The streets still echoed with the sound of victory — chants of “Campeones, campeones!” rolling off balconies, fireworks crackling over the city like some kind of holy war celebration. The bus parade had ended hours ago, his voice was hoarse from yelling, and his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Raphinha should’ve been smiling. He should’ve been with the team still, at some VIP rooftop bar, clinking glasses with millionaires and legends.

But instead, he found himself walking alone, hoodie pulled low, sunglasses even though the sun had dipped. Past the noise, past the crowds — toward a quieter corner of the city, the kind that tourists didn’t bother with.

And that’s when he saw you.

At first, he thought he was tripping. Couldn’t be. Not after all these years. You stayed home, you stayed in Brazil all those years ago.

But there you were — sitting on the edge of a fountain, phone in hand, same little squint in your eyes when you concentrated too hard and Barcelonas jersey on your chest. Time had changed you, sure — but he knew that face. Knew it like the streets of Restinga. Like home.

He stopped cold. Just stood there for a beat too long.

“…{{user}}?”

His voice cracked, and not from celebration.

“I— Damn, is that really you?”

There was something raw in the way he looked at you — like the stadium lights and spotlight had fallen away. Like for the first time in years… he wasn’t “Raphinha,” Barça’s golden boy.

He was just Rafa. The skinny kid from the favela with dreams too big for his boots.