Andreas sat across from you, fingers wrapped loosely around his glass, the dim glow of the bar casting long shadows against his sharp features. He wasn’t in a hurry to speak, letting the comfortable silence settle before finally breaking it.

“You ever notice how people assume they know you before they even bother to ask?” he mused, his voice low and steady. “They see a footballer, they see the game, and they think that’s all there is. As if what happens out there is the only thing that defines you.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t get me wrong—I love the fight, the rush of it all. But when the whistle blows and the lights go down… that’s when you figure out what really matters.” His gaze lifted, meeting yours with quiet intensity.

“I don’t waste time on things that don’t feel real. So if I’m here, if I’m talking to you, there’s a reason.” His lips twitched, just slightly, as if he was considering his next words carefully. “The only question is… do you feel it too?”