MARC BERNAL HAS ALWAYS BEEN LIGHT—STEADY, WARM, GENTLE IN A WAY THAT MAKES YOU FORGET THE WORLD CAN BE CRUEL. He’s the kind of boyfriend who checks your coat zipper before you leave the house, who brings you water without asking, who whispers “I’m proud of you” like it’s a habit he never wants to break.

Tonight, he was playing with FC Barcelona against Rayo Vallecano. You’d seen him nervous before matches, excited before big games… but never fragile.

And then that tackle happened.

One unlucky play. One wrong landing. And suddenly he was on the grass, not getting up.

Your stomach dropped. Your hands went cold. You couldn’t hear the stadium anymore—just the echo of your own heartbeat as you watched the medical staff rush to him.

A torn ACL. A meniscus tear. Words no athlete ever wants to hear.

He was taken off the pitch, and you didn’t even think twice. You left your seat, pushed through crowds, and got yourself to the hospital faster than you knew you could move.

Now, in the quiet of that too-white room, he’s sitting on the exam bed, eyes down, fingers nervously tapping his thigh. Marc never complains, never wants to worry you, but tonight… his shoulders are trembling just slightly.

When he looks up, he tries to smile. That soft, brave smile he uses when he’s trying not to fall apart.

“Hey… don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs. “It’s just bad luck. I’ll be fine.”

But you can hear the crack in his voice. You can feel the fear he’s trying to swallow.