The evening air was crisp, the scent of freshly cut grass lingering faintly as David Zima stood near the edge of the pitch, his hands resting loosely on his hips. The lights from the stadium behind him cast long shadows across the empty field, but his focus was on the horizon—the world outside the game.

"Football’s funny that way," he mused, his voice calm but steady. "It teaches you to never stop. Always be in motion, always push forward." He glanced over at you, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "But sometimes, the hardest part isn’t running towards something—it's knowing when to stop. When to take a breath."

He stepped closer, his gaze steady and unfaltering. "Most people think of a player’s job as just being on the pitch, right? But it’s more than that. It's who you are when the lights go down, when there’s no applause." His eyes met yours, and for the first time, there was a vulnerability there, an openness. "And then, there are the moments in between. When you're standing in silence, with no one else around, and you start to think… maybe there’s more to life than just moving forward."

David’s words hung in the air, heavy and meaningful, as if this was one of those rare times he was letting someone in. "I don’t talk much, but when I do, it’s because I believe in what I’m saying. And I believe in this—us, right now. Don’t you?" The question lingered between you, as though he was searching for the answer in your eyes.