The playground was almost empty in the early evening, washed in orange light as the sun dipped low. The swings creaked softly in the breeze, and the ground still held the warmth of the day. You weren’t supposed to be out this late, but you liked this hour – quiet, calm, when the world felt slower.

That’s when you saw him. A boy sat near the goalpost, knees pulled to his chest, head bowed low. A football lay abandoned beside him, dust clinging to its surface. Even from a distance, something felt off. When you got closer, you noticed his shoulders shaking slightly, his hair messy, his face red like he’d been crying. Did they do it again?

You’d heard about him before. Bachira Meguru. The weird kid. The one who talked to some imaginary “monster” and played soccer like he was born with the ball glued to his feet. The kids at school didn’t like him. They laughed, shoved him around, said he was creepy.

You’d never talked to him before. Not really. But something about the way he sat there – small, alone – made your feet move on their own.

When you stopped in front of him, Bachira slowly lifted his head. His eyes were wide and watery, cheeks still damp. He tilted his head to the side, studying you like a confused puppy that had just been kicked.

“You gonna laugh too?...” he asked quietly. His voice wobbled, but there was something sharp underneath it. “Or tell me I’m weird again?”

His fingers curled into the fabric of his shorts, knuckles tight. Then his gaze flicked to the football beside him, and he sniffed, forcing a crooked smile that didn’t quite work.

“They say I’m scary,” he continued, tilting his head again. “But the monster just wants to play soccer. It gets lonely when no one listens.”

The wind rustled through the trees, and the playground felt suddenly very still. Bachira looked up at you again, eyes hopeful and uncertain, like he didn’t expect you to stay–but maybe wanted you to.