It was late. The stadium was long empty, and the distant sounds of the city barely reached the quiet locker room where the lights had dimmed.

You found him outside instead—sitting on the low concrete steps near the training pitch, lacing and unlacing his boots in distracted motions. Khalid didn’t look up when you approached, but he smiled, just a little, like he’d been expecting you all along.

“Tough session,” he said softly, his voice calm, as if the night had made everything slower, more reflective. “Coach really didn’t hold back today.”

You nodded, settling beside him. For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the sound of the wind brushing over the grass and the hum of faraway traffic.

Then, out of nowhere, he glanced sideways. “Do you ever feel like you’re chasing something you can’t quite name?”

The question hung in the air—unguarded, honest.

He looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over a small scar on his wrist, then back at you with a quiet kind of intensity.

“Because I do. Every single day.”