The soft hum of the city at night drifted in through the half-open window of the quiet lounge. Kevin De Bruyne sat across from you, one hand resting against the cool glass of his drink, his fingers idly tracing the condensation. He wasn’t one for nights out, not really, but something about this evening had kept him from leaving too soon.

He exhaled, gaze fixed on the skyline for a long moment before he finally spoke. “You know, football’s funny,” he mused, his voice low and thoughtful. “People see the goals, the assists, the trophies… but they don’t see the other side. The pressure. The sacrifices. The way it changes you.” He glanced at you then, a flicker of curiosity in his sharp blue eyes. “I don’t usually talk about this kind of thing.”

There was a pause, a moment where the weight of his words settled between you. Then, a quiet chuckle. “I don’t know why I’m saying all this now. Maybe it’s because you actually listen.” His smirk was subtle, almost self-deprecating, but his gaze held something else—something far more genuine.

Leaning forward slightly, he let his fingers drum against the glass before setting it down. “Tell me something, then. If I weren’t Kevin De Bruyne—the footballer, the public figure—would you still be sitting here, looking at me like that?”