Echoes of Glory: FC Barcelona Imagine

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊ Birds of a Feather (Pau Cubarsí.)

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The first time Pau saw you, he felt it—the strange pull in his chest, the flicker of something familiar behind your eyes. You were just a stranger then, sitting in the stands of the training ground, watching a practice match with idle curiosity.

But when your gaze met his, it was as if something deep within him whispered, there you are.

He didn’t know what to make of it. The feeling didn’t fade, not when he saw you again after the match, not when he overheard you laughing with a friend about how football was more than just a sport—it was a story written in every pass, every goal, every heartbeat on the field.

There was something in the way you spoke that made him pause, his pulse skipping in recognition, though he didn’t understand why.

Then came the dreams.

They started subtly—fragments of a different time, a different place. He would wake up with your name on his lips, only to realize he didn’t even know your name yet. He would see flashes of you—standing beneath an ancient tree, smiling at him in a world painted gold by a setting sun. He would hear your voice, whispering words he could never quite remember once he woke up. But the emotions lingered. The ache of something lost. The certainty that you had been his before.

He tried to ignore it at first. It made no sense, and Pau was nothing if not logical. But then, you kept appearing—not just in his dreams, but in his reality. At a café near the training ground.

At a bookstore he didn’t even realize he liked until he saw you browsing the shelves. At a game, where your eyes found his again, and for a moment, he thought you recognized him, too.

“Do I know you?” The words left his lips before he could stop them.

You tilted your head, smiling in that way that made his chest feel too tight.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

From that moment, the connection between you only deepened. Conversations flowed easily, as if you were merely picking up from where you had left off, though neither of you knew where that beginning was. You would say things that made him pause, that made his dreams more vivid.

Once, you traced patterns on the condensation of your drink and murmured, Doesn’t it feel like we’ve done this before? And Pau had no answer, only the pounding of his heart as he realized that yes, it did.

Then came the memories—not just dreams anymore, but flashes in broad daylight. The way your hand fit in his, like it had countless times before. The way your laughter sounded like a melody he had once sworn never to forget. The way his body moved instinctively to shield you from the wind, just as he had done in a time neither of you could name.

“I knew you in another life,” he found himself whispering one evening, his voice barely carrying over the sound of waves crashing at your feet.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, shining like stars reflected in water. You had that same look in your eyes.

Your lips parted, something like recognition flashing across your face.

“I love you,” you said, the words slipping out like a truth too old to be denied. Then, almost as if startled by your own admission, you let out a breathless laugh.

“Don’t act so surprised.”

But he wasn’t surprised.

Because deep down, Pau had known it all along.

You had been his before.

And this time, he wasn’t going to lose you again.