unrequited love (feat. stay down)
hector fort/kenan yildiz x reader
unrequited love is a love which is not reciprocated, one-sided or more generally unequal, resulting in a yearning for more complete love.
It's past midnight again.
The kind of hour where the world feels like a spotify queue. Just waiting for that song to finally be its turn.
Like the Brent songs she used to put on while we kissed.
I once asked her why she never get's pissed when paparazzi pry so much.
Sonder. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.
When she explained that to me I thought about the word daily.
Yesterday I got so mad, that Lamine missed the perfectly passed ball I gave him. Something just wrenched inside me, when I got home and made my usual routine of thinking about her.
I should be asleep. We have training tomorrow, match day in two days. But instead, I'm sitting in my living room; lights off, hoodie over my head, scrolling through her page like it's a ritual.
Her name still sounds like a rnb song I can't get out of my head, even though the song ended a year ago.
She's in Milan in the latest post. Or maybe Paris. somewhere with marble floors and chandeliers. There's this warm glow on her skin, that smile she only gave when she was actually happy. The caption is something light, like the picture is enough. And it is.
Not her. Just Marc. Still, my heart drops like I thought it was her.
Every time, I swear I won't check. Every time, I do.
The bed creaks behind me.
It's Lea, my girlfriend. If that's what you can even call her. She's half asleep, hair messy, wearing one of my shirts. I don't even remember when I started calling her that. it just kind of happened in the silence Y/n left behind.
Lea walks closer, squinting through the dark.
"Nothing." I lock the phone too quickly.
Her eyes narrow. "You always say that."
She reaches for my phone, and I pull it back. instinct.
Her eyebrows lift, the kind of look that says she already knows the truth before I say anything."Who were you looking at?" she asks, voice quieter now, more dangerous.
She takes another step, and before I can hide the screen, the last photo of Y/n glows faintly. That smile. That goddamn smile.
Lea scoffs; one sharp, bitter sound that cuts through the air.
"Oh my God," she says, shaking her head.
"No. Don't even try. You're stalking her. You're actually stalking her!"
She backs away, laughing under her breath, but it's not humor. it's disbelief. "So that's what this was, huh? I'm the rebound. The distraction while you scroll through your heartbreak. Your unrequited love!"
I stand up, trying to reach for her arm. "Lea, it's not like that-"
"It's exactly like that." She grabs her coat from the chair. "You think I don't notice when you space out every time someone mentions her name? When you flinch every time you see a brunette in the stands? You're so obvious, gosh!"
Her voice cracks, and that makes it worse.
Because she doesn't deserve this. None of them ever do.
"Save it," she mutters, already halfway out the door. "I hope she was worth it."
I just stand there, staring at the reflection in my TV screen.
A 19 year old footballer with everything people dream of. fame, money, women. yet still can't get over a girl he let walk away.
Because even when I try to move on, I end up right here, chasing her ghost through pictures and memories.
The Limousine smells like stale cologne and leather.
Barcelona at night blurs past the window. red lights, scooters, tourists still awake and drunken men shouting.
My headphones are in, but I'm not listening to anything. Just noise.
Something Y/n used to do when she didn't want to be approached. I guess it hung with me.
I'm supposed to be going to some charity gala. appearances, handshakes, cameras, the usual.
The kind of thing my manager says "looks good for your image."
I'm already in the suit, tie too tight, jaw too clenched.
I don't even think about it anymore; my thumb just knows the route: explore. search. her username. Like it's muscle memory.
She hasn't posted in days.
The first photo is blurry. a pap shot. But even blurry, she's still Y/n. Siren sunglasses, a silk scarf around her hair, stepping off a boat in Venice.
Next to her is him. Kenan Yildiz. Hand on her back, guiding her through the crowd like she's the only one there.
I zoom in without meaning to. Her smile isn't forced. It's the one I used to see when she'd wait for me outside the training grounds. The one that made me believe in things I had no right believing in.
My stomach twists. My fingers tighten around the phone until my knuckles go white.
I swipe right. another shot. Them at dinner. Him leaning close to say something in her ear. Her laughing. That laugh.
The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror.
"Yeah." My voice is flat. "Fine."
I'm 19, barca's young star, in a black car headed to a red carpet even though i'm not even done with my degree yet. And now I'm staring at photos of the girl I lost, who's being happy with someone else and somehow that's all I think about. It pisses me off..
how much control she has over me.
I shove the phone face down on the seat. My heart still races like I'm sprinting.
Moments like these remind me how real I am.
The driver pulls up to the venue. Flashshots already explode outside the windows. People shouting names. The kind of noise that's supposed to make you feel alive but just makes me feel like I wanna crawl back home and lay in my bed.
I take one last breath before stepping out.
I smile. or at least try to before another flash comes through.
Inside, it smells like expensive perfume and wealth.
I keep telling myself; play it cool, Fort. She might not even be here. She might not even come.
But the universe loves irony.
Because when I step onto the carpet, under the chandeliers, the first thing I see; is her.
I spot her, and before I can think, my body moves on its own.
Because a second later I see him.
And just like that, it's as if someone hits rewind and mute at the same time.
My heart's still halfway across the room, but my feet lock in place. I force myself to breathe, to blink, to remember where I am.. a crowded event, cameras everywhere, people watching.
What are you doing, Hector?
I can practically hear myself saying it.
Pull yourself together. She's not yours. She hasn't been for a long time.
But my eyes don't listen.
It's the way she's standing. the slight tilt of her head, the way she holds her glass like she's trying not to fidget. There's something in her that I still recognize, something that makes the rest of the world blur.
I want to move closer, to say anything, even just hi.
But I can already feel the story the tabloids would spin out of it, the way it would look if I walked across the room just to chase a ghost.
So instead I stay still, shoulders square, expression blank. the same mask I wear on the pitch when everything's falling apart and the cameras are too close.
There's that dull ache again, the one that starts in my chest and works its way up to my throat.
The kind of yearning that doesn't make sense.
the kind that isn't supposed to linger this long.
She glances my way, just for a second, and I swear my pulse skips.
I don't smile. I don't nod. I don't move.
But I know she's seen me.
I drag my gaze away, jaw tight, trying to look like I'm listening to someone talking about sponsorship deals. My fingers tap against my glass, restless.
In my head, though, I'm still standing in front of her. a version of me that didn't stop, that didn't hesitate.
But that version doesn't exist.
The night stretches out like a match that just reached the 130th minute.
Every time I think l've found a corner of the room where I can breathe, I catch another glimpse of them.
Y/n and Yildiz move together through the crowd the way people do when they've spent a lot of time learning each other's rhythms. She laughs a few times, and every one of those laughs feels like someone digging right into a bruise.
I keep my face still. I've had practice with that; interviews, post-match losses, questions I can't answer. You learn to make your eyes flat, to keep your jaw still, to act like the noise doesn't reach you.
But inside, you feel like you might crash out.
Someone from the club walks over and presses a drink into my hand. I nod, grateful for the distraction. One glass turns into two, then three.
Each one blurs the edges a little more, smooths the noise into a hum I can almost stand.
By the time I'm on the terrace, the air smells like rain and champagne that's probably only my breath. I lean against the railing and scroll my phone, pretending I'm reading messages. I can still see the reflection of the ballroom in the glass. her dress, the glint of light shining on her, making her look like the only person in the room when she turns.. the shadow of Yildiz's hand at the small of her back. Too casual looking. Too familiar. A feeling I remember too well.
The jealousy sits under my ribs, low and steady.
It isn't sharp anymore. It's just there familiar, almost comfortable.
I finish the drink. Someone laughs nearby, and for a second I think it's her. I look over my shoulder. it's not. My pulse jumps anyway.
I'm being paranoid aren't I?
When I go back inside, the room feels smaller, hotter. The lights sting.
There they are again, near the edge of the dance floor, talking with people I half know. Kenan looks over, nods in that polite, detached way footballers do when they've shared the same field. I nod back. That's all.
Because I can feel the stare that follows. The little tightening of my shoulders. The way my tongue clicks against the roof of my mouth.
A few teammates pull me into another round of drinks. I don't even like the taste anymore, but it gives my hands something to do. The laughter around me gets louder. thinner.
God I fucking hate rich people's laughs.
And then suddenly, she's closer.
I can hear her voice clearly now. the soft rise and fall of it, the same rhythm that used to fill the quiet of my apartment.
I tell myself not to look.
Her eyes flick up and catch mine again.
For a heartbeat, we're both caught. no cameras, no crowd, just that invisible string stretching between us.
Then Kenan says something, and she turns toward him.
That's the crack that finally spreads through me.
I tip back the rest of the drink, almost burning my throat.
And before I know it, my feet are moving. not toward the exit, not away. Toward them.
I don't remember deciding to move.
One minute I'm standing by the bar, the next l'm walking straight into the noise and the lights, weaving through people like I'm on autopilot.
They're only a few steps away.
Yildiz's laughing at something, his hand still resting lightly on Y/n's back. She looks up at him the way she used to look at me. soft, a little guarded, like she's still learning where to put her heart.
I should turn around. I should.
Instead I smile. that same fake, easy grin | wear for cameras.
"Long time no see," I say, words coming out too fast. "Remember when I beat you at the Camp Nou?"
Yildiz's caught off guard for half a second, then he laughs, claps my shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, that one time. Don't get used to it."
His voice is friendly, light. But there's an edge underneath, the kind that comes out when two players know they're being watched.
I laugh too, because that's what we're supposed to do. "One times all it takes, right?"
It's meant to be a joke, but it doesn't sound like one. It lands somewhere between pride and provocation.
He grins, but his eyes don't. "Sure, mate. You had a good day."
"Guess I did." I tip my glass, the liquid sloshing near the rim. My chest feels tight. The air between us thickens.
Y/n shifts slightly, her fingers brushing the side of her dress. a squeeze. She's quiet, eyes flicking from Kenan to me.
"Anyway," He says, still smiling, "how's everything at Barca?"
"Could be worse," | answer. My voice feels heavier now, slower. "Could be better too."
The people nearby are still talking, but it's all just static. The only sound that cuts through is my own pulse.
Kenan chuckles again, but it's thinner this time. "Don't take it so serious, bro."
Something in me bristles at that. the casual bro, the way he looks down at me like he's trying to make it easy.
"I'm chill," I say, even though I'm not. "Just saying."
He laughs again, the kind of laugh that sounds like it's meant to show everyone else he's not bothered. "You sound tense, man."
And that's when I stop pretending.
"Maybe I am," I say. "Must be the drinks. Or maybe it's watching another guy take what used to be mine."
The words are out before I can catch them.
Silence spreads like a spill.
Kenan's smile freezes. His eyes narrow, only for a second, but enough.
"Careful, Fort," he says quietly, the friendliness gone.
Before either of us can say more, Y/n's voice cuts through. soft, firm... cold?
Just my name. No anger, no sharpness.
She's looking at me the way she used to when we fought. not furious, not disappointed, just tired.
And that look hits harder than any shout could.
For a second, it feels like something inside my ribs twists, tightens. like someone's pressing down, squeezing until it hurts to breathe.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
All the noise in the room folds into silence.
Then Yildiz steps closer to her, says something low I don't catch. They turn, start to walk away.
I stand there, still holding the glass, watching her disappear into the crowd.
After they walk off, the noise of the gala creeps back in. Laughter, cameras, glasses clinking. It should all sound normal again, but everything feels off beat.
I stay where I am for a few seconds too long, pretending to check my phone. My hand's shaking a little; the ice in my drink has melted by the end of the conversation.
Someone from the club Pr team touches my arm, asks if I'm all right. I tell them I'm fine.
They smile the kind of smile that says they don't believe me but don't want to get involved.
Not part of their job anyway. Might as well mind their business.
I wander to the other side of the room, nodding back at people whose names I can't remember. The lights blur at the edges. Every time I catch a glimpse of her dress in the crowd, my stomach tightens again.
I try to talk to a group of players, make a few jokes, but the words come out wrong. They laugh anyway, polite. I can tell they're waiting for me to leave so they can talk about what just happened.
Another drink appears in my hand; I don't remember asking for it. The taste is dull now, but it keeps my mouth busy.
Across the room, a photographer asks for a picture. I stand between two sponsors, smile, the flash goes off. My grin looks real enough that for a moment I almost believe it.
With her, I never had to pretend.
When I look back toward the crowd, Y/n and Yildiz are dancing. Not close, there's still space between them, but close enough that I can't unsee it. can't help but form my hand in a first anyway. Her head tilts back when she laughs.
His hand rests lightly at her waist.
Something inside me folds in on itself.
I think about leaving. I picture the exit, the quiet of the parking lot, the ride home. Cause if i don't, I might punch that bastard right in the face, not that the match I beat him at wasn't enough.
Maybe it's punishment, maybe it's habit. Or Maybe I just want to look at her. Only this one Night.
Hours crawl by. The music softens, people start to drift out. The smell of wine and perfume clings to everything. I find a seat near the wall and scroll through old messages on my phone conversations with her that I never deleted. Tiny pieces of a world that doesn't exist anymore.
When the last of the guests are leaving, I finally step outside. The night air hits cold and sharp, sobering in a way the drinks couldn't. Paparazzi still wait by the entrance, their flashes cutting through the dark. I duck my head, slide into the back of the car and tell the driver to drive.
The city blurs past again. Streetlights smear into gold streaks on the window. My phone buzzes.
The barca club group chat notifications, nothing important. I open her profile one more time. Same photos.
Without thinking, I tap the message bar and type:
I stare at the words for a long minute before hitting send.
The screen shows Delivered. Then Seen.
I lock the phone, lean back against the seat, close my eyes. The hum of the car fills the silence.
Outside, Barcelona stays the same. music, lights, people laughing somewhere. Inside, everything's still.
And that's the part that hurts the most: the world doesn't stop for you, even when you're stuck on the memory of someone who already moved on.
But somewhere deep down, that invisible string still tugs.
And you don’t know if it’s hope, or just the ache of what you can’t have.
Either way, you stay down.
