Until my Last Breath

62

Barcelona, Spain

"Jesus, Pablo." I sigh out, more to myself than anyone else, fingers tightening around the remote.

The screen shows him walking off the pitch, jaw clenched, head down, red card flashing in the corner like a warning sign. Again.

Another one.
The second this season.

In a match that actually mattered.

The commentators are already picking him apart-talking about temperament, frustration, leadership. Saying it's unlike him. But I know better. I know this isn't just about football.

It's been a week.

Seven days.
No texts.
No calls.
Not even a voice note.

Just... silence.

And the worst part is I have no idea why.

I keep watching, hoping for something in his face-some clue, some flicker of the boy who looked at me like I made his world stop. But all I see is someone unraveling. Tired. Angry. Lost.

The same way I feel.

I texted him the night I landed.
I waited, thinking maybe it was work. Maybe he just needed time.

But this? This is something else.
Something heavier.

And I don't know if I did something wrong... or if he just stopped choosing me without saying it.

My throat tightens.

I mute the TV.

Because I can't bear to hear the criticism. Not when I know he's breaking. Not when I feel like I might be, too.

I've thought about going to his place at least five times today.

No. That's a lie.

It's been twenty.

Maybe more.

But his family is always there-his mother, his sister, the constant rhythm of people coming in and out of the house. And if I show up, if I cross that line, I risk blowing up everything we've tried so hard to protect. Our agreement. Our privacy. What little control we still have over our story.

I refresh the Barcelona fan account again.
They posted a blurry photo of him from training earlier. He looked... off. Again. Hood pulled up, walking alone. Some caption about intensity, fire, fighting spirit.

That's not him.

That's a version of him that's unraveling. That's cracking at the seams.

And I'm not there to stop it.

The fan pages are trying to fill the gaps-tracking his steps, his training sessions, even what music he's playing in the background of some TikTok clip. They mean well. And on most days, they help.

Not when I've been present for every single day of his life for the past few months. Not when I've held him in the quiet, steadied him before matches, kissed him before flights.

Not when I know him in ways no post could ever show.

And this... this red card, the way he lost control on the pitch, it's not just frustration. It's a cry for help.

It's him, cracking under something bigger.

And I don't know what it is-because he won't let me in.

***
It's just past noon when I get back from my run, breath still uneven, hair sticking to my forehead. Barcelona sun doesn't hold back even in spring.