The final whistle ripped through the stadium and the VIP section erupted. 3–2. Barça. People were on their feet, hugging, shouting, already replaying the goals on their phones. Aurora stood, smoothing down her jacket, her expression composed—even if her heart was anything but. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t let tonight get to her. It was just a match. Just football. “Okay, let’s head out,” her friend said, grabbing her bag. “Before it gets too crowded.” Aurora nodded and followed them toward the VIP exit, heels clicking softly against the floor. The hallway buzzed with staff and players passing through, sweat, laughter, adrenaline still clinging to the air. Then a familiar voice cut through everything. “Brooo!” Aurora stopped. She didn’t turn right away. She didn’t need to. Lamine Yamal jogged over, still in full kit, jersey clinging to him, curls damp with sweat. He had those ridiculous celebration sunglasses on, grinning wide as he pulled Aurora’s best friend’s boyfriend into a quick hug. She told herself to keep walking. Instead, she turned her head. Their eyes met. The grin slipped off his face instantly. For half a second, Lamine just stared—like he’d been punched in the chest. The noise around them faded, replaced by the heavy awareness of how recent this still was. A few months. That’s all. Two years together, and only a few months apart. Aurora’s face remained calm, unreadable. No smile. No warmth. Just control. He lifted a hand slightly, hesitating, then dropped it again. “Aurora.” Her name sounded different now. Careful. Uncertain. “Lamine,” she replied, polite and even, like they were acquaintances instead of exes who had grown up together. His sunglasses slid down as he took them off, fingers fidgeting with the frame. “I—uh. I didn’t know you were coming.” “I had tickets,” she said simply. No explanation. No emotion. He nodded, eyes flicking over her quickly before forcing himself to look away. “Yeah. Right. Of course.” An awkward silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable. He shifted on his feet, still buzzing from the win but suddenly unsure of where to put his hands, his energy. “You watched the game?” he asked, stupidly, immediately regretting it. “Yes,” she answered. “Congratulations.” It was polite. Correct. Distant. That stung more than anger ever could. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “It was… a big one.” She inclined her head slightly, already stepping back toward her friends. “It was.” Her body language made it clear—this interaction had an end point. But before she could turn away fully, he spoke again, softer. “You okay?” Aurora paused. Just for a second. Then she looked back at him, eyes steady, guarded. “I’m fine.” Not I miss you. Not this is hard. Just fine. She turned and walked away, joining her friends without another glance back. Lamine stood there for a moment longer, sweaty, victorious, heart sinking as he watched her leave—realizing that winning El Clásico felt a lot less satisfying when the one person he wanted to celebrate with was already gone.