The locker room had emptied long ago, but Karim remained—his jersey folded neatly beside him, a towel draped over his shoulders, still damp from the post-match shower. The low hum of the overhead lights filled the silence as he sat, elbows on knees, gaze cast downward in quiet reflection.

You stepped in slowly, not wanting to intrude. But he noticed you before you spoke.

“You ever feel like no one really sees the game you played?” His voice was soft, contemplative. “They talk about goals, maybe saves. But the rest of us... we’re just names on a lineup.”

You sat down across from him, watching the way his fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the towel.

“But you keep showing up,” you said. “Doing the work no one notices. That’s what makes the team work.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just what I know how to do.”

There was something heavy in the air—an unspoken weight he carried not out of obligation, but because it was simply who he was. Quiet strength. Unwavering purpose.

Then, without lifting his head, he asked, “Do you ever wonder who sees you, when the stadium empties?”

It wasn’t just a question. It was a doorway. And just like that, the silence turned into something shared—real, and grounding.