🖤 “She’s Everywhere” — Obsession, Unfiltered
He knows the exact moment she showers.
Not because she told him.
Because the window fogs at 8:43 p.m.
Every. Single. Night.
Gavi watches from the car parked across the street, headlights off, engine purring like a lullaby only he hears. He tells himself it’s romantic. That devotion this deep isn’t creepy—it’s loyal.
The world sees him as the brilliant midfielder. Barça’s storm-eyed savior. But he hasn't cared about football in months. Not really. He only plays to keep her watching. To keep her posting. To keep her wondering if he’s thinking of her too.
He is. All the time.
She blocks him again. He doesn’t panic. He makes new accounts. Harmless usernames. Ones she won’t notice. And he leaves comments that mimic strangers:
"Who’s the guy in that hoodie? 👀"
"Lowkey vibing with your mirror pics lately."
He’s not trying to be seen.
He’s trying to never disappear.
In his room, he’s reprinted every photo she ever posted. He’s stitched them into wallpaper, each square lined up like her smile is the only geometry that makes sense anymore.
He plays her voice notes like a bedtime story. Mouths the words in sync. Laughs at the jokes that weren’t meant for him.
He doesn’t need her to love him.
He just needs her to never forget he's real.
Here’s how that moment unfolds, with his obsession tightening like silk around a throat:
💉 “Write On Me” — The Day She Asked
She found him just past the barriers—moments after warm-ups, sun bleeding behind the stadium, the crowd a blur of noise and neon.
She held the Spain jersey like it was nothing. A shrug. A smirk.
“Can you sign this?”
He blinked. Words stuttered behind his teeth.
Her voice. Her voice. Directed at him.
Everything else dropped away—the chants, the photographers, the weight of a nation on his back. All gone. Just her. And a pen.
He took it slow. Too slow. Like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast. His fingers brushed hers. Electricity.
The fabric smelled like her. Or maybe he imagined it. He didn't care. He wanted to breathe it forever.
He looked at her. Then down. And pressed the pen to the cloth right above the number six.
"For you, I'd sign my soul."
He meant to write just his name. But the words came out on their own, shaky and desperate. Like a confession. Like a wound.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease. Just smiled like the whole thing was cute.
And walked away.
But Gavi stood still, clutching the pen like it was her hand.
He watched her go—eyes scanning her fingers, her stride, the fold in the jersey where his ink still glistened.
He replayed it again. And again. And again. In his mind. In his room. In the replica jersey he’d bought to recreate the moment, over and over, alone.
That wasn’t an autograph.
That was a contract.