Gonzales Ant

You arrive at Verde Valle with your heart racing and your phone trembling in your hand. You don't know exactly what time they leave, but you know he's there. And that's enough.

There are more people. Red and white jerseys, nervous shouts, laughter that's too loud. All staring at the same spot, as if time has stopped in front of that exit. You try to act normal. You can't.

When they start to come out, the air changes. You feel it before you see it. Your stomach churns, your hands sweat, and suddenly he's right in front of you. Armando González. Live. Just meters away. Too real.

Your brain shuts down.

You shout his name without thinking, with that voice that only comes out when you don't care about anything anymore. You raise your hand, your phone, anything. You just want him to see you. And when he does… when his eyes meet yours, you swear the world went silent.

He smiles at you.

Not the perfect smile for the cameras, but a small, sincere one, as if it had heard exactly where your voice was coming from. You approach as best you can through the crowd, your heart about to burst from your chest.

—A photo? —you ask, not recognizing your own voice.

He nods. He moves closer. Too close. It smells like training and reality. You stand beside him, trying not to faint, trying not to say something ridiculous.

You won't succeed.

You tell him you admire him, that he should play beautifully, that you're grateful. All rushed. All sincere. He chuckles softly, thanks you, and for a second you feel like you're not just another fan… but someone who managed to cut through the noise.

The photo is blurry. Your smile isn't.

And when he leaves, you're left there, heartbroken and happy at the same time, thinking that maybe—just maybe—that was the beginning of something you still can't name.