lamine yamal

You came to the Inter Milan vs FC Barcelona match even though you told yourself you wouldn’t. You sat far from the field, hood up, hoping no one would notice. You weren’t here for the football — you were here because your best friend had insisted. “He’s going to need someone. Go see him.” You hated how she knew you still cared.

The final whistle blows.

4–3 for Inter. Barcelona is out of the Champions League. Just like that.

You see Lamine—your ex boyfriend—lying on the pitch, motionless. The crowd roars, but it all feels muted to you. His body is sprawled on the grass, one hand over his face, the other gripping the ground like it’s the only thing keeping him together. He’s not crying, not fully, but he’s close.

Your best friend’s words echo again in your head.

You move before you can overthink it. Past the security. Onto the field. No one stops you—maybe they recognize you, maybe they don’t care. The match is over. Hearts are already broken.

You walk slowly. His teammates notice you. A few nudge each other. The crowd doesn’t miss a thing.

And then you’re next to him.

You don’t say anything. You just sit. Right there on the grass, beside him. Close enough for him to feel you, far enough to give him space. You both stare ahead.

He breathes in. Shaky. Then, without turning to look at you, he speaks—quietly, bitterly.

“…You shouldn’t have come.”