thoughts crashing through her, each one more overwhelming than the last. She had seen you in so many photos over the years. She had seen how you smiled, how your expressions shifted, how your personality reflected in everything you did. And yet, she had never seen anything like this before. Not this… connection.

What if?

The question lingered, heavier than anything else she’d been asking herself. What if the little girl was hers? What if everything she had ever known about her past — their past — had been a lie, kept from her for all these years?

Her hands were trembling now, the phone slipping slightly as her thoughts spiraled out of control. She couldn’t even think clearly. All she knew was that something had been taken from her. Something important.

How could you have kept this from her?

The more she looked at the child’s face, the more the emotions boiled within her. Anger. Betrayal. But most of all, hurt. She hadn’t been part of this. She hadn’t been given the chance to know. She hadn’t been part of a chapter of her own life.

She closed her eyes, trying to steady her racing thoughts. It wasn’t just the child. It was the years that had passed. The way things had ended between them, and the overwhelming sense that they had left her out of this entire chapter. This secret. This piece of her own history that had been hidden from her.

Her chest tightened again. Was this a family she had never known about? Was she really supposed to just accept that she was the last person to find out?

She didn’t know how much longer she could keep this to herself.

And then, almost instinctively, her fingers tapped the screen once more, bringing up your name, searching for something — anything — that might explain this. But all she found were the same photos, the same stories of your life without her.

Alexia stared at the photos again, wondering how it all had happened. And then, she saw it: a picture of you at a charity event, your daughter by your side, smiling brightly, her eyes… still unmistakably like Alexia’s.

It’s her eyes, Alexia thought again, her mind racing in a thousand different directions.

She didn’t know why, but the realization hit her hard. The girl looked at the camera with the same intensity, the same focused expression Alexia had worn in her younger years. And then it hit her harder — the truth. The child didn’t look like anyone else in your life. She looked like her.

Her mind was a blur, but one thing stood out. Alexia couldn’t sit with this feeling any longer. She needed to know.

But how? How could she ask you? What could she even say?

She sat still, her mind frantic, each thought colliding into the next. She stared at the screen, almost waiting for something to happen — a sign, an answer, something to break through the chaos of her emotions.

For the first time in a long time, Alexia didn’t know what to do.

The silence in the room stretched for what felt like hours. Alexia couldn’t take her eyes off the picture of the child. The one with her eyes.

The silence in the room was suffocating.

Alexia stared at the photo like it might suddenly change, like the child’s eyes would stop looking like hers if she just blinked hard enough. But they didn’t. They never would. And the longer she sat there, the more unbearable it became.

Her hand tightened around the phone that was sitting beside her laptop.

No more sitting. No more thinking.

Her fingers hovered over her phone this time , but not over your name.

She didn’t know your address.

Of course she didn’t — why would she? It had been years. You had built an entirely new life, and she hadn’t been part of it. But someone else had been.

Alba.

Alexia’s jaw tensed. She remembered in passing — not long after the breakup — that Alba had mentioned helping you move. At the time, Alexia hadn’t asked. She hadn’t wanted to know. But now?

Now she needed to know.

Without another thought, she scrolled to her sister’s name and hit the call button.

It rang once.

Twice.

“Hola?” came Alba’s voice, groggy and confused.

“Alba,” Alexia said quickly, her voice low and urgent. “I need you to tell me where she lives.”

A pause. “Who?”

“You know who.”

Alba was silent for a beat too long.

“You’re calling me at midnight to—”

Alexia cut in, her voice tighter now. “This is serious. It’s about her… and the girl.”

The other end of the line went quiet.

Alba finally sighed. “Alexia, what’s going on?”

“I can’t explain right now. Just… please. I need the address.”

Another pause. Alexia could hear shuffling, the sound of Alba walking through her apartment, maybe finding something to write with.

“You’re not going to cause a scene, right?”

Alexia didn’t answer.

“I’m texting it,” Alba said, quietly. “But you should think about what you’re doing.”

I’ve been thinking about it for days, Alexia wanted to say. And it’s tearing me apart.

Instead, she ended the call with a tight, “Gracias,” and waited.

A moment later, the address lit up her screen. Her heart thudded so loudly she could hear it in her ears. It was real now.

She grabbed her jacket.

She didn’t even think about the time — didn’t care if you’d be angry or confused or stunned at the sight of her on your doorstep.

She just knew one thing

She couldn’t keep staring at photos, wondering if that child was hers.

She had to look you in the eye.

And finally ask.

The front door clicked shut behind you as you set your keys on the small tray by the entrance, the familiar jingle echoing softly in the hallway. The air inside your home was cool and still, a comforting contrast to the buzz of the busy restaurant you’d just left.

Your daughter kicked off her shoes in a practiced little routine, placing them side by side near the door with exaggerated care. “Done,” she declared proudly.

“You’re getting too good at that,” you teased, shrugging off your jacket and hanging it by the stairs.

“It’s ‘cause I’m big now,” she said, dragging her unicorn backpack behind her as she headed toward the living room. “Can I have ten minutes of cartoons before bath time?”

You gave her a look — playful, but firm. “Eight.”

She gasped. “You drive a hard bargain, Mama.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, walking over to the kitchen to grab two water bottles and a couple of strawberries for her to snack on. Everything felt so normal. So routine. Dinner had been easy, light — your boyfriend made her laugh until she snorted lemonade out of her nose, and he’d held your hand under the table when no one was looking.

This was the life you’d built.

And for a while now, it had felt safe.

You walked back into the living room to find your daughter curled up in her usual spot on the couch, the blanket around her legs and her favorite cartoon already playing. She looked up when you set the strawberries down.

“Thank you, Mommy.”

You ruffled her curls, then sat beside her with a soft sigh, letting yourself sink into the couch cushions. You hadn’t thought much about that night — the award show — since it happened. You’d forced yourself not to. Maybe it was denial, or maybe it was just survival.

Your daughter was humming softly to the cartoon, completely absorbed in her little world of flashing colors and playful characters. You turned your attention to her for a moment, letting her laughter fill the quiet space of the room. It was a small, perfect piece of normal.

But even as she laughed, you felt the edge of something unsettling at the back of your mind. You pushed it away.

You stared down at your phone for a moment, absentmindedly scrolling through a couple of notifications. Another message from your mother, just checking in, and you typed a quick reply, reassuring her you were both home safe.

Then your gaze flicked to the window, catching the soft orange glow of the streetlights outside. The night was still and calm, but your stomach tightened.

A soft knock at the door interrupted your thoughts.

You stood up slowly, thinking it was probably your boyfriend or maybe one of your neighbors stopping by. It was a quiet evening after all, but the knock still made your heart rate pick up, like something about it didn’t feel quite right.

You glanced toward your daughter, who was still blissfully unaware, her eyes glued to the TV screen, completely content in her little world.

Another knock came, and you shrugged it off, deciding it was just someone who had come by for a casual visit. Maybe your boyfriend had forgotten something, or one of your neighbors had a question about the community garage sale happening next week.

You walked over to the door, still uncertain but not overly concerned. With a quick glance at the clock on the wall, you turned the doorknob, half-expecting to see your boyfriend standing there with a sheepish smile or maybe one of the neighborhood kids needing something from you.

But when you opened the door, it wasn’t who you expected.

Standing there, just outside your doorstep, was Alexia.

Your breath caught in your throat, your body stiffening for a split second as the reality of the situation hit you. Alexia stood there in casual clothes, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, her expression unreadable.

She looked… almost out of place. The athlete, the confident and poised professional — she looked far more human now, softer somehow, with an exhaustion in her eyes that you hadn’t seen before.

You blinked, the shock of seeing her at your door momentarily paralyzing you. “Alexia?” You said it like a question, like you couldn’t quite believe your eyes.

For a moment, she didn’t respond, just stared at you with that quiet intensity, as if trying to read your face, searching for something.

Your first instinct was to close the door — to push back the memories, the silence, everything. But you didn’t.

Instead, you stood there, heart pounding in your chest, wondering what on earth she was doing here. You’d never told anyone about your past with her— especially not your boyfriend,noone except your parents . And suddenly, with her standing at your doorstep, everything you’d kept hidden felt like it was on the verge of spilling out.

Alexia stepped forward slightly, her voice coming out soft but sharp. “I… I need to talk to you.”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breath. “About what?” you managed to ask, your voice betraying more emotion than you’d intended.

Her eyes flickered to the side, and that’s when you realized she was looking past you, glancing into your house. The tension in the air shifted slightly, and you suddenly felt very aware of how exposed you were standing there.

She cleared her throat, not quite meeting your eyes again. “It’s about your daughter.”