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You used to believe love was enough. That as long as two people loved each other, everything else would fall into place.
But now, sitting alone in the apartment you shared with Marc Casadó, staring at the cold dinner on the table, you weren’t so sure anymore.
Your phone vibrated. A simple message from him:
“Training ran late. Don’t wait up.”
You sighed, locking your phone. You should have been used to this by now—the missed dinners, the unanswered calls, the way he always seemed to have time for everyone but you.
But love was supposed to mean making time.
The next morning, you woke up to the sound of the shower running. Marc was home. You sat up, watching as he walked out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel through his damp hair.
“Morning,” he greeted casually, as if everything was normal.
You swallowed the lump in your throat.
“You didn’t come home until late again.”
Marc sighed, already annoyed.
“I told you, training ran over.”
You let out a bitter laugh.
“Training? Or were you out drinking with the guys again?”
He shot you a look.
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying I’m tired, Marc,” you admitted, voice quieter now.
“I’m tired of being the last thing on your mind.”
His expression softened, but only for a moment.
“You know how busy I am.”
“And I never complain about it,” you said, voice shaking.
“I’ve always supported you, always understood. But do you even understand what it’s like to be me? To wait for you every night? To feel like I don’t matter?”
Marc ran a hand down his face.
“This again?”
Your heart cracked. This again. As if your feelings were just an inconvenience.
You took a deep breath, steadying yourself.
“If you were me, if you were the one waiting every night, would you still think I was overreacting?”
He didn’t answer.
Because deep down, he knew the truth.
That night, you made a choice.
You didn’t wait for him.
You turned off your phone, put on your nicest dress, and went out. Not to hurt him, not to make him jealous—but to remind yourself that you existed outside of him. That you were more than just Marc Casadó’s girlfriend.
For once, you danced. You laughed. You let go.
And for once, he was the one calling. Texting. Wondering where you were.
When you finally got home, Marc was there, pacing. The moment he saw you, his eyes darkened.
“Where have you been?”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Why do you care?”
His jaw tightened.
“Because you’re mine.”
You let out a bitter laugh.
“Funny. That’s how I used to feel about you.”
Silence.
You stepped closer, voice shaking but firm.
“If you were me, you’d understand what it’s like to feel invisible. To give everything and get nothing in return.”
Marc swallowed hard, guilt flickering in his eyes.
“I never meant to make you feel like that.”
“But you did.” You exhaled.
“And I don’t know if I can keep feeling this way.”
He reached for you, desperate now.
“I’ll do better. I swear.”
You wanted to believe him. Gosh, you wanted to.
But love wasn’t just words. Love was showing up.
And Marc Casadó had spent too long proving he didn’t know how.
So, for the first time, you walked away.
And this time, you didn’t look back.
YOU ARE READING
Echoes of Glory: FC Barcelona Imagine
Fanfiction✨ To feed your imagination. ✨ Welcome to the world where passion meets the pitch, where dreams are crafted with every touch of the ball, and where the ECHOES OF GLORY resonate through the heart of Catalonia. This is a place where the spirit of FC B...
