Echoes of Glory: FC Barcelona Imagine

₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ. Second to Her (Fermín Lòpez.)

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The late afternoon light filters through the window, casting a warm glow over the quiet apartment. I glance at my phone, the message from Fermín still unanswered. He’s never quick to reply.

I should be used to it by now, but the pit of anxiety in my stomach never fails to remind me how deeply I’ve fallen into this trap of waiting.

It’s not that he doesn’t care—at least, I think he does. But then there’s always Berta, the ever-present shadow. It’s in the way his eyes sometimes drift to the distance when we’re together, his mind wandering elsewhere.

She’s never far from his thoughts. I only seem to matter when he’s not with her, when she’s not around.

He never says it out loud, but I can see it in the pauses between his words, in the lies that drip from his lips when he tells me he’s too busy to see me.

Still, I hold onto the hope. It’s a twisted thing, this love I have for him. I live to appreciate him, to give him everything I have, even when I know I shouldn’t.

I’ve begged the heavens more times than I can count, hoping for a miracle, for the day he chooses me.

But he never stays.

The knock on the door makes my heart jump. I know it’s him before I even open it. Fermín stands there, hands in his pockets, that familiar half-smile on his lips.

I step aside, letting him in. He never comes often, never enough. But when he does, it’s like the world stops spinning, just for a while.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft. He leans in for a kiss, and I taste the faint bitterness of lies.

I hate that I know them so well now.

“Hey,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady, but my heart races at his proximity.

His presence fills the room, and despite everything, I can’t help but want him close.

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of unsaid things between us.

I wish he’d say something—anything to reassure me, to make me believe this isn’t just temporary. But he doesn’t.

“You’ve been busy,” I say, trying to sound casual, even though I know where this conversation will lead.

“Yeah, work’s been crazy.”

He offers the excuse like it’s rehearsed, and maybe it is. I don’t ask about Berta. I’ve learned not to.

The hours pass, and I find myself tangled in his arms, craving the closeness even as I know he’ll leave again.

It’s always the same—he comes, he stays just long enough to remind me why I fell in love with him, and then he’s gone.

But tonight, I let myself indulge in the fantasy.

I imagine a world where I don’t have to count the days when we’re in love, where I don’t feel like an afterthought when he’s not with her. I tell myself that the lies don’t matter as long as he’s here, as long as I can still feel the warmth of his touch.