Until my Last Breath

60

The apartment is quiet, save for the distant hum of the television.

The match has just started, the camera zooming in on the players as they take their positions on the field. Barcelona is playing away, and the crowd in the opposing stadium is deafening, but I can barely hear any of it.

Because all I see is him.

Gavi.

The screen flickers, capturing a close-up of his face as he jogs toward his position. His brows are furrowed, jaw clenched, his entire body thrumming with energy. Even through the screen, I can feel it-the fire in his eyes, the unwavering determination.

I've always known Gavi was passionate about football. He lives and breathes it. But watching him now, seeing the way he carries himself, the way he moves across the field with absolute conviction, it's something else entirely.

He's relentless.

Fierce.

Every time he touches the ball, it's with purpose. Every sprint, every tackle, every pass-it's all precise, calculated. He plays like he has something to prove, like he's willing to give every ounce of himself for the game.

I don't think I've ever seen someone fight this hard.

And it's mesmerizing.

The match is intense, both teams battling for control, but Gavi never wavers. Even when he gets shoved, when he stumbles, he doesn't hesitate to get right back up, to push even harder. The fire in him never dims-it only burns brighter.

I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the blanket wrapped around me.

I understand this feeling all too well.

The need to give everything, to fight for something bigger than yourself. The way it consumes you, becomes part of you, until you can't imagine a world without it.

A part of me aches watching him, knowing I don't have that anymore-knowing I might never feel that kind of fire on the track again.

But another part of me feels something else entirely.

Pride.

Because Gavi? He's remarkable.

And for the first time in days, I feel a spark of something other than emptiness.

I don't realize how tense I've gotten until my hand tightens around the blanket, my eyes locked onto the screen.

Gavi is getting shoved around a lot.

I know football is aggressive-I've been around enough matches to understand the physicality of it-but watching him get thrown off balance, elbows digging into his sides, defenders practically clawing at him to stop him from moving forward? It's infuriating.

I scoff under my breath, my frustration growing every time he gets knocked down.

"What the hell is wrong with the ref?" I mutter, narrowing my eyes as yet another challenge goes uncalled.

But, of course, Gavi doesn't take it lightly.

He springs back up immediately, eyes blazing, and I can already see the temper bubbling up inside him. He mutters something under his breath at the defender, and I already know it's not anything friendly.

"Breath," I sigh as if he can hear me through the screen.

And then, predictably, it happens.

The opposing midfielder gets in his face, Gavi shoves him back, and within seconds, the ref is blowing his whistle, storming toward them.