It was well past midnight, and the air outside the training complex carried the crisp bite of early autumn. You hadn’t expected anyone else to be out here, but there he was—Karol Świderski, sitting on the edge of the pitch, legs outstretched, arms braced behind him, eyes turned toward the dim stars.

He heard your footsteps before you spoke. “You’re not supposed to be here either,” he said, a small smirk pulling at his lips, though he didn’t look away from the sky.

You sat beside him anyway, pulling your jacket tighter. “Could say the same to you.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied after a pause. “Too much noise in my head.”

You glanced at him—his usual relaxed posture, but his jaw tight, his brows faintly knit.

“Match day nerves?” you asked softly.

Karol gave a short laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I just think too much.”

Then, finally, he turned to face you—his gaze steady, a little vulnerable.

“I’m not the star. Never been. I score, yeah. But some people still look right past me.” His voice dropped. “I guess I’m used to that.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned back beside him, your shoulder just close enough to brush his. “Well, I see you.”

It was quiet for a long time. Then, almost too softly to catch, he replied: “Yeah... I know.”