The smell of garlic and tomatoes filled the apartment when Mila came home from school. Normally, she’d call out a quick “Hi” to her moms, grab a snack, and disappear into her room until dinner. But today was different.
Ingrid and Mapi were standing shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, cooking together — Ingrid chopping vegetables, Mapi stirring the sauce. They both looked up the moment Mila entered, sensing that something was off. She had that look on her face — the one that meant she wanted something.
Mapi glanced at Ingrid, silently asking, What did she do this time?
Ingrid shrugged ever so slightly. No idea.
“Hi, carino,” Mapi said slowly. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Mila replied, a little too cheerfully. “How was your day? Everything good?”
Ingrid arched an eyebrow. “Our day was fine,” she said. “Now tell us what’s going on.”
Mila sighed dramatically and plopped down at the kitchen table. Mapi leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, while Ingrid put down her knife to give their daughter her full attention.
“So…” Mila began, fidgeting with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I turned sixteen last month.”
“Yes,” Mapi said, smirking. “We were there.”
“That means I’m almost an adult,” Mila continued, trying to sound confident.
“Not at all,” Mapi countered. “But keep going.”
“I just mean… I’m responsible. I get good grades, I don’t sneak out, I..”
“Mila,” Ingrid interrupted gently. “Just say what you want, sweetheart.”
Mila took a deep breath. “I want to get a tattoo.”
Silence.
For a second, the only sound in the kitchen was the faint bubbling of the sauce. Then Mapi spoke, one word, firm and final:
“No.”
Mila’s head snapped up. “But, Mami..”
“No,” Mapi repeated, holding up a hand. “We’re not discussing it. You’re not getting a tattoo. Not now, not in a year. When you turn eighteen, you can do what you want, but until then no.”
“That’s so unfair!” Mila protested, standing up. “Some of my friends have tattoos and their parents..”
“That’s nice,” Mapi cut her off. “But your parents said no.”
Mila’s jaw tightened. Then she played her trump card. “Abuela told me you got your first tattoo when you were sixteen.”
Mapi’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t bring my mother into this.”
“But it’s unfair!” Mila exclaimed. “You did it too!”
“Enough, Mila,” Mapi said, her voice firm but calm. “The answer is no.”
Mila turned to Ingrid, her eyes pleading. “Mama? Please?”
Ingrid hesitated. Truthfully, she didn’t see a huge problem with it — especially if the tattoo was small and meaningful. But she also knew Mapi’s feelings ran deep. So she sighed and said softly, “Not right now, Mila. Let’s leave it for now, okay?”
Mila’s face fell. “This is so unfair,” she muttered, before storming out of the kitchen. A door slammed — not too hard, but loud enough to make a point.
The kitchen went quiet again. Mapi crossed her arms tighter, staring at the floor. Ingrid leaned against the counter beside her.
“Why is this such a big deal to you?” Ingrid asked after a while. “You know she’s right about you. You were her age when you got your first one.”
Mapi sighed. “Because she’s still so young. Maybe one day she’ll regret it.”
Ingrid raised an eyebrow. “You think Mila would make a rash decision? She thinks everything through — she gets that from me.”
That earned a small smile from Mapi. Ingrid sat down beside her and took her hand. “What’s really bothering you?”
Mapi hesitated, then finally said, “She’s growing up too fast. I still see her as my little girl, and a tattoo just makes it feel… real. Like she’s slipping away from us.”
Ingrid squeezed her hand. “She’s not slipping away, amor. She’s just becoming her own person. A tattoo doesn’t change that — it’s just another way she’s showing who she is.”
They sat there together for a while, talking it through. And eventually, Mapi nodded. “Fine. But I want to see what she wants first.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mapi was knocking on Mila’s door. No answer. She opened it anyway and found Mila lying face-down on her bed, earphones in, music blaring.
Mapi touched her side gently, and Mila turned around, surprised.
“We talked,” Mapi said simply. “And… we decided you can get a tattoo. But only if we see what you want first.”
Mila’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Mapi smiled. “Really. But thank your mama — this was mostly her idea.”
Mila grinned so wide it almost hurt and threw her arms around Mapi. “Thank you, Mami! Thank you!”
Then she sprinted out of the room, yelling, “Mamaaa!” before practically launching herself into Ingrid’s arms in the kitchen.
A week later, Mila came home from her appointment.
Mapi and Ingrid were waiting in the living room, pretending to read but really just excited to see what she chose. Mila rolled up her sleeves with a proud smile.
“Actually,” she said, “I got two.”
On her right wrist — a simple outline of a mountain. On her left — a small sun.
“Mountains for Norway,” she explained softly, “and the sun for Spain. Because… both are home.”
Mapi and Ingrid exchanged a look, their hearts full.
Mapi reached out, gently brushing her fingers over the fresh ink. “Perfect,” she murmured. “Just like you.”
Ingrid smiled. “Our little world traveler.”
And as Mila beamed between them, Mapi realized that maybe, just maybe, letting her daughter grow up wasn’t so hard after all.
Loving Alexia Putellas had always felt like standing too close to the ocean.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Impossible to hold onto.
At first, you thought the inconsistency was temporary. That eventually the timing would line up, the missed calls would lessen, the distance would stop feeling so heavy between you. You thought once the season slowed down, once the pressure eased, once she finally had room to breathe, the two of you would become something steady.
But there was always another match. Another interview. Another injury scare. Another country calling her name.
And somehow, there was always another goodbye.
You met her at a point in your life where you weren’t looking for anything serious. That was the irony of it all. You had been careful back then. Detached. The kind of person who left before anyone could leave you first.
Then Alexia walked into your life with tired eyes and a shy smile, and suddenly you were the one waiting for texts at two in the morning.
The first time she stayed over, she had an early training session the next day. You remembered waking up to soft movement beside you, the room still dark as she quietly pulled on her hoodie.
You were half asleep when you asked, “You’re leaving already?”
She looked over at you, hair messy, expression softer than you’d ever seen it.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Could’ve stayed.”
Alexia smiled sadly at that.
“You know I can’t.”
Back then, those words hadn’t hurt yet.
Now they lived permanently inside your chest.
You learned quickly that being with someone like Alexia meant sharing her with the world. Fans stopped her in public constantly. Cameras followed her everywhere. Even dinners became interrupted by football discussions, sponsors, journalists, teammates calling about tactics or training schedules.
There were nights when she sat beside you on the couch with a laptop open, rewatching match footage while you pretended not to notice how distant she looked.
Not emotionally distant.
Mentally.
Like her mind was always sprinting somewhere you couldn’t reach.
And the worst part was that you admired her for it.
You admired how hard she worked. How deeply she cared. You loved seeing her light up after a win, loved the way she became almost childlike when talking about football, hands moving excitedly while explaining plays you barely understood.
Football made her happy.
You would never ask her to love it less.
Still, some nights you wished she loved you with the same certainty.
The relationship ended for the first time on a rainy Tuesday.
Not dramatically.
No screaming. No betrayal.
Just exhaustion.
“You deserve someone who can actually be here,” Alexia said quietly from your kitchen.
You stared at her in disbelief. “And you’re deciding that for me?”
Her jaw tightened immediately. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean, Lex? Because every time things get hard, you start acting like leaving me is some noble sacrifice.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No?” Your voice cracked slightly. “You disappear for days sometimes. I barely know where your head is anymore.”
She looked tired. God, she always looked tired lately.
“I’m trying.”
You laughed bitterly. “I know you are.”
And that was exactly the problem.
Because she really was trying.
Alexia wasn’t cruel. She wasn’t careless. She loved you in the only way she knew how, with whatever pieces of herself she had left after giving everything else to football.
But sometimes those pieces weren’t enough.
“I can’t keep wondering when you’ll pull away again,” you whispered.
Alexia swallowed hard.
“You think I want this?” she asked quietly. “You think I like missing things with you? I miss one dinner because training runs late and suddenly I’m ruining everything.”
“It’s not one dinner.”
Silence.
Heavy. Familiar.
You looked away first because if you kept looking at her, you’d forgive her again.
And you were tired of forgiving things that never changed.
So she left.
Just like that.
You expected relief afterward.
Instead, the apartment felt unbearably empty.
For weeks, you kept noticing little things that belonged to her. Hair ties around your sink. One of her hoodies hanging over a chair. A coffee mug she always used because she claimed tea tasted better in it.
You told yourself not to text her.
Then Barcelona lost an important match, and you broke immediately.
Saw the score. You okay?
Three minutes later:
No.
That single word destroyed every ounce of progress you’d made.
Because no matter how angry you got, you could never ignore her when she sounded vulnerable.
She came over that night.
No discussion about the breakup. No labels. No fixing things.
She just arrived at your door looking exhausted, and the moment you saw her face, you let her in.
Alexia collapsed onto your couch with a long breath. “Everyone keeps talking.”
“About the game?”
She nodded.
You sat beside her quietly.
“I know I should be able to handle it better,” she admitted after a while. “But sometimes I feel like if I stop performing for even one second, everything falls apart.”
You looked at her then.
Really looked at her.
Not the famous footballer. Not the captain everyone admired. Just Alexia. A woman carrying pressure so heavy it was slowly crushing her.
“You don’t have to be perfect all the time.”
A humorless smile crossed her face.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
You wanted to tell her she was enough. That she didn’t have to keep proving herself to deserve love.
But Alexia had built her entire life around earning things.
Wins. Titles. Respect.
Maybe that’s why loving her felt so unstable. She approached relationships the same way she approached football, like if she stopped pushing for even a second, she’d lose.
That night she stayed over again.
And somehow the two of you slipped back into each other like no time had passed at all.
That was how it always happened.
You’d break apart slowly, painfully, swear things were over for good.
Then one soft moment ruined everything.
One look.
One touch.
One vulnerable confession in the middle of the night.
Suddenly she was kissing you in your kitchen again like she couldn’t survive without it.
Suddenly you were tangled in her sheets whispering, “Maybe we can make this work.”
But reality always returned eventually.
Sometimes in the form of cancelled plans.
Sometimes through unanswered texts.
Sometimes through the horrible feeling of standing beside someone physically while emotionally they were already halfway across the world.
One evening, after nearly a year of this cycle, you finally snapped.
“You know what I think?” you asked quietly.
Alexia glanced up from her phone immediately.
“I think we’re addicted to almost losing each other.”
Her expression changed instantly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we only know how to love each other when we’re about to break.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
You stood from the couch, suddenly unable to sit still.
“When things are good, we stop trying. Then something happens, we drift apart, and suddenly we’re fighting for each other again like the world is ending.”
Alexia stared at you.
“You think I don’t fight for you?”
Your chest tightened at the hurt in her voice.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
You looked at her helplessly.
“That I don’t know how much longer I can survive loving you like this.”
The room fell silent.
Alexia slowly set her phone down.
And for the first time in a long time, she looked scared.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Scared.
She stood carefully and walked toward you until only inches separated you.
“I know I make this difficult,” she whispered. “I know I disappear into football sometimes and I know you deserve consistency I can’t always give.”
You looked down because hearing her admit it hurt too much.
“But every time we end,” she continued softly, “I still come back to you.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“Maybe that’s the issue.”
Alexia gently lifted your chin so you’d look at her.
“No,” she whispered. “Maybe that means something.”
And maybe it did.
Maybe love wasn’t supposed to feel this impossible, but maybe some people simply arrived in your life at the wrong time while still feeling completely right.
You kissed her because you didn’t know what else to do.
And Alexia kissed you back like she was terrified you’d disappear.
Later that night, lying tangled together in the dark, you traced lazy circles against her arm while she rested against your chest.
“Do you ever think about stopping?” you asked quietly.
“Football?”
You nodded.
Alexia went still instantly.
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
Too honest.
You closed your eyes.
“I know.”
She shifted slightly, realizing too late what your question had really meant.
“You’re asking if I’d stop for you.”
You didn’t answer.
Because you already knew.
Alexia sat up slowly, guilt written all over her face.
“I can’t.”
There it was.
The truth.
Simple. Brutal.
Not because she didn’t love you.
Because football had owned her long before you ever met her.
And somehow, despite everything, you understood.
That was what made this relationship so dangerous. There was never a villain. Never someone easy to blame.
Just two people loving each other deeply at the wrong speed.
You reached for her hand anyway.
Alexia looked at your intertwined fingers with something heartbreaking in her expression.
“You should hate me.”
You shook your head softly.
“I’ve tried.”
A small laugh escaped her, weak and emotional.
“And?”
You looked at her for a long moment.
“It would be easier if I did.”
Alexia leaned forward and rested her forehead against yours.
The room was quiet except for both of your breathing.
And in that moment, you realized something terrifying.
You might spend your entire life leaving each other.
Coming back.
Leaving again.
Trying to untangle something that only tightened every time you pulled away.
Maybe one day you’d finally walk for good.
Maybe one day she’d choose football and never look back.
Maybe one day the timing would destroy whatever love remained between you.
But tonight, her hands were holding yours carefully like they still mattered.
Tonight, she was here.
And maybe that was the tragedy of loving Alexia Putellas.
No matter how many times she broke your heart, she still felt like home.
The tunnel beneath Ullevaal Stadion smelled like wet grass, tape glue, and nerves.
Above them, Oslo roared.
Blue and garnet on one side. White and red on the other. Thousands of people singing, shouting, waving scarves into the cold Norwegian evening. The Women’s Champions League final. The biggest club game in Europe.
And somewhere in the middle of all of it stood Ingrid Engen and Mapi Leon.
Side by side for a moment before the walkout.
Not touching.
Not speaking.
Just breathing.
A year ago, Ingrid had walked into European nights wearing Barcelona colors beside Mapi. They had shared flights home after away games, celebrated wins together, complained about bad referees together, fallen asleep together after exhausting matches.
Now Ingrid wore Olympique Lyonnais white.
Mapi still wore Barcelona colors.
And tonight they were opponents.
The entire football world had talked about it for weeks after the semifinal results became official. Headlines everywhere. Former teammates. Lovers. Two of the best defensive midfielders in Europe. Two women fighting for the same trophy.
But between themselves, they had made rules.
No talking about football during the week before the final.
No discussing tactics.
No asking about injuries.
No trying to guess lineups.
And absolutely no mercy.
Because once the whistle blew, they weren’t girlfriends anymore.
They were players.
Nothing else.
Still, the week before the final had almost felt normal somehow.
Late night FaceTimes.
Random messages.
Pictures of coffees and hotel views.
Mapi sending Ingrid a stupid meme at midnight.
Ingrid laughing so hard during one call that she nearly dropped her phone.
Every conversation carefully avoiding the giant thing hanging over them both.
The final.
The night before the final they stayed on FaceTime longer than usual. Neither really wanted to end the call.
Mapi was lying sideways across her hotel bed in Barcelona gear. Ingrid sat by the window of Lyon’s hotel, Oslo glowing softly behind her.
For a while they just looked at each other.
Then Ingrid smiled faintly.
“So… this is it.”
Mapi nodded.
“Tomorrow we hate each other for ninety minutes.”
Ingrid snorted softly. “Maybe more than ninety.”
“Please no extra time,” Mapi groaned.
That made them both laugh.
Then silence again.
The kind that only exists between two people who know each other too well.
Finally Mapi spoke quietly.
“We don’t talk again until after the game?”
Ingrid nodded even though it hurt.
“Need to focus.”
“Yeah.”
Another silence.
Then simultaneously:
“Good luck.”
They both smiled at that.
“I love you,” Ingrid whispered.
Mapi’s expression softened instantly. “I love you too.”
And then the call ended.
Both of them stared at their dark phone screens afterward.
Both taking deep breaths.
Knowing the next conversation would come with completely different emotions attached to it.
One of them would be European champion.
The other would be heartbroken.
That was football.
Cruel and beautiful at the same time.
Saturday arrived cold and bright over Oslo.
May 23rd, 2026.
The biggest game of the season.
Ingrid stood in Lyon’s dressing room pulling tape around her finger, trying to calm the storm in her chest. Around her, teammates prepared in silence or blasted music through portable speakers.
Someone shouted something in French.
Someone laughed nervously.
But Ingrid barely heard any of it.
Her thoughts kept drifting.
To the stands where her parents and family sat.
To her best friend somewhere in the crowd.
Mapi's parents.
To the fact this final was in Norway of all places.
Home.
And to Mapi.
Across the stadium, Mapi sat on Barcelona’s bench pulling her socks higher. Alexia was talking beside her. Aitana bounced a ball lightly off the floor. Kika danced around singing something under her breath.
Mapi looked calm.
She wasn’t.
Because no matter how much she wanted this trophy, part of her already knew the hardest thing tonight might not be the game itself.
It might be seeing Ingrid lose.
The walkout began.
The stadium exploded with noise.
Both of them stepped onto the pitch at the exact same moment, soaking in the atmosphere like they always did on European nights.
The lights.
The anthem.
The cameras.
Everything huge.
Everything unforgettable.
During the handshake line, Ingrid finally stood in front of Mapi.
For half a second the world felt strangely quiet.
No kiss.
No embrace.
Only a tiny smile between them.
Small.
Private.
Then they moved on.
And the game began.
Lyon started stronger.
Aggressive pressing. Sharp passing. Confidence.
Ingrid looked locked in early, breaking up attacks and pushing the ball forward quickly. In the twentieth minute Lyon even thought they had scored. The stadium erupted before the flag went up for offside.
Disallowed.
And somehow after that moment, Lyon lost rhythm.
Barcelona slowly took control.
The passing became quicker.
Cleaner.
More dangerous.
And in the second half it finally broke.
55th minute.
Pajor made the run.
Ingrid tried to recover, tried to close the angle, but she was half a second late. Pajor slipped through and buried the finish into the corner.
1:0 Barcelona.
Mapi screamed in celebration with her teammates.
Ingrid stood frozen for a second before jogging back toward midfield, jaw tight.
It got worse.
Barcelona smelled blood now.
Lyon looked shaken.
Another goal.
And in the 73rd minute everything stopped suddenly.
Mapi went down after a collision.
At first Ingrid barely looked.
Just another foul.
But then the medical staff sprinted onto the pitch.
Mapi stayed down.
Ingrid’s stomach dropped instantly.
From across the field she could see blood near Mapi’s eyebrow.
Open wound.
The medical staff surrounded her.
Ingrid took a few hesitant steps forward before stopping herself.
She wanted to run there.
Wanted to kneel beside her.
Wanted to ask if she was okay.
But she couldn’t.
Not now.
Not in this game.
Lyon were already two goals down.
She forced herself to stay focused even while anxiety clawed at her chest.
Please be okay.
Please.
A few minutes later Mapi stood again, bandage wrapped around her head.
And when she returned to the pitch, Ingrid finally exhaled.
Barcelona scored again after that.
Then once more.
4:0.
The final whistle cut through the Oslo night.
And Ingrid felt completely empty.
Around her, Barcelona exploded into celebration.
Lyon players dropped to the grass.
Some cried openly.
Ingrid just stood still.
Because this wasn’t how she had imagined tonight.
Not even close.
She had worked for this all year.
Leaving Barcelona had been one of the hardest decisions of her career. She wanted to prove herself. Wanted to grow. Wanted to stand on her own.
And she had dreamed about this final being special.
In Norway.
In front of her family.
Against Barcelona.
Against Mapi.
Instead she had one of her worst games of the season.
The realization crushed her.
Across the pitch Barcelona players jumped together in a huddle with Mapi in the middle of it, screaming with joy after winning her fourth Champions League title.
But even while celebrating, something inside Mapi hurt.
Because her happiness existed beside Ingrid’s devastation.
Eventually she slipped out of the huddle and walked toward the Lyon players.
Toward Ingrid.
When she finally reached her, she didn’t hesitate.
She pulled her briefly into her arms.
“You’ll come back stronger,” she whispered quietly. “I’m so proud of you.”
Ingrid swallowed hard.
“Good game,” she managed softly.
Mapi hated the sadness in her eyes.
But this was football.
Sometimes love changed absolutely nothing.
The ceremony hurt even more.
Barcelona players formed lines applauding Lyon as they walked through for silver medals.
Ingrid kept her head up with difficulty, fighting tears.
Aitana stopped her for a brief hug.
Then Caroline.
And then Mapi stepped forward.
This hug lasted longer.
Mapi spoke softly into her ear the entire time.
About how incredible her season had been.
About how one game changed nothing.
About how brave she had been to leave Barcelona and start over.
Ingrid nodded silently, fighting tears.
Then the roles reversed.
Lyon stood and applauded as Barcelona walked toward gold medals and the trophy.
Mapi led the line.
Ingrid clapped with red eyes and a shattered chest while watching the club she once called home celebrate another European title.
And despite everything, pride still existed inside her.
For Mapi.
For Aitana.
For Alexia.
For Esmee.
For Kika.
For all of them.
They were still family somehow.
And Mapi deserved this.
God, she deserved this.
That truth hurt almost as much as the loss itself.
As the trophy lifted into the Oslo sky and confetti exploded everywhere, Ingrid finally turned away.
She searched the stands until she found her parents.
The second she reached them, she collapsed into their arms.
“We’re proud of you,” her mother whispered immediately.
Ingrid didn’t believe it.
Not tonight.
Not after that performance.
But she nodded anyway and held onto them tightly.
Because the only other person she wanted comfort from was still on the pitch celebrating.
Mapi.
Later, after interviews and media, Ingrid quietly left for the dressing room.
Meanwhile Mapi remained outside with Barcelona, dancing around the pitch and applauding supporters.
Near the barrier she suddenly spotted Ingrid’s parents waving at her.
Her face softened instantly.
She waved back warmly.
They were family too now.
And despite everything, they were happy for her.
That nearly broke her heart all over again.
Would Ingrid text tonight?
Would she want space?
Would she come to the celebration party?
Probably not.
And honestly Mapi understood.
The questions kept spinning in her head even after she reached the dressing room.
Then she checked her phone.
One unread message from Ingrid.
Congratulations. I’m really proud of you. You deserve this so much. Have fun tonight and celebrate properly. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll call you. Love you.
Mapi stared at the message for several seconds.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Because Ingrid must have been hurting so badly right now.
And still her first instinct was to celebrate Mapi.
To love her through her own heartbreak.
Mapi smiled softly at the screen while chaos and music exploded around her in the locker room.
In that moment she realized something.
Yes, she had won the Champions League tonight.
But that wasn’t the greatest thing in her life.
Ingrid was.
And somehow, despite football and distance and heartbreak and competition, Ingrid still chose her.
Every single time.
Mapi locked her phone again, tucked it into her pocket, and joined her teammates.
The celebrations continued deep into the Oslo night.
But somewhere underneath all the singing and champagne and flashing cameras, one thought stayed quietly in Mapi's heart the entire evening.
She couldn’t wait for tomorrow.
Because tomorrow, finally, she could be Ingrid’s again.
Platonic barca x teen where they have assignments to complete but she sneakily make her teammates do it for her. Like just casually chatting with Aitana and fishing for answers in between for catalan and doing the same for others on different subjects. Maybe baiting Cata and Mapi into doing some for her like its ok this is hard you wouldn't be able to solve it.
She dares not go after the captains cause then she'll be in time out (maybe she has a designated corner cause she's a bit of a troublemaker).
Joining FC Barcelona Femení had been everything you had ever dreamed about and also far more overwhelming than you could have imagined. Only a few months earlier you had still been playing for Barca B, trying to prove yourself during every single training session, and now suddenly you were sharing a locker room with the players whose posters had once covered your bedroom walls. The press had immediately gone crazy over you after your first few appearances for the senior team. Every sports channel seemed convinced that the club had found “the next Alexia” or “another Aitana,” which felt ridiculous considering you were still sixteen years old, still had exams, still forgot homework assignments, and still spent half your free time causing trouble with the younger players in the squad.
You, Kika, Esmee, Claudia and Clara had somehow developed a reputation within weeks. Whenever something suspicious happened around the training ground, whether it was hidden speakers playing farm animal noises during recovery sessions or someone finding googly eyes stuck onto all the protein shakes in the fridge, the older players automatically blamed the five of you. Most of the time they were correct.
Unfortunately for you, being the youngest also meant everyone felt responsible for your education. Alexia, Irene and Marta had collectively decided that your schoolwork was now somehow part of their captain duties, something you found deeply unfair.
That was exactly how you ended up trapped in the lounge room after lunch while the others prepared to play FIFA before the afternoon session.
“Come on, hurry up!” Esmee shouted from the couch while waving a controller at you.
You instantly stood from the table, ready to join them, only for Irene’s hand to catch the hood of your sweatshirt before you could take more than two steps.
“Nope,” she said calmly.
You turned around with your best innocent expression. “What?”
“Homework.”
“I can do it later.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I’ll definitely do it tonight.”
“You also said that yesterday.”
You tried everything after that. Smiling, dramatic sighing, shameless puppy eyes. None of it worked. Irene merely crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow at you in a way that reminded you frighteningly of an actual mother.
“I want to see finished homework before the end of the day.”
It was such a parental sentence that you almost groaned out loud. Sometimes it genuinely felt like Irene spent more time parenting you than your own mother did.
Defeated, you dragged yourself to the long table in the lounge area while your teammates celebrated your downfall behind you. The sound of laughter and video game commentary echoed only a few meters away while you miserably unpacked your books and worksheets. After only 15 minutes your motivation had completely disappeared. You stared blankly at your geography assignment, wondering why anyone needed to memorize capitals or climate systems when phones already existed. Football made sense to you. Pranks made sense to you. Geography absolutely did not.
You were halfway through dramatically dropping your forehead against the table when Aitana sat down across from you with her laptop, clearly intending to work on something herself. Immediately you saw an opportunity.
“Aitana,” you said sweetly after a few minutes.
“Hm?”
“What causes monsoon seasons again?”
Without even looking up from her laptop she answered your question automatically. A few minutes later you asked another one, then another one after that. She kept replying absentmindedly while typing, and for a moment you genuinely thought your plan was working perfectly. Then, after your fifth question in ten minutes, Aitana finally looked up and grinned at you knowingly.
“You do realize I know exactly what you’re doing, right?”
You blinked at her innocently. “Studying?”
“You’re making me do your geography assignment for you.”
“That sounds very dramatic.”
Aitana laughed softly and shook her head. “Finish it yourself before Alexia notices.”
That immediately made you stop because if Alexia noticed, your day would somehow become significantly worse.
Almost an hour later you had finally completed everything except mathematics. Unfortunately, math happened to be your best subject. It came so easily to you that it barely required effort, which only made it more boring. After staring at the equations for several minutes, your attention drifted toward Mapi and Cata, who were standing nearby watching the others play FIFA.
A brilliant idea immediately formed in your mind.
You sighed loudly enough to attract attention and, exactly as planned, Mapi glanced over first.
“What’s wrong with you now?” she asked.
“It’s math,” you complained dramatically. “I don’t understand any of this.”
Cata laughed immediately and walked closer to look at the worksheet. “Seriously? You’re suffering over school math?”
“It’s complicated,” you said with another miserable sigh.
Mapi leaned down to study the page, already looking skeptical. “This? It can’t be that difficult.”
You shrugged innocently. “For the both of you for sure.”
Both women looked offended instantly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mapi demanded.
“Nothing,” you replied quickly. “It’s probably just too advanced.”
That was all it took. Within seconds both of them had pulled up chairs beside you and stolen the worksheet, determined to prove that they were fully capable of solving “simple school math.” You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing as they became increasingly invested in equations you could have solved in less than five minutes. Their expressions slowly shifted from confidence to confusion while you sat beside them offering deeply unhelpful comments.
“Shouldn’t you simplify that first?” you asked casually.
“We KNOW,” Mapi snapped while erasing something aggressively.
After another few minutes you quietly stood from the table while both remained completely distracted by the assignment. Neither even noticed you leaving. A moment later you dropped onto the couch beside Esmee, grabbed a controller and joined the FIFA match like nothing had happened.
Fifteen glorious minutes later you scored a winning goal and jumped up yelling in triumph, only for the entire room to suddenly fall silent around you. Someone had cleared their throat behind you and you already knew exactly who it was before you even turned around.
Alexia stood there with Irene and Marta beside her, all three wearing expressions that immediately made you regret most of your life choices today.
Without saying a word, Alexia slowly looked past you toward the table where Mapi and Cata were still hunched over your math homework looking deeply stressed.
“What exactly are you two doing?” Alexia asked calmly.
Mapi looked up. “Helping Y/N with her homework.”
Alexia raised an eyebrow and pointed toward you holding the controller. “Interesting. Especially considering she’s over here playing FIFA while you do it.”
Realization hit both of them at the same time. Before either could react, Alexia stepped closer and looked down at the worksheet herself. Her eye twitched slightly.
“It’s even more interesting,” she continued, “because everyone in this building knows math is literally her best subject.”
The room exploded with laughter while Mapi and Cata looked absolutely betrayed. Alexia lightly smacked both on the backs of their heads.
“You really let a sixteen year old trick you into doing her homework.”
You laughed harder than anyone else, which immediately earned you your own smack from Irene.
“Ow!”
“Deserved,” Irene replied without sympathy.
Alexia then pointed toward the hallway. “You. Come with me.”
The moment you realized where she was taking you, your shoulders slumped dramatically. Inside the training facility there was one tiny room containing only a table and two chairs, and over the last few weeks it had unofficially become your personal timeout room whenever your behavior crossed the line.
Alexia sat down across from you and folded her arms while you reluctantly reopened your notebook.
“You are now going to finish your homework properly,” she said. “And I’m going to sit here and make sure you actually do it.”
For the next thirty minutes you finished the assignment under Alexia’s direct supervision while she watched you with terrifying concentration. Every time your attention drifted toward the door, she noticed immediately. By the time you finally finished, you were convinced she had some kind of supernatural captain powers.
“There,” you muttered while pushing the notebook toward her. “Done.”
Alexia checked the work carefully before nodding once. Relief immediately flooded through you and you stood up, fully prepared to finally go enjoy the rest of your break.
Unfortunately, Alexia spoke again before you could escape.
“Now comes the punishment.”
Your head dropped back dramatically. “Please no.”
“Running laps.”
You let out the most exhausted sigh imaginable, though deep down you already knew you had deserved it. Even while jogging miserable laps outside twenty minutes later with your teammates laughing at you from the windows, you still couldn’t fully regret it.
Honestly, tricking Mapi and Cata into doing your math homework had been completely worth it.
The apartment always felt softer when Narla was there.
Not quieter. Definitely not cleaner either.
But softer.
The little Westie somehow filled every room with warmth, whether she was sprinting through the hallway at seven in the morning because Keira had opened the treat cupboard or curled up dramatically between the two of you on the couch like she paid rent.
You had gotten used to her routines over the last year.
The way she followed Keira around the apartment constantly.
The way she scratched at the bathroom door whenever Keira showered.
The way she always sat in the kitchen waiting for cheese even though Keira insisted every single time that she was “absolutely not getting any.”
And Narla knew the schedule better than any of you.
Some weeks she stayed with you and Keira.
Some weeks she stayed with Lucy.
It was basically shared custody at this point, even if neither Keira nor Lucy officially called it that.
Still, everyone knew it was.
“Lucy’s got Narla this weekend.”
“Narla’s staying with us this week.”
“Can you grab her leash from Lucy’s car?”
“She needs her food bowl back from yours.
It was normal for them.
Natural.
Years of history made things easy between them.
Too easy sometimes.
At first, before you and Keira got together, you genuinely thought they still were together.
You remembered your first season at Chelsea vividly. Lucy had talked about Keira constantly back then.
Not annoyingly. Not obsessively.
Just naturally.
Like Keira was permanently woven into stories about football and life.
At lunch Lucy would casually say things like, “Keira would hate this weather.”
Or, “Keira’s the worst loser you’ll ever meet.”
Or, “If Chelsea ever got Walsh, everyone else is finished.”
You had assumed there had to be something more there.
Then you found out Lucy was already in another relationship and you realized maybe they were just one of those duos that stayed connected no matter what.
Then Keira transferred to Chelsea.
And suddenly you understood why Lucy had spoken about her like that.
Because Keira had this way about her.
Quiet at first.
Reserved.
Watching more than talking.
But once she became comfortable, she was sarcastic and dry and ridiculously funny in ways that caught you completely off guard.
Nobody had ever made you laugh the way she did.
Not loudly all the time.
Not dramatically.
Just constant little comments muttered under her breath that somehow always hit perfectly.
And slowly, without you even realizing it, she became your favorite person.
Training days became better when she was there.
Bus rides became easier when she sat next to you.
You started looking for her automatically after matches, whether Chelsea had won or lost.
And eventually your friendship turned into lingering touches.
Then late night conversations.
Then stolen kisses.
Then one year together in an apartment on the outskirts of London that somehow already felt like a lifetime.
You loved your life with her.
Loved the mornings when she made coffee half asleep.
Loved grocery shopping with her even though she took forever.
Loved the nights where both of you came home exhausted from training and collapsed together on the couch with Narla squeezed between you.
You loved all of it.
Which was exactly why the internet sometimes got inside your head.
Tonight was one of those nights.
Rain tapped softly against the windows while Narla lay curled up in your lap, warm and sleepy as you absentmindedly scratched behind her ears.
You were scrolling through TikTok.
Big mistake.
Another edit appeared.
Lucy and Keira at City.
Lucy and Keira at Barcelona.
Lucy and Keira arriving at Chelsea training.
Slow motion clips.
Music.
Comments.
They always find their way back to each other.
If Lucy leaves, Keira’s leaving too.
Same story every time.
You sighed quietly.
Narla looked up at you briefly before settling again.
Your thumb kept scrolling even though you knew you should stop.
Another video.
This one analyzing transfer rumors.
Lucy’s contract situation.
Speculation about her future.
And inevitably, speculation about Keira following her somewhere else because apparently the internet believed the two of them moved clubs together like magnets.
Objectively, you knew it was ridiculous.
Keira loved you.
She lived with you.
Half her wardrobe was currently in your laundry basket.
But jealousy wasn’t always logical.
Especially not when every reminder of Keira and Lucy’s connection was permanently sitting right in your lap.
Because Narla was proof of it too.
You loved the little dog so much, but sometimes the shared custody arrangement made your insecurities worse.
Lucy texted Keira regularly about Narla.
Photos.
Vet updates.
Pickup times.
Funny videos.
It was completely innocent.
Still, there were moments where you wondered if you would always exist slightly outside of something the two of them had shared long before you arrived.
The bathroom door opened.
A few seconds later Keira walked into the living room wearing grey sweatpants and your oversized Chelsea hoodie, damp hair pushed messily away from her forehead.
“There you are,” she said softly.
Narla immediately sprang up at the sight of her.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered. “I feed you.”
Keira laughed quietly before leaning down to kiss your cheek.
“You alright?”
“Yeah.”
She paused instantly.
That was the problem with dating someone who knew you this well.
One word and she already knew something was off.
“You sure?”
“Mhm.”
Keira sat beside you, one arm automatically settling behind your shoulders while her other hand rubbed Narla’s stomach.
The dog looked delighted with herself.
Keira’s eyes drifted toward your still open phone.
Still paused on a TikTok edit of her and Lucy.
You stared down at the screen.
“What were you watching?”
You stayed silent.
Keira sighed before gently taking the phone from your hand and locking it.
“You shouldn’t watch those.”
You let out a humorless laugh.
“They’re literally everywhere.”
“I know.”
The room went quiet again.
Keira studied your face carefully.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”
You swallowed.
“No.”
“Right. Because that’s always healthy.”
You huffed quietly despite yourself.
Keira nudged your knee with hers.
“Talk to me.”
For a few seconds you just stared at Narla instead.
The little dog had stretched herself across both your laps now like she was personally trying to stop arguments before they started.
Your voice came out small.
“Are you thinking about leaving Chelsea?”
Keira blinked hard.
“What?”
You immediately regretted asking.
But now it was out there.
“Why would you ask me that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You definitely do know.”
You sighed heavily.
“Is Lucy leaving?”
Keira frowned slightly.
“I honestly don’t know. She hasn’t said anything.”
You nodded slowly, eyes fixed on Narla’s fur.
“And wherever Lucy goes…” you muttered, “you usually go too.”
There it was.
The real issue.
Keira stared at you for a moment before realization crossed her face completely.
“Oh my god.”
You groaned immediately.
“Don’t.”
But then she started smiling.
Actually smiling.
You looked at her in disbelief.
“Why are you grinning? I’m literally having a crisis.”
“Because,” she said, trying not to laugh, “you’re jealous.”
“I am not.”
Keira raised one eyebrow.
You slumped dramatically against the couch.
“Okay fine. Maybe a little.”
“A little?” she repeated skeptically.
“How am I supposed not to be?” you blurted out finally. “The internet acts like you and Lucy are destined soulmates or something.”
Keira laughed softly.
“That’s dramatic.”
“You literally share custody of a dog.”
At that, Keira fully laughed.
Narla barked immediately like she was offended to be discussed.
“You are not helping,” you informed the dog.
Keira pulled you closer before you could drift away from her again.
“You do realize shared custody makes us sound divorced.”
“You basically are divorced.”
“We were never married.”
“You co-parent a Westie, Keira.”
She buried her face briefly into your shoulder because she was laughing too hard now.
You tried to stay annoyed, but it was difficult when she looked this amused.
Eventually Keira lifted her head again, still smiling softly.
“Hey,” she said quieter this time.
You looked at her reluctantly.
“I’m not leaving Chelsea.”
Your expression softened slightly.
“And I’m definitely not leaving you.”
“But what if Lucy leaves?”
“Then Lucy leaves.”
You frowned.
“That doesn’t sound convincing.”
Keira shook her head fondly before shifting so she was fully facing you.
“Listen. Yeah, our paths crossed a lot. City, Barcelona, Chelsea. Fine. But it wasn’t because we had some secret plan to follow each other around forever.”
“It really looks like one though.”
“To people online maybe.” She shrugged lightly. “But football’s small. Especially women’s football.”
You stayed quiet.
Keira glanced down at Narla affectionately.
“And yeah,” she admitted, scratching the dog behind the ears, “Lucy and I will always be connected somehow because of this little gremlin.”
Narla wagged her tail furiously.
“She spends half her life at Lucy’s and half here. Honestly I think she’s manipulating both households for extra treats.”
“That’s exactly what she’s doing.”
“Smart girl.”
Narla barked proudly.
You smiled despite yourself.
Keira’s fingers found yours then, intertwining them carefully.
“Lucy’s important to me,” she said honestly. “She always will be. We spent years together. We’ve got history and Narla and football and all of that.”
Your chest tightened slightly again.
But then Keira squeezed your hand.
“But you,” she said softly, “are my future.”
You looked up at her immediately.
“I come home to you.”
Her thumb brushed across your knuckles.
“You’re the one I want all of this with. The apartment. The chaos. The football. Everything.”
The tightness in your chest slowly loosened.
“I love you,” she continued. “Not the internet. Not old stories people made up in their heads. You.”
Your eyes stung a little embarrassingly.
“Keira…”
“And for the record,” she added lightly, “if I ever leave Chelsea one day, it’ll be because of football. Not because Lucy decided to annoy another club somewhere else.”
You laughed unexpectedly at that.
“There’s the sarcasm.”
“There she is,” Keira said triumphantly.
You leaned forward then, kissing her softly.
Keira kissed you back instantly, warm and familiar and grounding in the exact way only she could be.
Narla suddenly shoved herself between both your faces with an offended yap.
You burst out laughing.
“Oh my god, jealous little thing.”
“She hates not being included,” Keira said seriously.
Narla immediately started licking your face aggressively.
You squealed, trying to push her away while Keira laughed beside you.
“Narla loves her stepmum,” Keira informed you smugly.
“Stepmum sounds insane.”
“It’s true though.”
You finally managed to rescue yourself from the dog attack, breathless from laughing.
Then you settled back against Keira’s side again while Narla curled up between you both like nothing had happened.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured quietly after a while. “Sometimes I just get scared.”
Keira kissed the top of your head immediately.
“It’s okay.”
“I know it’s irrational.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
You looked up at her.
She smiled softly.
“I’ll remind you as many times as you need.”
“How many times is that?”
Keira pretended to think carefully.
“Probably forever.”
You snorted quietly.
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Lucky for you,” she said, pulling you even closer, “I’m deeply committed.”
And for the rest of the evening, the three of you stayed tangled together on the couch while rain poured outside your London apartment.
Narla slept between you both.
Keira absentmindedly rubbed circles against your arm.
The television played forgotten background noise.
And slowly, your jealousy faded beneath the simple certainty of her beside you.
Because Lucy might always be part of Keira’s past.
Narla might always move between both homes.
The internet might always talk.
But at the end of the day, Keira still came home to you.
Not because it hurts any less, not because you suddenly feel better, but because there are simply no tears left, your body too exhausted to keep up with the weight of everything that has happened, leaving you sitting on the cold floor of the living room in a silence that feels heavier than the sobs before.
You don’t move.
You can’t.
Your eyes are fixed on nothing, your thoughts circling endlessly around the same realization, over and over again, like your mind is trying to make sense of something that will never make sense.
What have you done?
The question keeps repeating, but there is no answer that changes anything, no explanation that makes it better, because the truth is simple and unbearable at the same time.
You destroyed it.
You destroyed her.
And now she hates you.
The thought alone makes your chest tighten again, but the tears don’t come back, they just sit there, somewhere deep inside you, turning into something dull and heavy, something that makes it hard to breathe but not enough to break you open again.
She was everything.
Not just your girlfriend, not just someone you loved, but your home, your safe place, the person you came back to after every training, every match, every good day and every bad one, and now she is gone.
Gone because of you.
Time passes, though you don’t really notice it, the darkness outside slowly fading until the first light of the morning begins to slip through the windows, soft and quiet, like it doesn’t know what it is illuminating.
You blink slowly, your gaze shifting toward the wall where the clock hangs.
Almost seven.
For a moment, you just stare at it, your mind slow to process what that means, until it finally clicks.
Training.
In about one and a half hours.
The thought feels distant.
Irrelevant.
What for?
You let out a hollow breath, shaking your head slightly as you push yourself up from the floor, your body stiff and sore, every movement heavier than it should be.
You already know you’re not going.
There is no point.
You’re not playing.
Alexia doesn’t want to see you.
And once the others find out, they won’t want you there either.
Your time in Barcelona is over.
Not just at the club.
Everywhere.
You reach for your phone, your fingers moving automatically as you type out a short message, something simple, something that doesn’t require explanation.
"I’m sick. Won’t make it to training today."
You send it without rereading it.
It doesn’t matter.
Nothing really does anymore.
The bathroom light feels too bright when you switch it on.
You step inside slowly, stopping in front of the mirror, and for a second, you don’t even recognize the person staring back at you.
Your eyes are swollen, red and puffy from hours of crying, your cheeks still streaked with dried tears and smeared mascara, your skin pale, lifeless.
You look like someone who has lost everything.
Maybe you have.
You turn on the tap, splashing cold water onto your face, trying to wash away the traces of last night, but it doesn’t change much, it doesn’t erase what happened, it doesn’t make you look any less broken.
When you finally look up again, your reflection still feels unfamiliar.
This isn’t who you thought you were.
You were never supposed to be someone who betrays the person they love, someone who throws everything away for a moment that didn’t even matter.
And yet, here you are.
You shake your head slowly, like you can physically push the thought away, but it stays.
It will always stay.
The bedroom feels different when you walk in.
Colder.
Emptier.
You hesitate in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside, your eyes briefly flickering over the bed, over the space where she usually sleeps, before you force yourself to move.
You need to pack.
She told you to leave.
And you will.
Not because you want to, but because you don’t get to stay after what you did, because this is her apartment, her space, the place she invited you into almost two years ago when everything still felt easy and right.
You remember that day.
You remember how happy you were.
Now you’re standing here, about to leave it all behind.
You pull your suitcase out from under the bed, placing it on top and unzipping it slowly, the sound louder than it should be in the quiet room.
Then you walk into the closet.
Or what used to feel like your closet too.
Now it just feels like a reminder of how intertwined your lives had become, your clothes mixed with hers, your things everywhere, impossible to separate cleanly.
You start packing anyway.
Piece by piece.
Shirt by shirt.
Trying not to think about how many of these she has seen you wear, how many memories are attached to something as simple as a hoodie or a jacket.
At some point, you realize that a lot of your clothes aren’t even on your side anymore.
They’re with hers.
Mixed in.
You pause for a moment, staring at the other side of the closet.
You could go through it.
Take everything that’s yours.
But the thought alone feels exhausting.
Pointless.
So you don’t.
You take what you can find and leave the rest.
She can throw it away.
You don’t have the energy to care.
It takes hours.
By the time you’re done, you have three suitcases and a bag, all filled with what’s left of your life here, everything that once felt permanent now reduced to something you can carry out the door.
You stand there for a moment, looking at it all, feeling completely lost.
Where are you even going?
You don’t know.
All your friends are her friends too.
And you know exactly whose side they’ll take.
You don’t blame them.
You wouldn’t choose you either.
Slowly, you grab your things, dragging them toward the door, your movements automatic, like you’re just going through the motions without really being present.
The key feels heavy in your hand.
You place it down on the kitchen counter, staring at it for a second longer than necessary, because that small object represents something bigger.
The end.
You take one last look around the apartment, your chest tightening as memories flood back, small moments, laughter, quiet evenings, everything that used to fill this place with life.
Now it just feels empty.
You turn away before you can break down again and step outside.
The elevator ride feels suffocating.
Tears start falling again, silent this time, as you watch the numbers change, each floor taking you further away from the life you had.
It hurts.
More than anything.
Losing her.
Losing this place.
Losing everything because of one decision you can’t take back.
By the time you reach the ground floor, your vision is blurred again, your hands trembling slightly as you step outside and call an Uber.
The ride is quiet.
You don’t speak.
You just stare out of the window, watching Barcelona pass by, the city that once felt like home now feeling like somewhere you no longer belong.
The Airbnb is small.
Temporary.
Nothing like the apartment you just left behind.
You drop your bags near the door, walking further inside before sitting down on the couch, your body sinking into it as you stare straight ahead.
You don’t move.
You don’t think.
Or maybe you think too much.
Everything is in pieces.
Your career.
Your relationship.
Your life.
And you have no idea how to fix any of it.
So you don’t try.
You just sit there.
Staring into nothing.
---
At the training grounds, things aren’t much better.
Alexia moves through the drills like she always does, precise, controlled, usually one of the best on the pitch without even trying, but today something is off, something that everyone who knows her can see immediately.
She looks tired.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
Her movements are just slightly delayed, her focus slipping for a fraction of a second too often, and for someone like her, that is noticeable.
She didn’t sleep.
Not even for a minute.
The night still sits heavy in her chest, every word, every image replaying over and over again, making it impossible to breathe properly, let alone rest.
At any moment, it feels like she might break.
From the sidelines, Mapi watches her closely, concern written all over her face, because she knows something is wrong.
She knew it the moment she opened the door in the middle of the night.
The ringing had woken her up, faint at first, easy to miss, but persistent enough that she eventually got up, confused and half-asleep, making her way to the door.
And when she opened it, she froze.
Because Alexia looked… destroyed.
Her eyes red and swollen, her cheeks streaked with tears, her whole posture tense and fragile at the same time, like she was barely holding herself together.
Mapi didn’t ask questions.
Not then.
Not when it was obvious that Alexia wouldn’t answer.
She just stepped aside, letting her in, offering her a place to stay, bringing her water, guiding her to the guest room without pushing for anything more.
And Alexia hadn’t said much.
Just a quiet “thank you” before closing the door.
This morning, she was already gone when Mapi woke up.
And when Mapi arrived at training, Alexia was already there.
In the gym.
Trying to distract herself.
Trying not to think.
Mapi had asked.
Of course she had.
“What’s going on?”
But Alexia had just shaken her head, saying she would explain later.
So Mapi waited.
Even though it was hard.
Even though she noticed immediately that you weren’t there either.
Officially, you were sick.
But she didn’t believe that.
Not after last night.
Not after the way things had felt off between you and Alexia at the club, even if it hadn’t seemed serious enough to end like this.
Something didn’t add up.
And the longer training went on, the more worried she became.
By the time they were back in the changing room, the rest of the team had already left.
Only Mapi and Alexia remained.
Alexia was sitting on the bench, completely still, her gaze unfocused, lost somewhere far away.
Mapi didn’t rush her.
She gave her time.
Sat nearby, waiting.
And eventually, she heard it.
So quiet that for a second she thought she imagined it.
“She cheated on me.”
Mapi’s head snapped toward her.
“What?”
Alexia didn’t look up immediately, her hands clasped together tightly as if she was trying to hold herself together.
“She cheated,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “And it’s over.”
For a moment, Mapi just stared at her, trying to process what she had just heard, because it didn’t make sense, not when it came to you, not when it came to the two of you together.
You were solid.
You were supposed to last.
Like her and Ingrid.
Unbreakable.
“How…?” she started, but stopped herself when she saw the tears gathering in Alexia’s eyes again.
Some questions didn’t need to be asked.
Not right now.
Instead, she moved closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a firm, steady hug.
Alexia didn’t resist.
Didn’t hold back.
She just leaned into it, her composure finally breaking as the tears started falling again, quieter this time but just as heavy.
And Mapi stayed.
Not saying anything.
Just being there.
Because sometimes, that’s all you can do when everything falls apart.
Sit together in the silence, trying to understand how something that once felt so certain could end like this.
Without either of you really knowing when it all started to go wrong.
They sit in the corner of your closet, untouched, undisturbed, but never unnoticed. White with blue accents, a little scuffed from nights spent running around Barcelona, from lazy walks to the coffee shop, from hurried dashes through the rain when you were too stubborn to carry umbrellas. They were her favorites. And now, they mock you.
Alexia left with everything else. The hoodies she always stole from your dresser, the perfume that still lingers on your pillow, the promises you thought were unbreakable. She packed her bags, zipped them up tight, and walked out of your home, out of your life. But somehow, she forgot these.
Maybe if she had remembered them, you could’ve convinced yourself that she was truly gone. But these Nikes—they tether you to something you can’t let go of. You should throw them away, should stuff them into a donation bag or leave them outside her door like a final, desperate attempt to make her look at you again. But you can’t.
Because when you see them, you see her.
You see her sitting on your couch, feet curled up under her as she watches some documentary with the subtitles on, even though she doesn’t need them. You see her standing in the doorway, arms crossed, an exasperated smirk playing at her lips as you struggle to cook dinner. You see her beside you, fingers laced with yours, pulling you through the city streets like she was always one step ahead, like she always knew where you were going—where you were meant to be.
Now, she acts like you never existed.
If you see her at training, her eyes slide right past you, like you’re just another teammate. No warmth, no anger, no nothing. It’s like you never happened. Like you were never tangled up in late-night whispers and quiet 'I love you’s' against the skin. Like she never told you that you were her home. Like she never made you believe that love like yours could outlast anything.
But maybe you gave up too soon.
Maybe you should have fought harder. Maybe the space you thought you needed was just another word for fear. You let go before you even tried to hold on. And now, she’s gone, and you’re left with these ghosts, these memories stitched into the fabric of forgotten sneakers.
Do you ever cross her mind? Does she regret walking away? Does she miss you when she’s alone, when the night stretches long and quiet? You should have left something at her place, something to haunt her the way these Nikes haunt you. Something she couldn’t just ignore. But you didn’t, and now you’re the only one trapped in this endless loop of what-ifs and almosts.
You know she’s gone.
But you can’t stop holding on. Holding on to the echoes of you two, to the way she used to look at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Holding on to the way your name used to sound when she said it, soft and safe. Holding on to a past that refuses to let you go.
Just like these damn Nikes in your closet.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll never be able to let them go either.
The walk up to the apartment feels longer than it ever has before, every step heavier than the last, your legs unsteady beneath you as the alcohol slowly fades and reality settles in fully, brutally, leaving you with nothing but the weight of what you’ve done and the quiet certainty that there is no fixing this.
Your hands are shaking as you unlock the door.
For a second, you just stand there in the doorway, staring into the apartment that used to feel like home, your chest tightening because you already know that by the end of this night, it won’t feel like that anymore.
You step inside quietly, closing the door behind you as carefully as you can, like somehow being silent will delay what’s coming, but it doesn’t, because you barely make it two steps forward before you hear movement.
Footsteps.
Your heart drops.
And then she’s there.
Alexia rounds the corner, already speaking, her voice filled with concern, “Where have you been? I was worried, I tried calling you but you didn’t answer—”
She stops.
Mid-step.
Mid-sentence.
Because she sees you.
And everything about her expression changes instantly.
“Hey… hey, what—” she rushes toward you, her brows pulling together in worry as her eyes scan your face, your tear-streaked cheeks, your trembling hands, the way you can barely even stand properly. “What happened?”
You try to speak.
You really do.
But nothing comes out.
Your throat closes up, your chest tightening until all you can do is cry, the tears coming harder now, uncontrollable, your body shaking as everything finally crashes down on you at once.
“Hey, hey…” Alexia’s voice softens immediately, all her concern focused entirely on you as she pulls you into her arms without hesitation, holding you tightly against her.
And that’s what breaks you even more.
Because her arms still feel like home.
Because she still holds you like nothing is wrong.
Because you know this might be the last time she ever does.
A sob escapes you, louder this time, your hands clutching onto her as if you could somehow stop everything from falling apart just by holding on tight enough.
“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. “It’s okay… you’re okay…”
But you’re not.
And you both know it, even if she doesn’t understand why yet.
She guides you gently toward the living room, not letting go of you as she sits you down on the couch, staying close, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders as you continue crying, unable to stop.
“What happened?” she asks again, softer now, more careful, like she’s afraid of pushing too hard.
You shake your head.
Not because you don’t want to answer.
But because you can’t.
Not yet.
She tries again a few minutes later.
And then again.
Each time her voice grows a little more worried, a little more uncertain, because she has never seen you like this, completely broken down, unable to even form a sentence.
“I don’t know what to do,” she murmurs more to herself than to you, her hand rubbing gently up and down your arm, trying to ground you, to calm you.
Time passes.
You don’t know how much.
Ten minutes, maybe more.
Slowly, your breathing starts to even out, the sobs turning into quiet hiccups as exhaustion begins to take over, leaving you drained, empty, but just stable enough to speak.
Alexia’s arm is still around you, her presence steady, familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache even more.
“It’s okay,” she says softly. “Just breathe… everything’s going to be okay.”
You close your eyes briefly.
Because you know that’s not true.
Not anymore.
Not after what you’ve done.
You pull in a shaky breath, your hands twisting together in your lap as you try to gather the courage to say it, because you know that once the words are out, there’s no taking them back.
“Did something happen?” she asks again, her voice careful. “Or… is this because of earlier? Because I was… dismissive?”
You don’t look at her.
You can’t.
“I’m sorry,” she continues quickly. “I didn’t mean to act like that. I know I haven’t been… the best lately, but I can be better. I want to be better. I want to support you the way you deserve, I just—”
“Stop,” you whisper.
Your voice is weak, barely audible, but it’s enough to make her fall silent.
“You have to stop,” you add, shaking your head slightly.
She looks at you, confused, concerned, but also clearly meaning every word she just said.
And that only makes it worse.
“Don’t… don’t say all that,” you murmur. “You don’t need to.”
“I do,” she insists softly.
“No,” you say, finally forcing yourself to look at her, your eyes filled with tears again. “You don’t.”
She frowns, about to argue, but you shake your head again, cutting her off before she can speak.
“I’m the one who needs to be sorry,” you say, your voice trembling. “I’m the one who messed up.”
Confusion spreads across her face.
“What are you talking about?”
You swallow hard, your gaze dropping again as the words begin to spill out, messy, broken, but unstoppable now.
“At the club… something happened,” you start, your voice uneven.
Her posture straightens immediately, her expression shifting to concern again, her eyes widening slightly, but you don’t look at her, you can’t, you just keep going.
“I’m not in the squad on Sunday,” you say quietly. “Not even on the bench.”
She inhales sharply, but you don’t stop.
“I’ve been trying so hard,” you continue, your words rushing now. “Every day, I’ve been working more and more and it just… it doesn’t matter. Nothing changes. And I was frustrated, and I was sad, and I was… mad. At everything.”
A pause.
“And at you,” you admit, your voice breaking slightly. “Because I felt like you didn’t understand. Like you weren’t even seeing me anymore.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Then you keep going, because you have to.
“I was drunk,” you whisper. “And I don’t even know how it happened. I don’t know why I didn’t stop it.”
Alexia doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
But you feel it.
The shift.
The tension.
“There was… there was this woman,” you say, your voice barely holding together.
And then you stop.
Because you can’t say it.
Because saying it makes it real.
Your tears start falling again, your chest tightening as the silence stretches, unbearable.
Alexia slowly pulls away from you, just a little, her body going still, her expression changing as something dark, something heavy settles in her eyes.
“Keep going,” she says quietly.
You shake your head.
“I can’t…”
“Yes, you can,” she replies, her voice firmer now, though there’s something fragile beneath it. “Just say it.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing the words out.
“We were dancing,” you whisper. “And then… we were kissing.”
For a moment, everything is silent.
And then you feel it.
The shift.
Like something just shattered between you.
Alexia inhales sharply, like the air has been knocked out of her lungs, her eyes staring at you in disbelief.
“A kiss?” she asks, her voice tight. “That’s it?”
You don’t answer.
You don’t have to.
Because the way you close your eyes, the way your face crumbles, tells her everything.
She pulls away from you completely this time, scooting back as if she needs distance, as if being close to you suddenly hurts.
“Did you…?” she starts, but doesn’t finish the question.
You don’t speak.
And that’s enough.
She stands up abruptly, the movement sharp, almost violent, and you follow her instinctively, panic rising in your chest.
“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, your voice breaking. “It didn’t mean anything, I swear, I didn’t—”
“Stop,” she snaps.
The word cuts through you instantly.
“Just… stop talking.”
Her voice is shaking now, anger and disbelief mixing together as she runs a hand through her hair, pacing slightly.
“I can’t believe you did this,” she says, her voice rising. “I can’t believe you would do this to me.”
“I know,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “I know, I messed up, I’m so sorry—”
“Was it worth it?” she demands suddenly, turning to face you, her eyes burning. “Was it that good? Sleeping with some random woman so you could just throw everything away?”
You flinch at her words, your chest tightening painfully as you shake your head.
“No—”
“Because that’s what you did!” she shouts. “You threw everything away!”
You don’t argue.
Because she’s right.
“I wasn’t perfect,” she continues, her voice breaking slightly now, tears in her eyes but fueled by anger. “I know I haven’t been the best lately, I know that, but I did not deserve this.”
“No, you didn’t,” you say quietly. “You didn’t deserve any of this.”
She lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head as if she still can’t quite believe it.
“I can’t even look at you right now,” she mutters.
The words hit harder than anything else.
Then she looks at you again.
And this time, there’s something final in her expression.
“I’m leaving,” she says.
Your heart drops.
“What?”
“I’m leaving,” she repeats. “And I want you gone by tomorrow.”
The world seems to tilt slightly.
“Ale—”
“No,” she cuts you off immediately. “We’re done. You and me, we’re done. I want you out of the apartment by tomorrow. Just… get out of my life.”
You feel like you can’t breathe.
Like everything is collapsing all over again.
She turns toward the door, grabbing her things quickly, not even looking at you anymore, and for a second you think that’s it, that she’s just going to walk out without another word.
But then she stops.
Turns back slightly.
“You should leave Barcelona too,” she says, her voice cold now. “Go somewhere else, like you wanted so badly.”
The words hit like a punch.
“Because you don’t have anything left here.”
And then she’s gone.
The door slams shut behind her, the sound echoing through the apartment.
Through you.
For a moment, you just stand there.
Frozen.
And then your legs give out.
You collapse onto the floor, your body shaking as the sobs come back, stronger than before, uncontrollable, tearing through you as everything finally sinks in.
You lost her.
You actually lost her.
Not just a fight.
Not just distance.
Her.
And it’s your fault.
Your career had already been slipping away, piece by piece, leaving you feeling lost and uncertain, but now this… this was worse.
Because this was something you destroyed yourself.
You press your hands against your face, crying into them as your body curls in on itself, the emptiness in the apartment suddenly overwhelming, suffocating.
You don’t know how long you stay there.
Minutes.
Hours.
It doesn’t matter.
Nothing does.
Because everything that mattered is gone.
And now you’re left sitting on the floor of what is no longer your home, surrounded by the pieces of a life you shattered, trying to understand how you’re supposed to get up from this.
How you’re supposed to keep going.
But right now…
You don’t.
Right now, you just cry, the realization hitting over and over again, heavier each time.
You destroyed the most important thing in your life.
The week that followed felt like a final attempt to hold onto something that was already slipping through your fingers, because despite everything that had happened, despite the doubts growing louder in your head, you still showed up every single day and gave everything you had, pushing yourself harder in training than you had in months, staying longer on the pitch, doing extra work in the gym, repeating drills until your legs felt heavy and your lungs burned, all in the desperate hope that someone would finally notice, that something would finally change, that all of this effort would mean something.
And for a moment, it almost felt like it might.
Training sessions went well, better than they had in a long time, and there were brief flashes where you felt like yourself again, sharp, confident, present, like the player you used to be before the injury, before everything started to feel so uncertain, and those moments were enough to keep you going, enough to make you believe that maybe Sunday would be different, that maybe this time your name would be on the list.
By the time Friday came around, you were exhausted but hopeful, holding onto that fragile belief that all your work had not been for nothing.
So when your coach called your name after training, you felt your heart pick up, a mix of nerves and anticipation settling in your chest as you walked over, trying to read his expression, trying to prepare yourself for whatever he was about to say.
He kept it short.
Professional. Distant.
“You won’t be in the squad this weekend.”
For a second, you thought you had misheard him, because the words didn’t make sense, not after everything you had done, not after the way you had pushed yourself all week, but then he continued, explaining that they wanted to rotate, that it was an easy opponent, that some players from Barça B would get the opportunity to step in, and with every word, the weight in your chest grew heavier, pressing down until it felt hard to breathe.
Not even on the bench.
Not even a chance.
You nodded because that was the only thing you could do, because anything else would have revealed too much, and you didn’t trust yourself to speak without your voice breaking, so you simply said “okay” and walked away, your steps automatic, your mind already spiraling.
It didn’t hit you fully until you were alone, sitting in your car, hands gripping the steering wheel as you stared ahead without really seeing anything, because all you could think about was the fact that you had done everything right, you had worked harder than ever before, you had pushed through the frustration, the disappointment, the exhaustion, and still it wasn’t enough.
And suddenly, something inside you shifted.
Not a small crack like before, but something final.
You couldn’t do this anymore.
You couldn’t keep trying and trying and getting nowhere, couldn’t keep sitting on the bench, watching, waiting, hoping for something that clearly wasn’t coming, because football had always been everything to you, and right now you felt like you were losing it, piece by piece.
So you made a decision.
And this time, it didn’t feel uncertain.
It felt necessary.
You called your agent before you could overthink it, your voice steadier than you expected as you explained the situation, telling him that you needed to leave, that you needed him to talk to the club, to figure something out, whether it was a transfer or a loan, it didn’t matter, as long as you could play again, as long as you could get back on the pitch where you belonged.
When the call ended, you sat there for a moment, letting it sink in, because this wasn’t just a thought anymore, it was real, and even though it hurt, even though it meant risking everything you had built in Barcelona, it also felt like the only way forward.
You wanted to tell Alexia, you really did, because despite everything, she was still the person you were supposed to share these things with, but when you saw her later, she was already talking about the upcoming matches, about tactics, about the Champions League, completely absorbed in her own world, and you found yourself listening instead of speaking, nodding along, letting the moment pass, telling yourself that you would talk to her tomorrow, when things were quieter, when you could actually have a conversation.
---
That night, the team was going out to celebrate Aitana’s birthday, and part of you hoped that it would be exactly what you needed, a distraction, a chance to forget everything that had happened, even if just for a few hours.
At home, you got ready in silence, the atmosphere between you and Alexia calm but distant, and when you stepped out of the bedroom wearing a dress that you knew she used to love, one that had once made her look at you like you were the only person in the room, you waited, just for a second, for that reaction, for that spark of recognition.
But it didn’t come.
She barely looked up before telling you that you had to leave in ten minutes, her attention already elsewhere, and you felt that familiar ache settle in your chest again, because it wasn’t just on the pitch where you felt invisible anymore, it was here too, in the place that was supposed to feel like home.
At the club, the music and the lights hit you all at once, loud and overwhelming, and before you could even properly take it in, Alexia was already moving toward the booth where Irene, Mapi and others were sitting, leaving you standing there for a moment before you turned toward the bar instead, deciding that a drink would make things easier.
One drink turned into several, the warmth spreading through your body, softening the edges of your thoughts, making everything feel just a little bit more distant, and eventually you found your way to the dancefloor, where Esmee, Kika and Pina pulled you into their circle, laughing, dancing, and for the first time that night, you actually felt good, light, like you could forget about everything else for a while.
But even then, a part of you was still looking for her.
Still wanting to share that moment with Alexia.
So after some time, you made your way back to the booth, slipping your arms around her shoulders, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek as you asked her to come dance with you, your voice hopeful despite everything.
She refused without hesitation.
Not now, she said.
Not in the mood.
You tried again, gently insisting, but that only seemed to irritate her, and when she told you to stop acting like a stubborn kid, that if you kept drinking and behaving like this you would never play again, the words hit you harder than anything else that night, because she didn’t even know, didn’t know that you had already been told you wouldn’t play, that you wouldn’t even be in the squad, and yet this was what she thought of you.
You let go of her immediately, the distance between you suddenly feeling too large to cross, quietly telling her that you understood before turning away, even though you didn’t, not really, and as you walked back toward the dancefloor, you caught Mapi looking at you with something that looked like pity, which only made it worse.
You didn’t go back to the table after that.
You stayed on the dancefloor, letting the music and the alcohol carry you through the night, trying not to think about anything beyond the moment, and when Alexia eventually left, she didn’t even tell you, just asked the others to pass it on, which somehow hurt more than if she had said nothing at all.
By the time the rest of the girls were getting ready to leave, it was already late, and even though they offered to share a cab with you, you refused, insisting that you would stay a little longer, brushing off their concern until they finally gave in and left you there alone.
You knew you should have gone with them.
You knew you should have gone home.
But home didn’t feel like somewhere you wanted to be, not when it felt like you didn’t really belong there anymore either.
So you stayed.
You drank more than you should have, the alcohol dulling your thoughts just enough to make everything feel manageable, and when you felt arms wrap around your waist from behind, when you heard a voice in your ear and turned to find a woman smiling at you, confident and clearly interested, you knew that you should step away, that you should stop this before it even started.
But you didn’t.
Because for the first time in weeks, maybe months, someone was looking at you like you mattered, like they actually saw you, and in that moment, that feeling was stronger than your better judgment.
You danced with her.
You let her get closer.
And when she kissed you, you didn’t stop her.
You should have.
You knew you should have.
But your mind was too clouded, your emotions too tangled, and by the time you found yourself in the bathroom with her, it was already too late to pretend that this was just harmless, that it didn’t mean anything.
It meant everything.
Because you didn’t stop it.
Not once.
---
The walk home was quiet.
Too quiet.
With every step, the fog began to lift, and the reality of what you had done settled in, heavy and undeniable, until it felt like you could barely breathe under the weight of it.
Tears blurred your vision as you stumbled down the street, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself as if that could somehow hold you together.
You had cheated.
On Alexia.
On the person who had been by your side through everything, who had shared this life with you, who had built something with you that you had once believed was unbreakable.
And now you had destroyed it.
Your career already felt like it was falling apart, like you were losing the one thing that had always defined you, and tonight, you had managed to ruin the one thing that was supposed to remain.
A broken laugh escaped you, quickly turning into a sob as you wiped your face, your hands shaking.
“How did I get here?”
You didn’t have an answer.
Only the realization that you couldn’t hide this.
Couldn’t lie.
No matter how much you wished you could undo it, pretend it never happened, go back to a few hours ago and make a different choice.
You couldn’t.
And Alexia deserved the truth.
Even if it meant losing her.
Even if it meant losing everything.
You slowed as you reached the building, staring up at it for a moment, your chest tightening as the weight of what was waiting for you pressed down again.
This was it.
There was no going back now.
You took a shaky breath and stepped inside, knowing that with the next words you spoke, you were about to break the last piece of the life you had left.
It had been three months since you moved in with Alexia, and every day felt like a dream. A little over a year ago, the two of you had met at a mutual friend’s dinner party. Sparks flew almost instantly, and it didn’t take long for those sparks to ignite into a blazing love story. Nine months into your relationship, Alexia had asked you to move in with her, and though you initially hesitated, here you were now, completely in love and wondering why you’d ever doubted it in the first place.
Her apartment was stunning. With panoramic views of Barcelona and modern touches throughout, it was the kind of place you’d only ever dreamed of living in. At first, the thought of not contributing equally made you uncomfortable. You’d voiced those concerns time and again, but Alexia had always brushed them off. “Mi reina,” she’d said softly, her hands cradling your face, “this isn’t about money. I want you here with me, where you belong.”
You’d eventually relented, and now, living with her felt like the most natural thing in the world. Alexia treated you like royalty. She’d often come home from training with flowers, their sweet scent filling the apartment. After your long days at the office, you’d find her in the kitchen, whipping up your favorite meals with a smile that could light up the entire city.
She balanced everything so effortlessly—training, matches, photoshoots, and countless obligations—yet she always made time for you. It amazed you how she managed it all. Sometimes she’d surprise you with little gifts, like a book you’d mentioned in passing or a piece of jewelry you’d admired during a shopping trip but decided against buying. Despite your protests, she insisted on showering you with these tokens of her love.
“Lex, you really don’t have to,” you’d say, exasperated yet touched.
“I know I don’t have to,” she’d reply with a playful grin. “But I want to.”
Date nights were another point of contention. No matter how many times you offered to pay, she always beat you to it. It was infuriating and endearing in equal measure. One evening, after yet another dinner where Alexia footed the bill without so much as a glance in your direction, you came home feeling a mix of gratitude and frustration.
“What’s wrong?” Alexia asked as you entered the apartment, sensing your mood immediately.
“You know what’s wrong,” you muttered, kicking off your shoes and heading to the bedroom.
You took a long shower, letting the water wash away your irritation, but the feeling lingered. Dressed in your comfiest pajamas, you curled up on the couch with a book, hoping to lose yourself in its pages. Alexia appeared moments later, her presence filling the room like a warm embrace. She sat down beside you, her chin resting on your shoulder as she pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.
“Stop ignoring me,” she murmured, her voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves.
“You never listen to me,” you replied, setting your book down. “I’ve told you so many times that I don’t need all these things you buy me. And dinner tonight? I wanted to pay for once, Alexia. It’s like you don’t even let me try.”
She leaned back slightly, her eyes searching yours. “Do you like the things I get you?” she asked softly.
You sighed. “Yes, but that’s not the point. It’s just... everyone probably thinks I’m only with you because of your money.”
Alexia’s expression softened, and she cupped your face in her hands, making sure you were looking directly at her. “Listen to me,” she said firmly. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. What matters is what we know about us. I love you. Not because of what you do or don’t do, but because of who you are. You are my everything, my soulmate.”
Her voice wavered slightly as she continued. “I love to spoil you because you deserve it. You deserve to have everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more. And this?” She gestured around the apartment. “It’s not just mine. It’s ours. Everything I have, it’s yours too. You don’t owe me anything except your love, because that’s all I want from you.”
Tears pricked your eyes as her words sank in. She pulled you into her arms, holding you close, and you felt the last traces of your frustration melt away. How could you ever doubt her sincerity when she poured so much of herself into loving you?
“I love you, Lex,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.
“And I love you, mi reina,” she replied, her lips brushing against your forehead.
From that moment on, you made a promise to yourself to embrace her love without hesitation. Because Alexia Putellas wasn’t just your partner; she was your everything, just as you were hers.
Not just the kind people talked about in interviews or posted about online, but the kind you lived in every single day without questioning it. Sunlight pouring through wide windows in the morning, warming the wooden floors. The distant sound of the city drifting up from the streets. The smell of coffee and fresh bread mixing with laughter that once came so easily.
It had been simple.
Wake up together. Train together. Play together. Come home together.
You and Alexia had built something that felt steady. Safe. Untouchable.
At least, that’s what it used to feel like.
Now, something had shifted.
Not all at once. Not in a way you could clearly point to. It had started small. A missed dinner here. A short reply there. A conversation that ended too quickly. Another one that turned into tension.
And then suddenly, it was everywhere.
You sat at the kitchen counter, elbows resting against the cool surface, fingers loosely wrapped around a mug that had long since gone cold. You couldn’t even remember when you’d made the tea. Or if you’d taken a single sip.
Your training bag was still by the door. You hadn’t had the energy to unpack it. Your boots were inside, still carrying the faint smell of the pitch, of effort, of everything you were still putting in, even if it didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Another game.
Another ninety minutes watching from the bench.
You had stopped checking the clock halfway through the second half. Stopped hoping your name would be called.
Stopped pretending it didn’t hurt.
The sound of the front door opening pulled you out of your thoughts.
Alexia stepped inside, her presence filling the apartment in a way that used to feel comforting. Now it felt… different. Not unwelcome, just complicated.
She kicked the door shut behind her, dropping her bag near the wall, rolling her shoulders slightly as if trying to shake off the day.
“Hey.”
Her voice was soft, casual. Normal.
You forced yourself to match it. “Hey.”
For a brief second, you both just looked at each other.
There was a time where that alone would’ve made you smile.
Now it just felt like waiting.
She walked over, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, her lips warm against your skin. “You didn’t come to dinner with the team.”
“I wasn’t in the mood,” you said quietly.
Alexia reached into the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water, twisting the cap open. “You should’ve come,” she said, taking a sip. “It’s good to stay connected. Even when you’re not playing.”
The words landed heavier than she intended.
You let out a small breath, staring down at your mug. “Yeah. Even when you’re not playing.”
She didn’t respond immediately. Maybe she didn’t hear it the way you meant it. Or maybe she chose not to.
Alexia leaned back against the counter, crossing one arm over her chest, the other still holding the bottle. “You’ve been quiet lately.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Really? That’s surprising.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” You looked up at her now, something sharp flickering behind your eyes. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“Exactly,” she replied. “And I already know where this is going.”
That stung more than it should have.
You pushed the mug away, the faint scraping sound louder than expected in the quiet room. “Maybe that says something, don’t you think?”
Alexia straightened a little, her posture shifting. “About what?”
“About the fact that we keep having the same conversation,” you said, your voice steadier now, even if your chest felt tight. “Over and over again.”
She exhaled slowly. “Because you keep reacting the same way.”
You stared at her. “Reacting? You think this is just me reacting?”
“I think,” she said carefully, choosing her words, “that you’re letting this situation get into your head more than it should.”
A short, disbelieving laugh escaped you. “More than it should?”
“Yes,” she insisted. “You’re coming back from an injury. It takes time. You just have to work harder, show..”
“I am working harder!” you cut in, louder now. “Every single day, Alexia. I’m doing extra sessions. I stay longer after training. I come in earlier. I do everything they ask and more.”
“I know that,” she said, but there was a hint of impatience creeping into her tone.
“Do you?” you shot back. “Because it doesn’t feel like it.”
Her jaw tightened. “I see you training.”
“Seeing it isn’t the same as understanding it.”
“And what exactly am I not understanding?” she asked, her voice rising slightly now.
You stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “That it’s not changing anything!”
The words echoed in the room.
“That no matter what I do, I’m still sitting on the bench every game. That I’m watching instead of playing. That I feel like I’m… stuck.”
Alexia shook her head. “It’s temporary.”
“It doesn’t feel temporary,” you said, quieter now but no less intense. “It feels like I’m being left behind.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then why does it feel like it is?” you challenged.
She didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she took another sip of water, buying herself time. “Because you’re frustrated,” she said finally. “And you’re letting that frustration take over.”
You let out a slow breath, running a hand through your hair. “Maybe I’m frustrated for a reason.”
“And maybe you’re overthinking it.”
You stared at her, something inside you sinking. “You really don’t get it.”
“I do,” she insisted again, more firmly now. “You just need to push through this. That’s what everyone does.”
You shook your head slowly. “No. Not like this.”
Silence stretched between you again.
Then, before you could stop yourself, the thought that had been growing louder in your head over the past weeks slipped out.
“Maybe… this isn’t the place for me anymore.”
Alexia froze.
“What?”
You swallowed, your heart suddenly racing. “Maybe I need something different.”
Her expression hardened almost instantly. “No.”
The word was sharp. Immediate.
You blinked. “No?”
“No,” she repeated, stepping closer. “You’re not leaving.”
You let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“Why would you even think about it?” she demanded. “You’re at the best club in the world. You have everything here.”
“Everything?” you echoed, your voice rising again. “I’m not even playing, Alexia.”
“It’s a phase!”
“It’s been weeks!”
“It happens to everyone!”
“Not like this!” you snapped. “Not when you’re trying to come back and nothing changes no matter what you do!”
She ran a hand through her hair, frustration clear now. “So what, you just leave? That’s your solution?”
“It’s not about leaving,” you said, though even you weren’t sure if that was true anymore. “It’s about actually playing. About feeling like I’m moving forward.”
“And you think you won’t have struggles somewhere else?” she shot back.
“At least I’d have a chance!”
“You have a chance here!”
“I don't!”
The words hit harder than either of you expected.
Alexia stared at you, her expression shifting, something hurt flickering beneath the frustration. “So what, you’re just going to throw all of this away?”
You hesitated. “It’s not throwing it away.”
“It is to me,” she said quietly.
That made your chest tighten.
“By leaving me?” she added, softer now, but the weight of it was heavier than anything she’d said before.
You shook your head quickly. “That’s not what this is about.”
“It sounds exactly like that.”
“It’s about my career,” you insisted. “About my future.”
“And what about us?” she asked.
The question hung there.
Unanswered.
Because you didn’t know how to answer it.
Because you weren’t sure there was an answer that wouldn’t break something.
You looked away first.
“I’m tired,” you murmured.
Alexia exhaled sharply, the tension in her shoulders still visible. “I have things tomorrow. Early.”
Of course she did.
There was always something.
Training. Media. Sponsors. Appearances. A life that kept moving forward, full and bright.
While yours felt like it was standing still.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Of course.”
She nodded once, then turned, disappearing down the hallway.
The sound of the bedroom door closing felt louder than it should have.
You didn’t move for a long time.
The apartment felt bigger somehow. Emptier.
Eventually, you made your way to the living room, dropping onto the couch without really thinking about it. The TV flickered on at some point, filling the silence with meaningless noise.
You didn’t watch it.
You just sat there, staring ahead, replaying everything in your head.
Every word.
Every look.
Every moment where it felt like she just… didn’t see you anymore.
You didn’t know how much time passed before you heard soft footsteps.
Alexia appeared in the doorway, changed into more comfortable clothes now, her expression calmer. Tired.
She hesitated for a second before walking over, sitting down on the other end of the couch.
Not too close.
Not too far.
The distance felt intentional.
Neither of you spoke at first.
The TV continued playing something neither of you cared about.
“I didn’t mean what I said,” she murmured eventually, her voice quiet in the dim light.
You glanced at her. “Which part?”
She let out a small breath. “About you giving up.”
You nodded slowly. “I didn’t mean it like that either.”
Another pause.
“I just don’t understand,” she admitted, her voice softer now. “Why you’d want to leave.”
You looked down at your hands, your fingers fidgeting slightly. “I don’t understand why you don’t see why I might need to.”
She didn’t argue this time.
Didn’t push back.
She just sat there, thinking.
“I hate this,” she said after a while.
“Yeah,” you agreed quietly. “Me too.”
A faint, tired smile touched her lips. “We’re really bad at this lately.”
You huffed softly. “You think?”
She shifted slightly closer, not quite touching you yet. “I miss when we weren’t.”
Your chest tightened at that.
“Me too,” you whispered.
Carefully, almost hesitantly, her hand moved across the couch until her fingers brushed against yours.
You didn’t pull away.
Instead, you let your hand turn slightly, letting her lace your fingers together.
Familiar.
Comforting.
Even now.
“I love you,” she said softly.
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, holding onto that. “I love you too.”
And for now, that felt like enough.
Or at least something to hold onto.
You shifted, leaning into her slightly, your head resting against her shoulder. She responded instantly, tilting her head to rest gently against yours.
No more arguments.
No more words.
Just quiet.
Just the steady rhythm of breathing.
Just the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, things would find their way back to what they used to be.
At some point, sleep took over.
Neither of you moved.
Curled together on the couch, like nothing had changed.
Like nothing was about to.
But next weekend, everything would finally fall apart.
vaporwave
stormborns
origamiaround
pixelskylines