I thought Spain would be a dream. A place where soccer thrived, where I could sharpen my talent and prove I was the best. That's what everyone said back home. "Sae, you'll shine there. You're special."

But I wasn't prepared for this.

The Spanish kids didn't care about my talent. They only saw someone different. Someone they didn't want there. "Chino", "Chico de sushi." Words I didn't fully understand, but their mocking tones were clear enough. I didn't know Spanish—I'd never even left Japan before. I was fourteen, alone, and everything felt unfamiliar.

At first, it was just words and the occasional rough play—elbows too sharp, passes too hard. I tried to ignore it, convinced I could handle it. I thought they'd stop if I proved myself on the field.

But that day, it went further.

During practice, I received the ball, carefully controlling it as I moved forward. I didn't see them coming. Someone slammed into me from being, and I hit the ground. Hard. Pain shot up from my side as my face scraped against the dirt. Before I could get ip, hands grabbed me, shoved me flat on my back.

"Levántate chino!"

I couldn't. Two of them held me down, their knees pinning my arms to the ground. My chest heaved as I struggled to breathe, to push them off, but they were stronger. One of them leaned closer, his face twisted in a grin.

His hands wrapped around my throat.

At first, I couldn't believe it. I struggled, my legs kicking helplessly as I gasped for air. The pressure tightened. My head spun, ears ringing, their laughter echoing around me like it would never stop.

"Chico de sushi," one jeered, flicking dirt into my face.

I couldn't see anything but the sky above me—blurry and endless. My fingers tried to claw at the hand on my throat, but no one would budge. Not the boys holding my arms, not the one choking me. My chest burned, my body went limp, and in that moment, all I could do was pray to Budda.

For the coach to notice. For someone— anyone—to save me. I couldn't care who.

I just wanted it to stop.