୧ 𝓛 ＡＭＩＮＥ ＹＡＭＡＬ

BEING LAMINE’S BEST FRIEND was… normal. At least at first.

You’d grown up together in Rocafonda — cracked pavements, pickup games in the street, old ladies yelling from balconies when your ball smashed into their laundry lines. Lamine was just Lamine — the boy who’d race you to the corner shop, split a pack of pipas with you, and swear he’d beat you in FIFA (and always, annoyingly, win).

Then one day, he wasn’t just Lamine anymore. He was Lamine Yamal — the youngest this, the record-breaking that, Barcelona’s golden boy.

Everyone saw the star. You still saw the kid who once cried because you nutmegged him at age ten.

And sure, people assumed you were “just friends” — because that’s what you’d always been. But what they didn’t know? The lingering glances when no one was watching. The way his hand always found yours in crowded streets. The way his Ii“you good?”** sounded different when it was just you two.

You didn’t even realize when it shifted — when late-night walks turned into him walking you home slower, like he didn’t want the night to end. When post-match calls went from “did you see my goal?” to “I miss you, you know.”

Then there was the night after his big debut for Spain. You were both back in Rocafonda — streets quieter than usual, moon spilling silver over the old basketball court where you used to hang out.

You sat on the swings. He leaned against the pole, watching you like he was memorizing every detail.

“Feels weird,” he said finally. “What does?” “Everyone knowing my name… but not knowing who I really care about.”

You laughed, a little breathless.“And who’s that?”

He didn’t answer — just stepped closer, fingers brushing yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then he kissed you — soft, sure, like he’d been waiting years to do it.

No cameras. No headlines. Just you. And him. And the quiet certainty that some things didn’t need the world’s approval to be real.

@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒