You used to spend hours with him, without checking the time. Pau was always there—picking you up in his old car, stopping for ice cream after training, showing you quiet corners of Barcelona you didn’t know existed. He’d rest his chin on your shoulder when you showed him something on your phone, brush your hair from your face like it meant nothing. But it always meant something. The way he looked at you, like you were a secret only he understood.

You weren’t blind to it. The age thing was a problem, sure. Almost three years didn’t seem like much to the world, but it was enough to make him pull back. Enough to make him overthink every glance, every accidental touch. And now, lately, everything between you had changed.

At the party, you danced like you didn’t notice. Like his distance hadn’t wrapped itself around your ribs. Music too loud, lights too bright, people pressing in. You laughed with someone else—someone who wasn’t him—because he was leaning against the wall, drink in hand, eyes somewhere else. Every time you looked over, he wasn’t looking at you.

You felt it most when the night ended.

You sat in his car, the city thick with traffic. Headlights flickered like slow pulses, and Barcelona stretched out in gold and red. His hands gripped the wheel tighter than usual, jaw set. He didn’t turn on the music like he used to. No shared playlist humming in the background, no humming along under his breath. Just silence, long and sharp.

You didn’t speak either. You didn’t ask why he stopped sending you memes at midnight, why he hadn’t called after your last exam, why he felt like a stranger even when he was sitting right next to you.

You stared out the window, but you could feel him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he missed something he couldn’t let himself have.

And maybe that was worse than if he said it out loud.