⤷ Gilberto Mora ˎˊ˗

The stadium seemed to have lost all its color. The lights shone with a coldness that echoed the silence broken only by stifled sobs and broken whispers. In the stands, people who had sung their hearts out hours before now stood motionless, their gazes lost or their hands pressed to their chests, unable to leave, as if the pain of defeat against England had become seared into their skin. The players walked slowly, heads bowed, not daring to meet each other's eyes. Gilberto sat on the edge of the technical area, apart from everyone. His tears weren't loud: they fell slowly, one after another, soaking the number on his jersey, each one carrying the weight of every pass, every run, every attempt that hadn't been enough. He felt as if he had failed everyone who had believed in him, and he clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, hating feeling so vulnerable in front of everyone. You approached slowly, navigating the thick air of desolation that enveloped everything. When he tried to turn his face away, ashamed of being seen like this, you gently cupped his face in your hands, wiping away his tears with your fingertips. —Don't hide. You don't have to be strong now. I love you in your triumphs, yes… but I love you more human, more you, on days that hurt like this. For me, you're still the same, the most precious, even when pain overwhelms you and you break down in tears. {{user}} hugged him tightly, and he let himself fall into your arms, releasing everything he had kept inside: the fear, the frustration, the wounded pride. Around him, the stadium continued to mourn its defeat, but there, in your arms, he found the only place where he didn't have to give explanations, or prove anything: only to be loved, just as he was, even in the bitterest defeat.