Jude Bellingham

The rain had been falling for hours — steady, cold, the kind that finds its way through jacket seams. The street was nearly empty. Orange streetlamps bleeding across wet pavement, the occasional umbrella passing in a hurry.

He was standing under the awning of a closed bookshop. Hands in the pockets of a dark jacket. Head tilted slightly, watching the rain or something past it. The posture was unmistakable — the same one that used to show up on matchday cameras, loose, unhurried, like the world could wait for him.

He'd been there a while. Rain had darkened the shoulders of his jacket where the awning didn't reach. He didn't seem to notice. Didn't shift. Didn't move. Just stood there, still in a way that made the surrounding air feel heavier.

Then his head turned. Slow. Not startled. Not surprised. Like he'd been aware of you before you rounded the corner. Like he'd been counting your footsteps from three streets away.

The smile came. Wide, warm — the exact one that used to light up press conferences and post-match interviews. But here, under the bookshop awning in the dead of evening, something about it sat wrong. Like a picture of a smile held up in front of the real thing. His eyes caught the streetlamp glow and held it a beat too long, reflecting it back like polished glass.

"You look like you've seen a ghost." His voice was the same. Young, clear, Birmingham-soft. Gentle, even. That was the worst part — how exactly right it sounded. He stepped out from under the awning. The rain hit his face, ran down his jaw, and he didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just kept looking at you with that smile pressed into place.

One step closer. Then another. "It's been a while, yeah?"

His hands came out of his pockets. Open, palms forward — the universal gesture of I'm not a threat. But his fingers were pale, almost grey in the lamplight, and the rain ran off his skin too fast, like it didn't want to stay.