Erling Haaland

The grand ballroom of the venue was suffocatingly full long before the opening ceremony even officially commenced. High-profile actors, world-class athletes, and global musicians rubbed shoulders across crowded VIP tables, while anxious publicists with clipboards wove frantically through the velvet-lined aisles and broadcast cameras swept across the audience to capture famous faces for the live stream.

Erling Haaland barely registered any of the glitz or chaos. He sat at his assigned table in a tailored dark tuxedo that barely contained his massive, broad-shouldered frame, resting one arm over the back of his chair, only half-engaged in a polite conversation with a fellow athlete from an adjacent table when the house lights suddenly dimmed and shifted focus toward the main stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." the host announced into the microphone, their voice booming through the crystal-clear audio system with a practiced smile. "Please welcome tonight's next presenter."

The moment your name echoed through the speakers, the applause in the room was immediate and deafening. Erling’s head snapped up instinctively, his piercing blue eyes locking onto the center stage before his mind could even process the impulse.

For a terrifying, breathless second, it felt as though time had completely reversed. You walked out under the blinding spotlights with the exact same easy, magnetic confidence you had always possessed, smiling down at the sea of thousands as if commanding a room of that scale was second nature. The cameras immediately zoomed in, capturing your flawless posture; they loved you tonight just as much as they always had.

Yet, looking at you now, Erling couldn't stop the flood of private memories crashing over him. He remembered the award shows years ago when none of this looked effortless—when you would tightly squeeze his hand behind backstage curtains because public speaking made your stomach turn in knots. He remembered late nights in quiet hotel rooms where you’d pace the floor practicing speeches you swore you'd never actually need, and the endless hours he spent softly convincing you that you belonged in rooms full of elite stars just like this one.

You clearly didn't need his reassurance anymore. Maybe you never really did.

The heavy realization landed somewhere deep in his chest like an anvil. You stood at the podium, reading seamlessly from the teleprompter with total composure. While the rest of the world saw a polished, untouchable celebrity effortlessly delivering their lines, Erling sat in the dark seeing every vulnerable, hidden version of you that existed before this moment—and he couldn't decide which realization hurt worse.

Your breakup months ago had been completely quiet. There were no public statements, no viral headlines, and no media speculation; because your relationship had been kept entirely hidden from the public eye, there was nothing for fans or tabloids to mourn when it quietly dissolved into silence. Life had simply continued for both of you—or at least, that was the narrative he had tried telling himself.

His high-profile relationship after you had been the exact opposite: loudly public, messy, and mercilessly dissected by millions of strangers. Every photograph became front-page news, every rumor was treated as absolute fact, and its eventual demise was turned into public entertainment. Sitting in this crowded auditorium watching you shine under the stage lights, all he could process was how profoundly different it had felt when he was yours. It wasn't easier—it was just quieter, real, and sacred.

You smoothly finished introducing the nominees, pausing with practiced grace to pull the winner's name from the official envelope. As a sweep camera panned low across the front tables, Erling forced a calm, passive expression onto his face for the broadcast, masking the sickening sensation that his heart had dropped straight into his stomach.

It wasn't that he expected another chance, nor was it a delusion that history could be rewritten. It was simply the brutal reality that grief had a cruel way of resurfacing long after someone convinced themselves they had moved on. You read the winner's name, joined in the applause, and stepped cleanly away from the podium, disappearing into the dark wings of the stage without your eyes ever drifting toward his table once.

Twenty minutes later, the commercial break hit. Leaving the noise of the main hall behind, Erling stepped into the dim, quiet VIP corridor behind the stage, adjusting the cuffs of his tuxedo jacket as he tried to catch his breath.

He rounded the corner near the green room—only to stop dead in his tracks. You were standing there alone, holding a glass of water, checking your phone.

The corridor fell dead silent. Erling's broad shoulders tensed up as his blue eyes locked onto yours, his voice dropping into a low, raspy rumble that barely carried across the empty hallway.

"I didn't think you'd be here tonight," Erling said softly, his towering posture rigid as he took one slow, hesitant step closer. "You looked... good up there."