Echoes of Glory: FC Barcelona Imagine

✧˖° II. If You Were Me (Marc Casadó.)

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Marc Casadó had always been good at winning. On the pitch, he was relentless, a fighter. He didn’t give up until the final whistle blew, no matter how hopeless the score seemed.

But this—losing you—was a loss he didn’t know how to come back from.

It had been weeks since you left. Weeks of silence, of unanswered texts, of an empty apartment that no longer smelled like your perfume.

At first, he thought you’d come back. That this was just another fight, another misunderstanding.

But when the days turned to weeks, and you still weren’t there, reality hit him like a punch to the gut.

He had really lost you.

And it was all his fault.

The first time he saw you again was by accident.

You were at a café, sitting by the window, stirring your coffee absentmindedly. You looked different—lighter, freer. Like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders.

Marc stood outside, watching you through the glass, his heart pounding. He wanted to go in, to sit across from you and beg for another chance.

But what if you didn’t want to see him?

He hesitated too long.

Because then, someone else sat down in front of you—a guy.

Marc’s stomach twisted. He wasn’t touching you, wasn’t even sitting too close, but the sight still made something ugly rise in his chest.

You laughed at something the guy said.

And Marc realized, with painful clarity, that this was what you had wanted from him all along.

Attention. Effort. Presence.

And he had never given it to you.

He had to get you back.

But words wouldn’t be enough. He knew that now.

So, he did what he should have done a long time ago. He showed up.

It started with small things.

A single sunflower left at your door, because he remembered how you once told him they were your favorite.

An old hoodie of his, freshly washed, neatly folded in a box with a note: "I think this still belongs to you. But I'd rather it be me."

Then, it was bigger things.

One night, after one of his matches, he found you sitting alone on a quiet bench near your apartment. He approached cautiously, as if afraid you’d disappear.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said, voice rough with regret. “But I need you to know that I see it now. I see you now.”

You looked up at him, your eyes guarded.

“And what do you see?”

Marc sat beside you, hands clasped together.

“That I took you for granted. That I made you feel small when you deserved the world.”

He took a deep breath.

“And that I love you. I always have. I just didn’t show it the way you needed me to.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then, softly, you asked, “If I come back, how do I know things will be different?”

Marc turned to you, eyes earnest, filled with something you hadn’t seen in a long time—determination.

“Because this time,” he said, reaching for your hand, “I’m fighting for you the way I should have from the start.”

At first, you were hesitant.

You made him prove it.

And he did.

He answered every call. Came home early. Showed up with flowers, not as an apology, but just because. He listened when you spoke. He learned the small things—how you liked your coffee, the songs you hummed when you thought no one was listening, the way you needed affection to feel loved.

Marc Casadó, for the first time, was all in.

And one night, as you lay curled against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you whispered, “I missed you.”

His arms tightened around you.

“I’m never letting you go again.”

And this time, you believed him.

Because some losses teach you how to win.

And Marc Casadó?

He had finally won you back.