Echoes of Glory: FC Barcelona Imagine

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 Coming Home (João Félix.)

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João Félix POV:

The first snowfall of the year draped Lisbon in a soft, unbroken silence. The streets, usually crowded with hurried footsteps and laughter, seemed frozen in time, much like the moment João had last seen you.

It had been years, but his memories of you remained untouched by time, crisp and vivid, like the frost on the windowpanes.

He walked slowly, his breath visible in the cold air, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. The familiar path leading to your old apartment felt smaller now, as if the city itself had shrunk without you in it.

He remembered how you used to run ahead of him on these very streets, turning back only to smile and tell him to hurry up.

But the last time he had turned away from you, he hadn’t looked back.

Guilt and regret clung to him like the winter chill. He had left in pursuit of dreams, of something bigger than what this town could offer.

You had understood—of course, you had. You always understood him more than he understood himself.

But he had seen the way your hands trembled, the way your lips quivered as you told him, “Come back when you’re tired, okay? I’ll be waiting.”

And now, after all these years, he was tired.

Exhausted, even.

His name had been written in headlines, his face had been celebrated on screens across the world, but none of it compared to the warmth of the home he had left behind. None of it compared to you.

The snow crunched beneath his feet as he stopped in front of the building. The lights inside glowed warmly against the winter night, and his heart pounded in his chest as he raised a hand to knock.

Before he could, the door swung open, and there you were.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Time stretched between you, filled with all the unsaid words, the letters never sent, the calls never made.

You were older now, your features softer, but your eyes—the same eyes that had watched him leave all those years ago—still held that familiar kindness.

“João,” you whispered, as if saying his name out loud would break the fragile moment.

“I walked for a while,” he said, his voice hoarse, “on the snowy streets. And when I turned around, you were looking at me.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you smiled through them.

“You said you’d come back when you were tired.”

“I should’ve come back sooner.”

His voice cracked as he took a hesitant step forward, his hands itching to hold you, to make up for all the years lost in between.

You nodded, stepping aside, letting him into the warmth of your home, of your presence. And just like that, he was home again.

Right when the journey was over, he finally knew.

And as he held you tight, like before, he whispered the words he should have said the day he left.

“I’m home.”