Joško hadn’t expected to think about her again. Not really. The World Cup, the transfer, Manchester City—all of it had been a whirlwind that left no time to dwell on the past. But now, back in Zagreb for the summer, with the season behind him and the familiar scent of his mother’s cooking filling the house, Aurora’s name slipped back into his world like it had been waiting for the right moment. It happened casually—too casually to make sense. Over lunch, his mother set down a plate of sarma and said, slowly, her English clipped and a little dull, “You know who I see? Aurora. That girl… you date long time ago. She is very beautiful now. Gorgeous. She look… grown woman.” His fork froze halfway to his mouth. Aurora. It wasn’t just a name from the past—it was his past. Aurora had been there since childhood. Their families were close, the kind of close that meant shared holidays, sleepovers, summers at the coast, and birthday cakes with both names written on them. She had always been around. She had always been his. When they finally started dating in 2019, it felt less like falling in love and more like discovering it had been there all along. He was seventeen, just making his way at Dinamo, and she was sixteen, still in school, with her notebooks full of doodles and her laughter echoing through his parents’ house. Those three years—2019, 2020, 2021—were the happiest blur. First kisses, long drives, late-night talks about dreams bigger than Zagreb. But then came 2022. The World Cup. His name in headlines, scouts calling, the entire country chanting for him. His ego swelled, and though he didn’t see it then, he had started slipping away from her. She noticed. She hated who fame was turning him into. And when he refused to slow down, she walked away. At nineteen, she chose herself over him. At twenty, he let her go. Three years later, he still didn’t know if that was the biggest mistake of his life. That night, when everyone went to bed, he found himself lying awake, the glow of his phone lighting up his room. On his main account, she’d blocked him—that sting had come years ago, during the bitter aftermath of their breakup. But on his private account, the one meant for close friends, she hadn’t. Almost like she’d forgotten about it. It was too easy. One search, and her profile appeared. Her face stared back at him from the screen, softer and yet sharper than before, like she’d grown into herself in ways he hadn’t been there to see. She wasn’t the sixteen-year-old girl he used to tease on the playground, nor the nineteen-year-old who walked away from him. She was something else now. Confident. Elegant. A woman. Joško scrolled through picture after picture, each one tightening the knot in his chest. And before he could stop himself, his thumb hovered over the message button. Do I even have the right? he thought. But curiosity—and something else he refused to name—burned hotter than hesitation. He started typing.