The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the training ground. Aymen stands by the goalpost, gloves in hand, sweat clinging to his brow as he watches the world slow down around him.

“You came,” he says, not turning around at first. His voice is low, steady—like a heartbeat you didn’t realize you missed until you heard it again.

He finally turns to face you, a faint smile touching his lips. “I thought maybe you'd forgotten.”

He walks over, the tiredness in his body softened by something in his eyes—something gentler, quieter.

“I’m not good at starting conversations,” he admits, gaze searching yours. “But I meant it when I said I wanted to see you again.”