ok I did it! I created a group pool for anyone to fill out a bracket with all their 2026 world cup predictions.
how to join: to join the pool and compete for points, fill out your bracket here, it's free to use and you don't need to create an account or register your email (though they do give the option to add it in to get a code in case you want to edit your bracket after submitting it). After filling out the whole bracket, save it (preferably with your url as the name so we all know who's who, but not if you don't want to) and then scroll down to the bottom to where it says "Join a group", enter the code: TUMBLR and join the group! don't skip this last step, it's important to get your bracket to appear in the group's leaderboard
I don't know if there's a limit date to submit it and/or edit it so just in case I would try to do it before thursday! I also don't know if second chance brackets will open after the group stage but hopefully they will
scoring system: i couldn't choose the scoring system so we are just going to go with the site's rules:
feel free to send me any questions if anything is unclear!
everyone is welcome to play (and share their brackets on here too if they want, we can use the tag #tumblr wc tournament) (and also please reblog to get this to more people). happy 2026 world cup and i hope your teams win (but actually only if they are the paraguay nt)
i don't love barca for its titles, i don't love barca for its superstars. it’s a club that isn’t in the best financial situation right now. but every çuler i know is intensely loyal, every athlete in that club loves playing here, and this love goes far beyond a paycheck or a trophy. i haven’t always made the best choices in life, but i’m glad i chose to support this team. there is a genuine joy i feel watching them play. this is what football is and should be. i love football because I love barca. i love barca because i love football. visca el barça, always.
The soft scratch of her stylus was the only sound in her cozy apartment, a rhythmic whisper against the hum of her laptop. On the screen, a digital illustration was coming to life: the gleam of a twentieth Premier League trophy held aloft, surrounded by a cascade of red and gold confetti, all under the iconic shadow of the Anfield gates. It was a tribute, a piece of home poured onto the canvas.
The buzz of her phone on the wooden desk was an intrusion. Y/N glanced at the caller ID, Tatum, and answered with a smile already in her voice, putting it on speaker. "Hey, you. I'm in the zone, so this better be good."
"Oh, it's good," Tatum's voice sing-songed down the line, crackling with barely contained excitement. "Y/N... darling... light of my life... guess what I have?"
Y/N chuckled, not looking up from the rendering of a player's jubilant face. "Judging by your tone, it's either front-row tickets to a Beatles séance or you finally found that missing sock. I'm leaning towards the sock."
"So much sass for someone who owes me," Tatum fired back, but the glee was undimmed. "Try again. Think less laundry, more... legend."
Y/N paused her shading, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Alright, I'll bite. Did you manage to get that signed copy of the new Zaha Hadid book?"
"Warmer!" Tatum trilled. "Because it involves a signature. Several, actually. But specifically, one. His."
A beat of silence. Y/N’s stylus hovered just above the screen. The way Tatum said 'his' was weighted, capitalised. There was only one 'him' in Liverpool that could put that specific tremor in her friend’s voice. The one whose face she was currently meticulously detailing on her screen.
"Tatum," Y/N said, her voice dropping to a wary whisper, as if saying it too loud would break the spell. "What did you do?"
"What did I do?" Tatum feigned offense. "I merely mentioned my incredibly talented best friend, the brilliant Egyptian illustrator, to a contact at the club's charity foundation. They loved your work, especially the 'One Nation Under Love' series. They want to commission a piece. And they want to discuss it... in person."
Y/N's breath hitched. "At the club?"
"At the club. Tomorrow. 10 AM." Tatum’s triumph was absolute. "And my contact may have hinted that a certain Egyptian King wanted to thank the artist personally for all the support. So. Guess what I have? An appointment for you."
Y/N finally looked away from her screen, her own reflection wide-eyed in the dark monitor. The trophy on her illustration suddenly seemed less like a fantasy and more like a premonition.
"Wait," she breathed, the full implication dawning on her. "You mean... he wants to meet me? Mo Salah... wants to meet me?"
Tatum’s squeal was barely muffled by the phone. "Yes! Oh, yes, yes, yes!" She took a dramatic breath, her voice shifting into the low, conspiratorial tone she used when spinning her most elaborate romantic theories.
"Just think about it. It’s a romance novel writing itself. The famous footballer, adored by millions but lonely at the top... and the brilliant artist who sees the man behind the legend. Two souls from the same soil, Y/N! The exact same home country. The exact same area, for heaven's sake! It’s not just a meeting; it’s a confluence of destinies!"
Y/N felt a flush of heat creep up her neck. "Tatum, stop it," she said, but her protest was weak, a laugh catching in her throat. "You're writing a whole screenplay. He probably just wants to say thanks for a nice painting. It's professional."
"The greatest love stories always start professionally," Tatum countered, her voice dripping with certainty. "Mark my words. This is the first chapter. 'The Illustrator and The Icon.' I can see the title on the cover now."
"More like 'The Illustrator Who Tripped Over Her Own Feet in Front of The Icon,'" Y/N muttered, her mind already racing through a thousand ways she could embarrass herself.
"Nonsense!" Tatum declared. "Just be your brilliant, charming self. The self that knows the taste of koshary and the sound of the call to prayer over the Nile. The self he probably misses every single day. That’s your superpower. Now, what are you going to wear?"
“Okay, okay,” she murmured, thinking aloud. “I need to look put together but not like I’m going to a fashion show. Something that says I belong in a professional meeting at Anfield…” A memory surfaced, a dress she’d worn to a gallery opening back in Cairo, the one that made her feel both elegant and like herself.
“I might just wear my navy blue dress,” she said, the decision solidifying. “The one with the slightly flared sleeves. It’s smart. And Oh…” A second, more significant thought followed, a gesture to her identity that felt both instinctive and deeply important. “...and my off-white hijab! The linen one with the subtle embroidery. It’s… it’s classic.”
She wasn’t just choosing an outfit; she was choosing her armor. The navy blue for confidence, the off-white for a touch of home. It was a uniform that said: I am an Egyptian artist. This is who I am.
Tatum’s voice softened, understanding the weight of the choice. “Perfect. It’s elegant. It’s you. He’ll be utterly captivated.”
“He’ll be discussing a commission, Tate,” Y/N corrected, though a small, hopeful part of her wondered if her friend’s wild fantasy could ever be real. She looked back at the illustration on her screen, at the face of the man she was going to meet tomorrow. The project suddenly felt terrifyingly, exhilaratingly personal.
That night, after Tatum’s squeals had faded and the reality of the meeting had settled into a permanent, fluttering knot in her stomach, Y/N stood before her closet. The door was open, but her gaze was fixed on one thing alone: the navy blue dress hanging in a garment bag, a cherished silhouette against the more casual fabrics around it.
With reverent hands, she unzipped the bag. The scent of cedar and faint lavender, her mother’s sachets, drifted out, a ghost of memory. She didn’t just pull out a dress; she unfolded a legacy.
The fabric, a heavy, classic crepe, felt cool and substantial under her fingertips. It was modest, with its high neckline and long, graceful sleeves, but far from simple. It was cut with a timeless elegance that transcended decades. This was its power. It was a fan favorite, yes, but not of any public crowd. It was the star of family photo albums, preserved and worn only for occasions of profound significance.
Her grandmother had worn it to her first teaching post at Cairo University, a statement of intellect and poise. Her mother had worn it on the day she defended her doctoral thesis, a shield of confidence and heritage. Now, it was her turn. Her fingers traced the delicate, almost invisible darn near the hem where her grandmother had mended a tear after a particularly enthusiastic family Eid celebration. Each thread was a story. Each stitch was a prayer.
She held it up against herself, meeting her own gaze in the full-length mirror. The reflection was a palimpsest of the women who had stood there before her. Tomorrow, she wouldn’t just be Y/N, the illustrator. She would be carrying the quiet strength of her grandmother and the fierce ambition of her mother into that room. She would be meeting a king not as a fan, but as a artist with a dynasty of her own standing behind her.
The weight of the dress was no longer just physical; it was an anchor. The nervous flutter in her chest didn’t vanish, but it was joined by a new, solid feeling: a deep, resonant certainty. She belonged in that dress. And because of that, she would belong in that meeting.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
The AXA Melwood Training Centre, was a modern cathedral to football, a place of hallowed ground she had only ever seen in media clips. The air itself felt different, charged with a quiet, purposeful energy and the faint, clean scent of freshly cut grass. Y/N’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a stark contrast to the calm she was trying to project.
A friendly woman named Claire from the communications team greeted her at reception with a warm, efficient smile. "Y/N? Welcome. We're so pleased you could come. We have a little time before the meeting, would you care for a quick look around? We love showing off our home to talented creators."
"Thank you, I'd love that," Y/N replied, her voice thankfully steadier than she felt.
As Claire led her down a wide, light-filled corridor, the history of the club unfolded around them. It wasn't a museum; it was a living archive.
"These are our Boot Room legacy photos," Claire explained, gesturing to a series of black-and-white images of men in tracksuits, deep in discussion. "Where the magic and the tactics truly began."
Y/N paused, her artist's eye drinking in the texture of the old photographs, the intensity in the eyes of Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley. "You can almost feel the weight of their passion in these," she murmured, more to herself than to her guide.
Claire smiled, pleased by her perceptiveness. "We think so too. This way, this is one of my favorite parts."
They turned a corner into a long gallery. The walls were lined not just with trophies, but with immersive, floor-to-ceiling murals of iconic moments: Istanbul 2005, the fierce joy of a Premier League title win. But her breath caught in her throat when they stopped before a dedicated section.
"This is our history with the number eleven," Claire said, her tone softening into clear affection.
There, amidst legends like John Barnes, was a large, stunning image of Mo Salah, captured in his iconic celebration, arms outstretched to the Anfield crowd, an expression of pure, unadulterated joy on his face. The image was so vibrant it felt alive.
"He makes it look easy, doesn't he?" Claire said, following her gaze. "But the work that happens out on those pitches..." She nodded toward the vast windows overlooking the pristine training grounds. "...that's where the real magic is. Day in, day out."
Y/N simply nodded, unable to find words. Seeing him here, in this context, surrounded by the gods of the club's past, was overwhelming. He wasn't just a player; he was a chapter in their sacred text.
"It's… incredible," Y/N finally managed, her voice barely a whisper. "The history isn't just displayed; it's felt. It's in the walls."
Claire beamed, as if Y/N had passed a subtle test. "That's the perfect way to put it. It is in the air." She placed a gentle hand on Y/N's arm, her voice shifting to a more intimate, encouraging tone. "And that’s precisely why they were so taken with your portfolio. You capture feeling, not just faces." She gave a warm, conspiratorial smile. "Now, come. I'll lead you to the meeting room. They're eager to meet the artist behind the work."
The words eager to meet you sent a final, thrilling jolt through her. With a deep, steadying breath that smelled of history and fresh grass, Y/N nodded, falling into step beside Claire. The nerves were still there, but now they were intertwined with a sense of purpose. She was here not as a fan, but as an artist, wearing her history, invited to interpret theirs.
The walk to the meeting room felt both endless and over in a heartbeat. Each step down the sleek corridor was a metronome counting down the seconds. Y/N’s fingers subtly brushed the fabric of her sleeve, seeking the quiet comfort of her grandmother’s legacy woven into the navy blue crepe.
Claire paused before a door of polished oak, etched with a subtle Liver Bird emblem. She offered Y/N a final, reassuring smile. "Ready to meet the team?"
Y/N took a steadying breath, the scent of lemon polish and old wood filling her senses. "As I'll ever be."
Claire opened the door, revealing a spacious, sunlit room with a long table. The walls were adorned with tactical diagrams and more historical photographs. Seated around the table were four people, but Y/N’s world momentarily tunneled. There, rising from his chair with a warm, curious expression, was Mo Salah. He was dressed casually in a club training jacket, but his presence seemed to command the very light in the room.
Claire’s voice, bright and official, cut through the quiet. "Everyone, this is the award-winning illustrator we've been so excited about, Y/N Y/L/N!"
A man with a kind face and a warm smile, the head of the charity foundation, Y/N presumed, spoke first, his voice a friendly rumble. "Y/N, a pleasure. We've been admiring your work. That piece for the children's hospital fundraiser was particularly moving."
"Thank you so much," Y/N said, her voice finding a strength she didn't know she possessed. She willed her hand not to tremble as she shook his. "It's an honour to be here."
Another woman, from the marketing department, chimed in. "The way you use light and emotion is just stunning. We were looking at your 'One Nation Under Love' series and ..."
It was then that Mo stepped forward. The room seemed to hold its breath. His smile was smaller, more thoughtful than his celebrated goal-scoring grin.
"Y/N," he said, and the sound of her name in his voice, spoken with his distinct accent, was a shockwave of familiarity in the foreign room. He didn't offer his hand immediately, instead giving a slight, respectful nod of his head, a gesture that felt deeply, intrinsically from home. "Ahlan. It is very good to meet you."
The simple greeting, Ahlan, hello, welcome, nearly undid her. It was a key turning in a lock she hadn't realized was so tightly shut.
"Ahlan," she replied, her own voice softening the word, a genuine smile finally breaking through her nervousness. "It is a great honour to meet you, Mr. Salah. Truly."
"Mo, please," he corrected gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "The honour is ours. When they showed me your art... I saw Nagrig in it. I saw... home." He gestured to the empty chair beside him. "Please, will you join us?"
As she moved to take the seat, the foundation director chuckled, breaking the spell but in a good-natured way. "Well, I see we're already off to a brilliant start. Mo’s been eager to talk about this project since we first saw your portfolio."
Y/N settled into the chair, the weight of her grandmother's dress feeling not like a burden, but like wings. The meeting was beginning, but the most important introduction had already been made. Not between a fan and a star, but between two Egyptians, sitting in a room in Liverpool, who both understood the profound weight and beauty of the word "home."
"You know," he began, a note of genuine wonder in his tone, "I was quite surprised when they first spoke about you. I had seen the 'One Nation' series online, someone from the team had sent it. The feeling in it... it was so specific."
He shook his head slightly, a soft, incredulous laugh escaping him. "I had no idea you were the artist behind it. To find out you were Egyptian... it made perfect sense. It explained why it felt like... well, like a letter from home."
His words weren't just praise; they were a recognition of a shared language that went far beyond Arabic. It was an understanding of the same sun, the same dust, the same spirit he played for every time he pulled on the red shirt. He hadn't just seen her art; he had felt it.
Y/N’s nerves finally stilled, replaced by a profound sense of connection. "That's... that's the greatest compliment you could ever give me," she said, her voice soft but clear. "That's exactly what I hoped to capture."
For a moment, the formal setting of the meeting room fell away. It was just two creatives, recognizing a kindred spirit across a boardroom table. The project was no longer just a commission; it was a collaboration waiting to happen.
The meeting flowed into discussions of timelines, deliverables, and campaign goals, but for Y/N, it all happened in a pleasant hum in the background. Her focus kept drifting to the man seated beside her, who listened intently, asked sharp questions, and then, in the quiet moments when others were speaking, would turn to her with a genuine curiosity.
As the marketing manager finished outlining the digital strategy, Mo leaned in again, his voice a quiet, personal undertone beneath the professional conversation.
"How long have you been living in Liverpool?" he asked, his curiosity seeming to extend far beyond small talk. It was as if he was piecing together her story.
Y/N turned in her chair to face him more fully. "About three years now," she said. "I moved right after I finished my PhD, believe it or not."
His eyebrows raised in genuine surprise, a warm, impressed smile spreading across his face. "A PhD? In what?"
"Psychology," she replied, and a slight, self-conscious giggle escaped her. It sounded even more improbable saying it out loud in this room. "Quite a shift from clinical studies to digital art, I know."
But Mo didn't look confused; he looked fascinated. He nodded slowly, as if a puzzle piece had clicked into place. "No, it makes perfect sense," he said, his gaze thoughtful. "It explains the depth in your work. You don't just draw faces; you illustrate the individual behind them. You see beyond what they appear to be... into the emotion. The feeling. That is a gift."
His perception was so acute, so unexpected, that it left her momentarily speechless. He had looked at her art and seen not just technique, but her entire history, her academic mind applied to an artistic craft. It was the most insightful compliment she had ever received.
"And your family?" he asked next, his tone softening further, dipping into the familiar territory all foreigners abroad share, a constant, loving awareness of those left behind. "Are they here with you?"
She shook her head, a fond, slightly wistful smile touching her lips. "No, they're all still back home. In Alexandria." Then, her smile widened, her eyes lighting up at the thought of her greatest treasure. "With my Teita."
The Arabic word for grandmother landed between them with the weight of a thousand shared understandings: the scent of molokheya, the sound of a familiar soap opera drifting from another room, the unconditional love that anchors an entire universe.
Mo’s entire expression softened into one of deep, knowing empathy. "Ah," he sighed, the sound full of resonance. "Your Teita is in Alexandria. Of course. That is your heart, isn't it? That is why your art feels like home. You are painting for her."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact. In that moment, surrounded by the sleek modernity of the training center, he understood her completely. He knew that the love for a grandmother in a bustling apartment by the Mediterranean could be the most powerful muse of all.
A wave of fondness, warm and vivid, washed over Y/N. "She's my biggest supporter," she confessed, her voice dropping into a more intimate register, as if sharing a cherished secret. "Ever since I was a child... you know how it is. With the weight Baba and Mama would put on me, to focus on my studies, to get a 'good job' and a 'decent income'..." She rolled her eyes playfully, and he nodded in immediate, knowing recognition, a silent oh, do I ever passing between them.
"Teita," Y/N continued, her eyes sparkling with the memory, "she had this old, beige computer in the corner of her sitting room. The fan sounded like a tractor and it took ten minutes to boot up." She mimicked the slow, grinding whirring noise, and Mo chuckled, a low, warm sound of shared nostalgia.
"She would shoo my parents away," Y/N said, leaning closer. "Tell them she was teaching me to type. But secretly, she'd let me open the paint program. I would sit there for hours, just making these little drawings with the mouse. It was so clumsy, just blocks of color and these wobbly lines..." She gestured with her finger, tracing an imaginary shape in the air. "But she would look at every single one as if it were a masterpiece in a museum. She'd say, 'Ya habibti, look what you made from nothing!'"
Y/N’s voice grew more animated, filled with the passion of her origin story. "That soon developed, with technology developing. I traded that mouse for my first drawing tablet. I began to teach myself everything, YouTube tutorials, online forums, late nights in my dorm room instead of reviewing psychology texts." She let out a breath, the journey feeling both immense and simple in the telling. "It all started in that dusty corner of her apartment, with the smell of foul cooking and the sound of that grumbling computer."
Mo had been listening, utterly captivated, his chin resting on his hand. The meeting around them had faded into insignificance. His smile was soft, but his eyes held a deep, profound respect.
"She saw the artist before you did," he said, his voice low and earnest. "That is a Teita's job. To see the soul of her grandchild, not just the report card." He paused, then added with a warmth that felt like a blessing, "You must make her so very proud. Not just of the artist you became, but of the heart you have."
Encouraged by his understanding, a sudden, mischievous memory surfaced. Y/N leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Her last phone call to me... you know what she said?" she giggled, the sound light and unfiltered.
Mo’s eyes immediately lit up with knowing dread. He threw his head back and let out a low, groaning chuckle, the universal sound of every young Egyptian facing familial expectations. "Oh no...," he laughed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Don't tell me. The 'husband' talk, isn't it? Ya benti, when will you find a nice, steady doctor?"
"Exactly!" Y/N exclaimed, her laughter mingling with his. She pitched her voice into a perfect, affectionate imitation of her grandmother's raspy tone. "‘The art is beautiful, ya rohi, but who will bring you tea when you are working so late? A strong man, a good man, from a good family... this is what you need to complete your success!’"
Mo was fully laughing now, a rich, genuine sound that made the others at the table glance over with smiles, curious about the sudden burst of joy.
He shook his head, wiping a faint tear from his eye. "Never changes," he said, his voice warm with camaraderie. "My Teita in Nagrig, she used to say the same thing. Now that I am... steady..." he said, gesturing around them with a self-deprecating grin, "...she has moved on to when we will give her more great-grandchildren. The job is never finished."
"In their eyes, we are always just their babies, aren't we?" Y/N said, her heart feeling full to bursting. "Success means nothing without someone to scold about your life choices."
"Exactly," Mo agreed, his laughter subsiding into a warm, comfortable smile. For a moment, it wasn't a global icon and a local artist in a boardroom. It was just Mo and Y/N, two Egyptians miles from home, bonded by the loving, exasperating, and utterly familiar weight of a grandmother's love. The professional meeting had dissolved, and something far more human had taken its place.
She looked down at her hands, a slight, self-deprecating smile touching her lips as she twirled the delicate silver ring she always wore, a gift from that very grandmother.
"You know," she mused, her voice soft and laced with affectionate humor, "I bet you if my Teita knew we were sitting here together right now, she wouldn't ask about the art or the project." She glanced up at him through her lashes, her smile turning wry. "She'd scold me for not using my 'charms' to somehow secure you for her lineage. She'd say, 'Ya benti, you have a Pharaoh in front of you and you talk about brushes? Offer the man some tea!'"
The moment the words left her mouth, a jolt of heat flashed up her neck. It was too forward, too familiar. She braced for awkwardness.
But Mo didn't stiffen or retreat. Instead, a deep, rich laugh erupted from him, a sound that was both surprised and utterly delighted. He leaned back in his chair, the picture of amusement.
"Is that so?" he replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners, sparkling with mirth. He stroked his chin playfully, as if considering a grand proposal.
"Well," he said, his tone dipping into a mock-serious, theatrical whisper. "You can tell your Teita that her granddaughter's charms are far more subtle and powerful than she knows. They are in her hands," he said, nodding toward her fingers that had just gestured so expressively. "And in her eyes, which see so much. That is a different kind of magic altogether. Much more impressive than just offering tea."
He held her gaze for a heartbeat longer, the laughter in his eyes softening into something more sincere, more appreciative. The playful flattery was layered with a genuine compliment that stole the air from her lungs.
Then, with a graceful shift that dissolved any lingering tension, he gestured toward the concept sketches she had brought. "But perhaps we should focus on these brilliant drawings first," he said, his smile still warm and playful. "Before your Teita somehow senses through the phone that we are not discussing marriage prospects and decides to call to give me her advice directly. I have a feeling she is a woman who gets what she wants."
The shared laughter that followed felt like a secret handshake, transforming the professional space into something intimately theirs. The project was no longer a mere commission; it was a collaboration born from a shared language, a shared humor, and a connection that felt as destined as her grandmother undoubtedly believed it to be.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
Striking up a genuine friendship with Liverpool's brightest star was a scenario so improbable it would have been laughed out of any fanfiction forum. It certainly hadn't been on Y/N's bingo card for life. Yet, in the weeks that followed the meeting, a quiet, comfortable camaraderie blossomed. In a city that often felt draped in a soft, foreign grey, Mohammed Salah became an unexpected touchstone of home.
He was, above all, profoundly respectful. Their interactions were never intrusive, always initiated with a thoughtful ease that never made her feel like a fan he was humoring. It began with a text, a simple question that felt more like an extension of their first conversation than a grand invitation.
Mo: There's a new café by the Albert Dock. The owner is from Cairo. They claim to have the best kahwain the North. I'm skeptical. Would you be a good judge of this?
It became their pattern. He’d invite her to local spots that held an echo of the Nile: a small restaurant in Kenny where the smell of roasting cumin and garlic made her eyes sting with sudden, sweet memory; a shisha bar with worn velvet cushions where the sound of backgammon dice hitting wood was a familiar percussion.
Their easiest ritual was walks along the Merseyside. The brisk Liverpool wind whipping off the river was a world away from the dry heat of Alexandria, but the act of walking and talking, of sharing space, felt deeply familiar.
On one such afternoon, the sky was a vast canvas of bruised purples and oranges. The water glittered with reflected city lights.
“It’s the asr call to prayer that I sometimes miss the most,” Mo confessed, his voice thoughtful as he gazed out at the water. “Not the sound itself, but the… the pause it forces on the entire city. That collective breath. Here, everything just… never stops.”
Y/N wrapped her coat tighter around herself, nodding. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s the rhythm of the day. Teita, her entire life was set to that rhythm. She’d drop everything. The soap opera, her knitting, her scolding of me… everything.” She smiled at the memory. “For those few minutes, the entire house was so quiet you could hear the pigeons on the balcony.”
Mo chuckled softly. “Yes. Exactly. For me, it was the sound of the football stopping in the street. The game would just… freeze. Even for us, just for a moment.” He mimed kicking a ball, then stopping it under his foot. “There is no pause button here.”
They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, the cries of seagulls overhead replacing the muezzin’s call.
“Do you remember,” Y/N began, a playful glint in her eye, “the taste of that frozen juice, the ones in the plastic tubes? Bibo? We’d tear them open with our teeth.”
Mo’s face lit up with instant recognition. “Ah! Of course! The mango one. Your hands would be sticky for hours. And the semsemya from the cart with the little bell?”
“The best!” Y/N laughed, the sound carried away by the wind. “I tried to explain it to a friend here once, sesame brittle with peanuts, and they just looked at me like I was describing alien food.”
“They don’t know what they’re missing,” he said with a grin. He pointed a finger at her, a mock-serious expression on his face. “This is why this is important. You are the only one who would understand that the true masterpiece of Egyptian engineering is not a pyramid, it is the perfect Bibo tube that doesn’t burst when you bite it.”
Y/N threw her head back and laughed, a full, unguarded sound. “A truth the world is not ready for!”
In that moment, looking at the Liverpool skyline reflected in his warm, laughing eyes, Y/N felt a profound sense of gratitude. This wasn't about fame or football. It was about the simple, irreplaceable comfort of shared memory.
He wasn’t Mo Salah, the global icon. He was just Mohammed, a man from Nagrig who remembered the sticky sweetness of a childhood summer and, in doing so, made the vast, chilly expanse of the Merseyside feel a little more like home.
Their walks along the Merseyside had become a cherished ritual, a quiet space where the relentless pace of his life and the solitary focus of hers could find a common, gentle rhythm. The brisk Liverpool wind carried the salty tang of the river and the distant cries of gulls, a stark contrast to the memories of sun-baked earth and car horns they so often shared.
One evening, as the setting sun bled liquid gold across the water, painting a path of light directly toward them, Y/N stopped abruptly. Her artist’s eye, always composing, always framing, was captivated.
"Let's sit there!" she gestured decisively to a weathered wooden bench perched perfectly to capture the dying light.
Mo followed her gaze, then looked back at her with a charmingly confused smile. "Why this one? They are all the same." He gestured to the line of identical benches along the promenade.
"Ya ami," she sighed, a playful exasperation in her tone that was reserved solely for these moments of easy friendship. "Would you just humor me? For five minutes." She didn't wait for an answer, already starting toward it. "I am developing some muse and I would like to take advantage of that before the light changes."
He laughed, a warm, rich sound that was becoming wonderfully familiar, and followed her without another word of protest. As they sat, the cold of the wooden slats seeping through their coats, she immediately began rummaging in her large canvas bag.
He watched her, amused, as she pulled out her tablet and a slender stylus. The screen flared to life, illuminating her face with a soft, digital glow that competed with the sunset.
"Oh, I see..." he said, a slow, proud grin spreading across his features. He sat up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders in a mock-heroic pose. "I'm your muse!"
"Exactly," she said, not looking up from her screen as her stylus began to fly, making swift, sure strokes. Her focus was absolute, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Now sit still! And try to look... pensive. Look out at the water. Think about... I don't know, the philosophical implications of the offside rule or something."
He let out a short burst of laughter but obediently turned his profile to her, gazing out at the golden path on the water. A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the soft, rhythmic tap of her stylus and the gentle lap of the waves against the wall.
After a few minutes, his curiosity got the better of him. He dared a slight turn of his head. "Can I see?"
"Shhh! You're breaking the muse's contract!" she scolded without malice, her eyes still fixed on her work. "No peeking until the muse has been properly immortalized."
He chuckled softly, the sound barely more than a breath, and turned back to face the water, a genuine, thoughtful smile now playing on his lips.
He wasn't just humoring her anymore. There was a strange, quiet honor in it, in being the subject of that fierce, beautiful concentration, in being chosen not as a famous athlete, but as a shape of light and shadow in her artist's eye. The golden hour glinted off his profile, and for once, Mohamed Salah was perfectly, peacefully still, content to simply be a part of her art.
On the bench, with the Mersey a shimmering tapestry of dusk, the air was charged with this unspoken understanding. Y/N’s stylus moved with a fluid confidence, capturing not just his likeness, but the quiet contentment that had settled over his features. The setting sun gilded the thoughtful curve of his brow, the strong line of his nose, the gentle slope of his smile.
He watched the water for a long time, the question clearly turning over in his mind, searching for the right moment to give it voice.
"Y/N..." he said, his voice so soft it was almost carried away by the breeze, yet it held a new, vulnerable weight.
"Hm?" she replied, her digital pen never slowing its graceful dance across the screen. She was deep in her flow, capturing the exact way the light caught the hint of grey in his stubble.
He didn't speak immediately. He took a breath, as if steadying himself for a jump. "Have you ever felt love?"
The question hung in the air, simple and immense. Her stylus paused for a fraction of a second, then continued, a little more slowly.
"The kind they show in the old films?" she asked, her tone light, trying to deflect the sudden gravity she felt. "The dramatic music, the running through the airport?"
"No," he said, turning his head to look at her directly, his dark eyes serious and searching. "Not that kind. That's... noise." He shifted on the bench to face her fully, his voice dropping, intense and earnest.
"I mean... real love. The kind that's built quietly. On truly understanding someone... respecting their boundaries without them ever having to ask. The kind built on knowing the little things... like how they take their tea, or why a certain word makes them laugh, or what memory makes their eyes look sad, even when they're smiling."
He held her gaze, and the world, the river, the distant city sounds, the fading light, seemed to narrow to just the space between them.
"Love that feels like... knowing someone more than they know themselves," he continued, his voice barely a whisper now, yet every word was clear and deliberate. "And in that knowing, you find a part of yourself you never knew was missing. Have you... have you ever felt that?"
Y/N’s hand had stilled completely. The tablet rested forgotten in her lap. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs, and she knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that he was no longer speaking in abstracts. He was describing the past few months. He was describing them.
The playful muse was gone. In his place was a man, vulnerable and sincere, offering her his heart not with grand gestures, but with the quiet truth of his question.
She looked at him, really looked, seeing the hope and the fear warring in his eyes. The air crackled with the unspoken words they had both been too cautious to say.
"Mohammed..." she breathed his name, her own voice trembling with the weight of the confession she saw in his.
"I know," he began, his voice thick with emotion, each word a conscious step into uncharted territory. "I am stepping onto foreign grounds with what I am about to say. This is... not simple. There are a thousand reasons this is a complicated, perhaps even foolish thing to voice."
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, as if the confession was a physical weight he was setting down between them. He ran a hand over his face, then turned back to her, his gaze unwavering, filled with a raw, earnest love that stole the air from her lungs.
"Bas..." he whispered, "I can't deny it anymore. I have tried. Wallahi, I have tried. But this feeling... what I feel when I am with you... it is not a feeling I can lock away. It is in every laugh we share, in every quiet moment. It is in the way my world, which is so loud, becomes so peaceful when I am next to you."
He reached out, his fingers hesitating just inches from her hand, a question in the gesture. "You are my peace, Y/N. You are my home here. And this... this is real. What I feel for you is the most real thing I have known in a very long time."
Tears, unbidden, welled in Y/N's eyes, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming truth of it. He had given voice to the silent symphony that had been playing in her own heart for months. She didn't need to answer with words.
Slowly, she turned her hand over, palm up, an invitation and an answer in one. Her fingers slid between his, and the connection was electric, a final circuit completing. The tablet lay abandoned beside them as the last of the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving them in a twilight lit only by the courage of their confessed truth.
He had just bared his soul, and her hand was now nestled in his, a silent, seismic answer to his confession. The world had narrowed to the point where their fingers intertwined. He watched a single tear trace a path down her cheek, catching the last of the sun's light, and he brought her knuckles to his lips, his own eyes shimmering with emotion.
"There's something else," he began, his voice husky with feeling. He took a steadying breath, his thumb stroking gentle circles on her hand. "I called your father."
Her eyes, already wide with the evening's revelations, flew open wider. A thousand questions, how, when, why, seemed to catch in her throat. All she could manage was a breathless whisper. "You... you did?"
He nodded, a nervous, hopeful smile touching his lips. "I did. Last week. It was the most terrifying phone call of my life, and I've played in front of a hundred thousand people." He let out a soft, shaky laugh. "I asked for his permission to speak to you, to... to pursue this. To pursue us, properly. With his blessing."
He watched her process this, her mind reeling at the profound respect and tradition inherent in the act. It was something from her grandmother's stories, not her modern life.
"And..." he continued, his voice gaining strength, filled with a joyful certainty, "I paid for their flights. Him and your mum. They're coming next week."
"Next week?" she gasped, her free hand flying to her mouth.
"Yes," he said, his smile widening into a beam of pure, unadulterated joy. "We've already set a date. A proper one. For me to come to them, to sit with them, and to formally ask for your hand in marriage."
The words hung in the air, immense and beautiful and terrifyingly real. This wasn't a whispered promise in the dark; it was a plan. A future, meticulously and respectfully being built.
"Mohammed..." His full name fell from her lips in a tone of pure, stunned awe. "Are you... are you serious?"
He cupped her face then, his touch infinitely gentle, his eyes holding hers with a seriousness that left no room for doubt. "Ya benti," he murmured, "Would I ever joke about something this serious? Would I ever dare to play with a matter of heart, of faith, of family?"
"Bahebek, Y/N," he breathed. "I love you. With everything that I am. And I swear to Allah, by all that I hold holy, that this... us... is real. And it is forever."
In the quiet of the Liverpool twilight, with the river bearing witness, Y/N felt the last of her walls crumble. She squeezed his hand, grateful that such a project had given her a chance to be happy.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
In a matter of days, blessed by the joyful tears of her parents and the solemn, grateful duas of their families, Mohamed and Y/N were engaged. The weight of the simple, elegant band on her finger was less a piece of jewelry and more a key, unlocking a new, halal dimension to their relationship. They could now sit together in her sunlit apartment, the door left respectfully ajar, sharing pots of sweet tea and the comfortable silence of two people building a future, stitch by careful stitch.
One such afternoon, Mo was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching her tidy her workspace. His eyes, always so observant, lingered on the stack of sketchbooks piled beside her tablet. A playful, curious grin touched his lips.
"Can I look?" he asked, nodding toward the sketches.
A faint blush crept up Y/N's neck. "They're just... doodles. Practice."
"Yaani, let me see the practice," he teased, already crossing the room. He picked up the top book, its cover worn from use. He flipped it open, expecting landscapes or abstract studies.
Instead, he found himself.
Page after page, in charcoal, ink, and soft watercolor, was his face. Not the iconic image of Mo Salah, Footballer, though that was there, in dynamic, energetic strokes capturing his celebration, but Mohamed.
Mohamed lost in thought, gazing out at the Mersey. Mohamed laughing, the lines around his eyes crinkled in joy. Mohamed in profile, the late afternoon sun gilding his features in a way she had captured with breathtaking tenderness.
He was utterly silent, slowly turning each page as if it were a sacred text. The playfulness had melted away, replaced by a awe so profound it was humbling.
"Y/N..." he finally breathed, his voice thick with emotion. He looked up at her, his eyes shimmering. "Ya rohy... All of this... it's... all me?"
She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly shy under the intensity of his gaze. "I told you they were just doodles."
He placed the book down with reverence and reached for another, finding the same theme. A soft, incredulous laugh escaped him. He held up a particularly intimate sketch of him asleep on her sofa, a rare moment of unguarded peace. "A 'doodle'? You have a whole museum in here. And this one! When did you even do this? I was only asleep for ten minutes!"
She giggled, the sound nervous and sweet. "You're my favorite subject. Is that so surprising?"
He put the book down and closed the distance between them, his hands coming to rest on her waist, his forehead leaning against hers. "You are incredible," he whispered, his voice full of wonder. "All this time... you were loving me like this? With your hands? With your art?"
He pulled back slightly, a new, tender teasing in his eyes. "So all those times you said you were 'developing your muse' on our walks, you were just... drawing me. You have a whole collection. I'm being curated."
She swatted his arm playfully, her blush deepening. "Stop it."
"La, I won't stop," he said, his tone softening into utter adoration. He traced the line of her jaw. "I love it. Tell me why. Why is it always me?"
Y/N looked down, her fingers playing with the hem of his jacket before she met his gaze, her own eyes now serious and vulnerable. "Because... it's how I love you," she confessed softly. "When you're not here, I draw you to feel close to you. When I'm happy, I draw your smile to keep the feeling. When I'm amazed by you, I try to put that feeling onto the paper. My words can sometimes get tangled up... but my hands... they always know how to say what my heart feels."
The teasing glint in his eyes completely vanished, replaced by a love so deep it stole her breath. He pulled her into a tight embrace, his face buried in her hair.
"Then never stop," he murmured against her skin, his voice rough with emotion. "Never stop drawing me. It is the most beautiful love letter I have ever received." He kissed her forehead, a seal of his promise. "And I will spend every day of forever giving you new reasons to put your feelings on the page."
"I can't wait for our wedding," she murmured, her voice soft and dreamy. She tilted her head back to look up at him, her eyes shining with a fondness that made his heart constrict. "I keep imagining it. The music, the flowers... all our families together in one place. Finally being able to call you my husband in front of everyone."
Mo tightened his arm around her, pressing a kiss into her hair. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo, jasmine and vanilla, committing this perfect moment to memory.
He knew the reality that awaited them: the relentless scrutiny from the media, the complicated logistics of merging their very public and very private lives, the long separations during away games. It was a path that required immense strength.
"Ya amar," he said, his voice a low, gentle rumble against her. "Me too. More than you can possibly know." He shifted to look down at her, his expression serious yet filled with unwavering certainty. "The next few months... they will be difficult. There will be challenges we cannot even foresee yet. The cameras, the travel, the opinions of people who do not know us..."
He paused, choosing his words with care, wanting to be honest but not to dim the light in her eyes. He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. "There will be times we will have to be patient. But we will face it all together. And Inshallah..." he whispered, the word imbued with all his faith and hope, "...it will be a happy life. A life filled with more moments exactly like this one. A life where I get to come home to you."
He saw not a flicker of fear in her eyes, only a steady, answering strength. "The difficult parts don't scare me," she said, placing her hand over his. "Because they're with you. The challenges are just the price of admission for the life I truly want. Our life."
Mo’s smile then was one of profound relief and adoration. He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, their future stretching out before them, complex and beautiful. "Inshallah," he breathed again, this time a vow sealed in the quiet space between them. "Inshallah, we will have everything."
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
Five years later,
The quiet moments were still their most cherished. The grand wedding was a beautiful memory, the media frenzy had settled into a respectful distance, and their life had built its own sacred rhythm.
Their home in Liverpool was a vibrant blend of both their worlds. The scent of koshary often mingled with the smell of rain-soaked earth from the garden. In the sunlit living room, scattered among footballs and parenting magazines, were the evidence of their thriving careers: his latest Player of the Year trophy sat on a high shelf, and her prestigious illustration awards were displayed proudly on the wall beside her latest graphic novel, a bestseller praised for its profound emotional depth.
On a rare, quiet afternoon, Mo found them in the garden. Y/N was curled on a blanket, her tablet in her lap, capturing the scene before her. Their two beautiful daughters, three-year-old Layla and one-year-old Zahra, were tumbling over him as he lay on the grass, pretending to be defeated by their tiny attacks. Layla’s wild curls were a mirror of his, while Zahra had her mother’s thoughtful, dark eyes.
“I surrender! I surrender!” he laughed, his voice full of a joy that was now his default state. He tickled Zahra’s belly, eliciting a shriek of giggles that sounded like pure sunlight.
He caught Y/N’s gaze over their daughters’ heads. Her stylus was still, a soft, contented smile on her face as she watched them.
“Are you drawing us again?” he asked, his voice warm with affection.
“Always,” she replied, her smile widening. “My three favorite subjects.”
Layla, ever curious, scrambled over to peek at the screen. “That’s Baba! And me! And Zazi!” she announced proudly.
Mo hoisted a giggling Zahra onto his hip and went to look. On the screen was a perfect, loving sketch of the scene he’d just been living. She had captured the laughter, the playfulness, the overwhelming love.
He looked from the drawing to his wife, his heart so full he thought it might burst. This was the life he had dreamed of on those long walks by the Mersey. This was the happiness he had sworn to Allah would be theirs.
Leaning down, he kissed Y/N’s forehead, then the head of each of his daughters.
jota had literally just gotten married right after winning the PL like. this year had been nothing but so kind to him. it is genuinely unfathomable to me that now he’s gone? cruel and heartbreaking doesn’t begin to cover it. may he rest in peace 🕊️
