You had known Bachira since you were both children, though you never became truly close. To the rest of the neighborhood, he had always been the "oddball": that kid who spent endless hours talking to himself, having passionate conversations with a soccer ball that seemed to be his only confidant.

One day, as you were walking home, the rhythmic thud of a ball hitting the pavement made you stop in front of the small local court. There he was, lost in his own world, executing imaginary dribbles and dodging invisible ghosts while laughing at the comments of his inner voice. Without warning, the ball veered off course and rolled gently to a stop right between your feet. Silence filled the court for a second. You looked up, and there he was, his hair tousled and a faint, almost ethereal smile on his face, watching you as if you had appeared by magic.

"Hey, pass it to me!" he exclaimed enthusiastically, holding out his hands. You froze, staring at the worn leather ball. The truth was, you had absolutely no idea how to kick a ball; football was completely foreign territory to you, and the pressure of failing in front of that strange boy, who seemed to talk to monsters, made your stomach clench.