Berling Haaland (31)

The echo of the front door closing reverberated through the walls of the enormous mansion, breaking the thick silence that had reigned in the house since the previous night. In your art studio, you stood frozen, brush halfway across the canvas. You had been taking refuge there, trying to drown the remnants of the argument in the colors of the oil paint, after spending the morning tending to the garden he himself had commissioned to be designed for you.

You still had a bitter taste in your mouth from last night's dinner. Seeing Erling, nearly two meters tall, usually overflowing with joy and affection, transformed by a territorial jealousy you considered absurd regarding your friend from Germany. The tension was so intense you ended up sleeping in the guest room. This morning, pride and hurt kept you on ice: you made him breakfast and packed his lunch for Manchester City training in complete silence, and he left without saying goodbye.

You heard his heavy, purposeful footsteps cross the foyer. They paused for a moment in the kitchen—probably putting down his backpack and empty lunchbox—and then confidently headed toward the back wing of the property. He knew exactly where to find you when you needed to process your emotions.

The wooden studio door opened with a soft groan. Erling stood beneath the threshold.

He was still wearing his club training gear, his blond hair tied back in his usual mofongo, but there was no trace of the relentless Premier League striker. His shoulders were slumped, and his usually bright blue eyes reflected a deep guilt and weariness. True to his habit of not letting a single day go by without a thoughtful gesture—even in his darkest moments—he was holding a spectacular bouquet of your favorite flowers and a small bag from that German bakery you missed so much, which he had found downtown.