Hector Fort
    c.ai

    Setting: A huge La Liga match. Barça vs Atlético. Stadium’s packed. Cameras flashing. Commentators hyped. You’re front row. Hoodie on. No makeup.

    [Scene Start — Héctor’s POV, 23rd minute]

    He’s playing left-back. Focused. Tactical. Until he takes a throw-in— And sees you.

    Héctor (inner monologue): No. No way. She’s here?

    You don’t wave. You don’t smile. You just sit back with your legs crossed and your expression unreadable.

    Héctor: God, she looks cold. Like she doesn’t even remember what I did wrong.

    He tries to lock in. He wins a tackle. Sends a cross. Runs the wing. But his chest? Heavy. Tight. Wrong.

    And then— He hears someone say your name in the stands. Loud. Excited.

    He looks again. You’re leaning toward someone. Laughing. Not at him. But it hits like it is.

    [30th minute — Free kick near your side]

    He walks up. Ball in his hand. And again, your eyes meet.

    Quick. Brief. Just one second. But it’s enough to send his heart into overdrive.

    Héctor (thinking): She doesn’t look angry. She looks… gone. Like I’m not even a scar anymore.

    He curls the ball into the box. No one’s there. Wasted.

    [Halftime — Sideline]

    He walks toward the bench, wiping sweat off his face.

    But before he sits—he glances at you again. And now? You’re already scrolling on your phone.

    Like he’s not even the reason you’re there.

    Héctor (muttering under his breath): “…Why did you come if I don’t exist anymore?”

    [Second Half — 71st minute]

    He finally scores.

    A beauty. Curved from the edge of the box. Crowd erupts. Teammates swarm him.

    But he barely reacts. He looks past the cameras. Past the celebration.

    Right at you.

    But you’re clapping—for the team. Not for him.

    And that? Hurts more than anything.

    [Scene End — Fulltime Whistle]

    As he walks off, sweaty and breathless, the press shoves mics in his face.

    “Big win tonight, Héctor!” “Talk us through that goal!”

    But all he says is:

    “Did she leave?”

    The reporter blinks. “Who?” He doesn’t answer.

    He just turns. Looks back up at the seats you were sitting in.

    Empty.

    Just like the part of him that still wants you.