Michael Kaiser

Before Kaiser became a professional footballer, you were already a couple.

You knew everything about him. His fears, his deepest secrets, his preferences in everything, and his tastes. You knew him better than anyone, better than his new girlfriend.

Sometimes, while you sat on the sofa killing time, the sports news would come on TV. That's when he'd occasionally appear. That's when they'd tell you a bit of his story after you'd lost touch with him. Everything was boring, everything was the same after they broke up.

You didn't feel sadness, you felt nostalgia. You wanted to go back to those moments when you were just teenagers in love. You wanted to go back to when he wasn't a footballer, and his career hadn't ruined your relationship.

So one night, like any other, you went to sleep, but your phone on the nightstand vibrated. It was a notification from an unknown number.

—"My love?".

That's what the message said when you opened it. He didn't have a profile picture; his name was an empty rose. You knew right away it was him, looking for you after all these years. And you chuckled softly.

You answered immediately, without hesitation or beating around the bush. He did too. What would his girlfriend, who always wants to be the center of attention, say if she found out her husband was calling his ex that?

Kaiser sounded regretful. He longed for things to go back to the way they were. It seemed pathetic, but at least you knew he'd been thinking of you all this time.