Heavy on he changed so much because what happened to him, he used to want to die on the pitch and play every game and now its more likely that he misses games to travel and go on dates, So weird to see from him
No bcuz imagine working hard since your childhood to join your dream club and you learn Spanish at an early age and actually ACHIEVE THAT DREAM only for you to use your injury as an excuse to book a sweet getaway with a girl who didn't even „knew who you were” to begin with. 💀
Like what? Is she healing parts of you, you have broken yourself?
I love how every big Kylian blog on here took their own route of other interests and that shows he fucked up big time.
Can’t blame y’all, HE STARTED IT
AHAHAHHAHAHA SO SO TRUE. We still mourn him tho. Me and @jkkyks still reminiscing our date nights and the excitement we felt whenever he'd show up on screen. Now it's just ‘urgh.. not again.’
I don't even know how to put this? I can't write about a man who is in a committed relationship, aaaaaaand im kinda mad at him.. but i love him. But I also hate him... But I love him.
Hi @kymb-10. I wanted to wish you a Happy New Year in advance! I hope all your dreams come true and that you spend a happy moment with your loved ones. Hugs and kisses, admin of @xabialonsoismydrug
Thank youuu! 🥹💞 That means a lot to me. I wish you an amazing New Year, may all your dreams come true too. Sending hugs and kisses back 😘🤗
Plot: You’re overwhelmed but still holding it together. He shuts you down before you can speak. Silence turns into distance. One wrong question triggers everything.
Genre: Angst
A/N: putting a bit of my personal experiences in this cause wtf.
Warning: YOU CHOOSE YOUR OWN ENDING!! DEPENDING ON YOUR MOOD YOU CAN CHOOSE A PATH
You wake up before your alarm, the way you always do now, with your chest already tight like you’ve been running in your sleep. The room is dark, quiet in that almost-merciful way, but your brain is already loud. A running list you don’t remember starting.
You check the time. Three hours since you last looked. Maybe four since you last slept.
You stare at the ceiling and think about nothing specific: the email you forgot to send, the meeting later that you’re not ready for, the way the sink sounded last night when you turned the tap off too fast. You think about how tired you are in a way that feels physical, like your bones are heavier than they used to be.
You reach for your phone, stop halfway.
He’s probably asleep. Or busy. Or both.
You put it back down.
When you finally get up, the apartment feels like it’s holding its breath. Clean enough to pass, messy enough to make you feel like you’re behind. There’s laundry in the basket that never quite empties. A mug on the counter you forgot to rinse. Dust you keep noticing and telling yourself you’ll deal with on the weekend.
You don’t.
You shower quickly, standing under the water longer than necessary because it’s the only place your thoughts soften. Even there, you rehearse conversations you won’t have. You practice saying I’m tired in a way that doesn’t sound like a complaint.
At work, you do what you always do. You perform competence. You solve problems that aren’t technically yours. You nod when someone adds another thing to your plate and tell yourself it’s fine because you’re good at being fine.
You think about texting him during lunch.
You don’t.
There’s nothing new to say. Busy has become a summary of your entire life.
By the time you get home, the quiet feels louder. You drop your bag by the door and stand there for a second too long, like you’re waiting for something to happen. Nothing does.
You eat standing up. You scroll without reading. You sit on the edge of the couch and stare at the floor where you meant to vacuum last weekend.
Your phone buzzes.
My Kyky 💋: Long day. How are you?
You type tired. Delete it.
You type stressed. Delete that too.
You send:
You: I’m okay. Just busy.
It’s true. That’s the worst part.
You don’t tell him about the way your head feels too full for your body. You don’t tell him that some days it feels like you’re buffering, stuck between who you are and who you’re supposed to be. You don’t tell him that you miss him in a way that doesn’t feel dramatic enough to justify saying out loud.
You lie down without really resting. You close your eyes without sleeping.
And somewhere between the ceiling and the silence, a thought settles in — not sharp, just heavy:
I can do this on my own.
You don’t realize yet how dangerous that thought is.
It takes him a while to respond, so you drop your phone and busy yourself with your long to-do list.
You’re in the kitchen, half-dressed in yesterday’s sweater, reheating coffee you already know is too bitter. The apartment still feels like it’s holding its breath. You don’t want to talk. You’re not in the mood to explain anything.
Your phone buzzes.
My KYKY 💋: Hey. Free for a call?
You tap “yes,” but your voice sounds quieter than you expect when you finally speak.
“Hey.”
“Long day?” he asks, casual, not knowing how much it matters.
“Yeah… busy,” you say, and it sounds empty even to you.
He hums, the kind of hum that means he wants to ask more but is afraid to push. You can hear it in the slight pause on the line, the background noise from wherever he is.
You don’t fill it. You just take a sip of your coffee. You hear him shift. Then, quieter, “I’m… exhausted.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “I figured.”
That stings more than it should.
Your fingers worrying at the hem of your shirt. “I didn’t sleep much. Work’s been—”
He cuts in.
“Hey. Can we talk about it later?”
You go still.
“I just got back to the hotel. I’m wiped.”
You swallow. “Sure.” you choke.
“We’ll talk about this when I get back,” he says finally.
“…Okay,” you whisper, but your voice carries more tension than either of you notices.
“Okay,” he says, a little sharper now. “bye.”
You hesitate. The words are in your throat. You want to say I’m drowning, but that would take time you don’t have. Instead, you say:
“Bye.”
You hang up. Silence floods the apartment. You breathe, trying to settle the lump in your chest, but it doesn’t go away. It’s just waiting.
And honestly? You’re scared.
You are scared he’ll meet the version of you who doesn’t think before she reacts— the one who cries without knowing why, who gets angry at things that don’t matter, who spirals into fear.
Over the softest change in tone.
You’re scared he’ll see the cracks past heartbreak carved into you—
the doubts,
the insecurities,
the need for reassurance you hate admitting.
If he loves you through your chaos, you’ll learn to love yourself through it too.
Love should feel safe enough to grow in the dark and bloom in the light.
Right?
You stare at your messy apartment, your unfinished dishes, your unmade bed, and feel it bubble: exhaustion, frustration, loneliness.
He steps through the door later that night. The faint smell of grass and his jacket still clinging to him hits you, but you barely notice. You’re too wound up in your own exhaustion, the mess of the day, and the tiny bubble of anger that’s been simmering all week.
He looks at you and, without thinking, says:
“Are you feeling better now?”
You stop. Freeze mid-step. That’s it — just those five words. And suddenly, it feels like he’s pointing at every late night, every messy corner, every hard day, and saying you should be fine now.
“…What do you mean by that?” you ask, voice tight, eyes narrowing.
He chuckles softly, trying to lighten it:
“Whoa, calm down. Why are you so feisty?”
You don’t answer. You just stare. Silent, simmering, your chest tightening.
And he notices. Just notices. Not retreating, not pushing. And that makes it worse. Because he’s calm, casual, almost teasing, while you’ve been carrying a week’s worth of exhaustion, stress, and loneliness on your shoulders.
Your lips press together. Jaw tight. Silent. Angry. Words building up behind your teeth, but you hold them back because… what would even come out?
He tilts his head, still calm. And the contrast — his lightness against your bubbling tension — is painful.
“Hey… seriously, are you okay?”
You stare at him, wordless. Silent, but your anger is loud. Every muscle is tense. Your irritation isn’t explosive; it’s heavy, simmering.
And then he takes a careful step closer, softens his tone, and says:
“I don’t want to push, I just… I noticed. That’s all.”
But the damage is done. The “Are you better now?” lingers like a knife in your chest. You can feel how small it makes you, how unaware he is of what you’ve been carrying, and suddenly the room feels too small, the silence between you too wide.
“No,” you say, voice rising. “I don’t become magically ‘better’ because I stopped panicking about something.”
He runs a hand over his face. “I was just asking—”
“No,” you cut in. “You weren’t asking how I feel. You were asking if I’m convenient again.”
His jaw tightens. “Why are you being so disrespectful?”
“Really??” you fire back. “So I am being disrespectful while you didn’t ask how long I’ve been holding that in. You didn’t ask if I’m okay — you asked if I’m manageable.”
Silence stretches between you.
He folds his arms. “So what do you want me to say?”
You laugh again, bitter, shaking your head.
“I wanted you to say it months ago,” you reply. “I wanted you to notice without me having to fall apart.”
He takes a deep breath, still calm, still careful, but there’s something heavier in his eyes now — honesty, maybe fear. He stands across from you, just far enough to give you space, just close enough that you feel trapped in the room with him and all the tension you’ve been holding.
“I swear... Most of the time…” he starts, voice low, almost hesitant, “…I don’t know how to love you in the midst of your chaos.”
Your body stiffens. The word chaos hits like ice in your chest. Your jaw tightens, and your fingers curl slightly at your sides.
“…My… chaos?” you finally whisper, disbelief threading every syllable.
He swallows and continues, softer, quieter:
“…Because I can’t predict how you’ll react.”
It’s not what you said, not what you did — it’s the way he framed you, like your exhaustion, your stress, your life, all of it, was unmanageable in his eyes.
You blink. Slowly. Your eyes narrow. You want to ask, to demand, but the words catch in your throat.
Chaos.
“I… I don’t mean it like you’re a problem. I just… I never know how to be there the way you need when things are happening all at once.”
You feel a rush of heat, not anger exactly, but a mixture of hurt, exhaustion, and frustration that has nowhere to go. You open your mouth, then shut it. Words feel impossible.
The silence stretches between you. Thick, suffocating.
“…So all this time,” you finally manage, voice trembling just enough to betray you, “…all the nights, all the stress, the mess… you just saw it as something you couldn’t handle?”
He hesitates. You can see him wanting to say something that would fix it, that would explain, but he doesn’t know how.
“No… I just… I didn’t want to make it worse,” he says softly.
“But you did,” you snap, voice sharper than you expected. “…by pretending it didn’t matter, by acting like I was fine because it was easier for you!”
He flinches, not from the words themselves, but from the weight behind them — and you realize, finally, just how much you’ve been holding back.
The room is quiet again. Not peaceful. Not resolved. Just… heavy.
And in that quiet, you see him for the first time in a long time: not as someone who’s failing you, but as someone who’s trying, in the only way he knows how — and you realize that’s not enough. Not for this.
He shifts closer. Slowly. Carefully.
Like you’re something fragile that might break if he moves too fast.
His hand comes out instinctively, reaching for yours the way he always does when things feel off — grounding, familiar, automatic.
The second his fingers brush your skin, something in you snaps.
“No, Kylian!”
You yank back so hard your shoulder hits the counter.
„Come on, darling.”
“No! You don’t get to be all loving now if you didn’t stand next to me when I needed you the most!”
Your voice cracks. You’re shaking. Hands clench into fists at your sides. Your whole body trembles from the force of it — anger, frustration, exhaustion, loneliness, everything spilling out at once.
“Do you have any idea what it’s been like for me?!” you scream, teeth bared, voice raw. “Do you think I’ve been sleeping? Eating properly? Keeping the house together? Holding my life together while you just… just exist without noticing?!”
Your words come faster now, no breaks, no filter.
“I’ve been carrying everything alone while you… you didn’t even see me! You didn’t even stand there when I needed you!”
Your chest heaves. You shiver from the fury, from the release, from the truth finally erupting.
He steps back instinctively, eyes wide.
“Y/n…”
He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t speak again. Just stares.
And you see it. That pause, that shock. He’s never seen this side of you. Never. Not like this.
And that only fuels the shouting.
“I’m TIRED! I’m so FUCKING TIRED! I’m tired of pretending! I’m tired of holding it all in and letting you be… just… YOU, without even noticing me!”
You can feel the anger shake through your limbs. Every breath is jagged. Your voice is hoarse, raw, breaking.
“You don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to be gentle. You don’t get to say I love you now! Not after everything I’ve done on my own while you were too blind to see!”
He swallows, frozen. He’s never faced this. Never imagined you like this — screaming, shaking, pure, raw pain and fury.
And you keep going.
“I’m DONE shrinking myself to make life easier for you! I’m DONE pretending nothing is wrong! I am HERE, I am FUCKING HERE, and I need you to see me! Really see me, not just when it’s convenient for you!”
Your fists unclench, but your whole body is still trembling. Shivering. Every nerve raw.
And he just stands there, silent, stunned, realizing — maybe too late — exactly how much you’ve been holding alone.
The most painful thing for you isn’t the argument itself. It’s that you finally gathered the courage to speak about what’s hurting you, and the man you love choose pride over understanding. Instead of listening, he shut down, defended himself, and turned the blame around until you’re questioning your own sanity. Suddenly, you were not expressing pain; you were ‘starting drama.’ You’re not seeking clarity; you’re ‘too emotional.’ and a few hugs and kisses can fix everything all of a sudden.
You realize you’re not being heard at all. That kind of emotional deflection doesn’t just end conversations; it breaks trust. It leaves you standing there, holding pieces of honesty you risked everything to share, only to be met with silence, sarcasm, and denial. That’s not communication. It’s manipulation disguised as self-protection.
A real man wouldn’t fear accountability; he values it. He understands that when a woman opens up about what’s hurting her, she’s not attacking; she’s inviting growth.
So why can’t that man be him?
Instead he choose to dodge, dismiss and make you feel little, he’s not protecting the relationship; he’s poisoning it.
No.
Listening is not weakness; it’s maturity. Taking responsibility doesn’t make him less of a man; it proves his strength. Because love isn’t about winning arguments; it’s about showing up with honesty and humility. The truth is, no relationship can survive where ego leads and empathy disappears. If he can’t face discomfort for the person he claims to love, then what kind of love is that?
He glances at you. “Come on Y/n, we’re both tired.”
You nod slowly, like you’re agreeing. Like you’re not unraveling.
And that’s the problem.
Dodging.
You swallow, jaw tight.
“Yeah,” you agree. “Let’s call it a night.”
He exhales. “I’m not ignoring this, I just don’t want this to turn into—”
“Into what?” you cut in softly. “Me being inconvenient?”
His expression hardens. “Stop saying that...”
You shake your head, a sad, tired motion.
“I wasn’t asking for a solution, Kylian” you say. “I wasn’t even asking you to fix anything. I just needed you to stay and listen.”
Silence stretches. Thick. Uncomfortable.
He doesn’t move closer.
“I don’t know WHAT to say,” he gets worked up about it. “I want you to feel relieved!”
“By letting me deal with alone??!” you yell, voice cracking. “God, Kylian! We are running in circles! You didn’t care when I needed you the most! You didn’t stand next to me! You let me do everything alone, like I was… like I was invisible!”
He steps closer, cautiously, and you take another step back, shivering, shaking, raw.
“Y/n… I didn’t know how to… I didn’t realize—”
“You didn’t realize?” you laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “That’s the excuse? That’s the reason? You didn’t realize? I’ve been living this! I’ve been drowning while you were… you!”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he says quietly.
“Not trying to hurt me?!” you scream. “Do you even know what it’s like to be me? To wake up, to go to work, to keep a life together while you act like none of it is real? You weren’t just absent — you were invisible! And now you want to act like this is about love?!”
He swallows, staring at you with a mix of guilt and panic.
“Y/n… I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing! Don’t touch me! Don’t look at me like you get to fix this now!”
You’re shaking so violently it hurts. Tears sting your eyes, but the anger keeps pouring out.
“I am done pretending this is okay! You promised me love, but all I got was… absence! You’re just like him!”
“Y/n—” he tries.
“Stop! Don’t you dare!” you cut him off. “You are just like my dad, who never was there for my mom. Fuck, I even think you’re worse, because at least he never promised her anything. Ahahahahaha…” You laugh, wild, hollow, and it cracks into sobs. “Oh god… I am so stupid. SO STUPID.”
He flinches, as if struck. Hands tighten into fists. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes.
Something inside you settles. Not calm. Acceptance.
He grunts. Eyes wide. „Shout some more. This will definitely fix things.” He says so calmly, walking a few steps back, then he turns around to face you again.
„You know, y/n? I came back home to you. I was supposed to stay at the hotel with my team. But I CHOSE to come back to you, because I know you are having a rough time. But I guess that means nothing to you.”
You stay silent.
„My acts of love just jump out the the window when you’re upset. THIS is why I choose for a calm moment to speak, but I don’t know when you’re calm.”
You laugh a bit.
„You are so fucking ignorant, Kylian.” you poke the inner side of your cheek with your tongue. „How am I supposed to calm down on my own when I’m fighting my own demons all by myself?”
You glare at him and he glares back.
Pure darkness.
„Yeah. I’m the bad guy.”
He nods sarcastically. But you nod convincingly.
You open the door. The hinge creaks softly.
At the threshold, you stop — not to beg, not to argue.
Just to say the truth.
“You keep saying we’ll talk later,” you say quietly. “But later is always after I’ve already fallen apart.”
He doesn’t answer.
You’re halfway to the door when his voice cuts through the room.
“Don’t.” You stop.
You turn back, shaking, furious. He’s standing straight now.
