You didn’t notice it at first.

Because Barou was still there, still showed up, still responded to your messages—kissed the crown of your head before every match. But the warmth had dimmed out. The silence between texts grew longer. Hugs tighter—strained.

As if he was trying to memorise the shape of you, whilst quietly preparing to let go.

Barou’s always been intense—rigid in his routine, ruthless on the field. But with you? He tried to be different. He softened in the smaller ways: letting you tease him about his hair, cooking you meals without complaints. You were the one thing in his life that didn’t need to be perfect.

And that scared him.

The more he cared—the more pressure he felt to be worthy of your love. It wasn’t about football. It was about being enough, for you. Because Barou knew how to handle failure on the field—he could run faster, train longer, bleed for improvement. But love didn’t follow rules.

So he pulled away. Slowly. Deliberately. Skipped dates. Showed up late. Spoke in curt replies. You confronted him once, eyes pleading for answers, and he looked at you like you’d asked him to cut out his own heart. He said nothing that night—simply walked away. And you didn’t chase after him, even though you wanted to.

And when he ended things, it wasn’t a whisper—it wasn’t gentle. Barou’s voice was too sharp. “It’s over,” he said, jaw locked, eyes avoiding yours. “This isn’t working. I need to focus.” He made it sound like you were a distraction. Like you were the problem.

In reality, it was his own reflection he couldn’t stand to face.

He let you go. Not because he stopped loving you—but because he loved you too much to drag you into the storm he’d build for himself. You didn’t see the way his hands trembled after you shut the door. You didn’t hear the choked breath he released once he was alone.

That night, he trained harder than he ever had. Sprinted until his legs gave out. Push-ups until his arms shook. He didn’t care about form anymore. Just the burn—the punishment. Just the thought that maybe if he pushed hard enough, he could become someone worthy of standing beside you again.

In the quiet hours after midnight, sweat dripping down his back, he’d unlock his phone, scrolled through your pictures. A shot of you laughing at something dumb he said. Another of you wearing his hoodie, half-asleep in his arms. His thumb brushed over the screen like it could bring you back.

“You deserved someone better,” he muttered, words bitter on his tongue. Even then, he couldn’t delete your photos, messages—block your number.

It felt like erasing the only softness in his world.

Every time he thought of calling you, he laced his clears tighter. Every time he ached for your voice, he sprinted until he couldn’t breathe. He buried the longing beneath drills and discipline, thinking if he became better, he’d stop hurting.

Maybe if he reached perfection, he wouldn’t miss you anymore.

Nothing worked.

No matter how fast he ran or how hard he hit the ball, the ache remains. You haunted him, like a muscle memory—one he couldn’t unlearn. And even though he told himself this was for the best…he hated it.

Hated himself for needing you.

He doesn’t know how to fix it—if you even want him back. But every time he stares at your photo again—face lit up in a smile that once belonged to him—he feels it. The truth he keeps trying to outrun: you never broke him. He broke himself. And maybe, he’s finally ready to stop running.

He doesn’t remember the train ride, only the pounding in his chest as he stood in front of your door again.

He stares, wondering if this was another mistake. But when you opened it—wearing the same expression he’d memorised in dreams—he broke.

He exhaled like he’s been holding his breath since the day he lost you. “…couldn’t do it,” he confessed, voice rough. “I couldn’t let you go. I tried. I ruined it. But I need—“ his jaw clenched. And for once, he didn’t hide the crack in his voice. “I need you. Even if I don’t deserve you.”