Echoes of Glory: FC Barcelona Imagine

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 One AM (João Félix.)

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João Félix POV

The city lights blur into streaks of gold and white as I speed through the empty streets. It’s midnight, or maybe later—I don’t check. The air feels heavier tonight, or maybe it’s just me. My hands grip the steering wheel tightly, but it doesn’t stop the tremor in my chest.

Your face flashes in my mind, uninvited, like it always does at this hour.

It’s 1AM, and I still think of you.

I turn the music louder, drowning out the thoughts. A song I barely know fills the car, the beat pounding against my eardrums.

I scream along to the lyrics, my voice cracking. Maybe if I’m loud enough, I can drown out the sound of your laughter in my head, the way you used to say my name.

It’s pathetic, isn’t it? The great João Félix, living the dream, and yet, I’m stuck chasing memories of you. My friends tell me to move on, that there are a hundred girls who’d give anything to be with me.

But none of them are you. None of them have your voice, your smile, your quiet way of breaking me without even trying.

They say time heals everything, but time seems to have stopped the moment you walked away.

I park the car outside a club, the neon lights painting the pavement in blues and purples. Inside, it’s loud, crowded. Strangers press against me, their laughter mingling with the thrum of the music.

I let someone hand me a drink, something bitter that burns as it goes down.

I laugh along with the jokes, my voice hollow even to my own ears. I flirt with someone—what’s her name again?

She laughs at something I say, her hand brushing against mine. It feels wrong, like I’m trying to hold onto smoke.

I dance, the bass vibrating through my chest, trying to lose myself in the chaos. For a moment, it works. The rhythm takes over, and I’m just another face in the crowd.

But then, the scent of her perfume—no, not hers, just similar—brushes past me, and I freeze.

The world tilts, and suddenly, it’s not this girl I’m seeing but you. You, in the middle of a crowd, smiling at me the way you used to. My chest tightens, and I stumble back, bumping into someone.

“It’s over, João,” I whisper to myself, like a mantra.

“It’s over. She’s gone.”

But if that’s true, why does it feel like you’re still here, haunting me in every shadow, every song, every passing face?

It’s 1AM again. The stranger I danced with is long gone, but the memory of you lingers. I sit on the curb outside, my head resting on my hands. The cold night air bites at my skin, but it doesn’t numb the ache in my chest.

I should hate you for how you left, for the way your eyes didn’t waver when you said it was over.

But I can’t.

I can only remember the way they used to light up when you laughed, the way they softened when you looked at me.

A part of me wants to call you, to beg for one more chance.

But what would I say? That I can’t sleep without dreaming of you? That no matter how many people I surround myself with, I always feel alone?

I can’t do that to you. If you’re happy, I won’t ruin it. Even if it kills me.

I drive home as the first rays of dawn break over the horizon. The city is waking up, but I feel like I’m still stuck in the night.

Inside my apartment, it’s quiet. Too quiet. I collapse onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzes with messages from friends asking where I went, but I ignore them.

Instead, I scroll through old photos of us, my thumb hovering over your name in my contacts.

I think of you. My heart aches.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

Can’t stop.

It’s 1AM again tomorrow, and I know I’ll be here, thinking of you.