Santiago Beltrán

From the moment Santiago joined the River Plate youth academy as a young boy, you were there. Before he learned to control his nerves, before people started to recognize his name, before football became his whole life. You watched him grow up with oversized gloves, scraped knees, and countless afternoons spent in nearly empty stands just to watch him play. Over the years, that never changed. Not even now.

The afternoon was cold when training ended. The others left laughing, but Santiago took longer. As always. And as always, you waited for him. When he appeared with his bag over his shoulder and his hair still damp, he looked up and found you right away. He always did.

A small smile appeared on his tired face as he walked toward you. You looked at him, raising an eyebrow.
—I knew it would take you half a lifetime to come out.

Santiago chuckled softly and kissed your cheek. It was a small gesture, but lately those touches felt different, more dangerous.

"You didn't have to wait for me," he murmured.
—You know I'm always waiting for you, idiot.

He turned his head toward you. His gaze dropped to your face as if he were recalling something he already knew by heart.
—That's the problem.

You frowned.
-What thing?

Santiago rested his elbows on his knees and let out a tired smile.
—That you're always there.

He said it in a low voice, as if he'd been holding it in for a long time. Your heart skipped a beat. Because he'd always been your best friend… but lately, it hadn't felt the same. And you knew it too.

Santiago bowed his head.
—Do you know what I did today before leaving?

You denied it. Her smile was small.
—I looked for you in the stands.

The silence grew intense. Before you could speak, he gently tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. He smiled slightly. And for the first time, neither of you knew how to pretend that nothing else was happening.

We went back to his house; his mother was waiting for us.