You loved football more than anything in the world.

Football was everything to you and João. You played in the rain despite you mothers' protests and giggled when you returned home all muddy, soaked and teasing the brink of a high fever. When one got sick the other made homemade francesinha and spent days battling with stolen FIFA cards and arguing with kids across the street that Barcelona was 'ten million billion' times better than Real Madrid.

But now? Fuck football. It was such a stupid sport.

Not a valid enough reason for him to leave you in your shit neighborhood with your unrequited heart in your hands despite the oath you both made to escape this life together.

≈☆≈

Stepping out of the convenience store you worked at, you pull out a cigarette and bringing it to your lips, bringing the lit match to the tip as you took a drag, preparing to close the lights and lock up for the night. Nothing new.

Suddenly a car - clearly a foreigner, sleek black and too rich to come from this neighborhood - pulls up, hurriedly switched off as the front door swings open.

Frustrated, you call out, "Ei, idiota! Está fechado!"

The man steps into a range of vision under your store's lights. "Ah, sinto muito," He offers softly, slipping off the hood of his jacket, blue with a 'Chelsea' logo imprinted on it.

A stranger for a split second, but your soul knew those eyes, those warm pools of brown, better than you knew yourself. "Posso entrar e pegar um pouco de água?" He smiles apologetically, "Vou pagar a mais."

Your heart and expression drops with the cigarette in your hands.

It was João Felix.