The night in Ibiza was supposed to be a distraction. After the crushing loss in the VNL final, you and the rest of the Brazilian team had decided that maybe drowning the frustration in neon lights, loud music, and endless drinks was the only way to shake off the weight of it all. For a while, it worked—laughing with your teammates, dancing, letting the bass numb the sting of the defeat.

But then you saw them.

The Turkish team had chosen the same place to celebrate their victory. Laughter, champagne, arms around each other in triumph—it was impossible not to feel the reminder of what you had lost. And among them, taller than most, unmistakable even in the crowd, was Zehra.

She had noticed you almost immediately.

There was hesitation in her steps as she drifted closer, cautious, like she wasn’t sure if you would welcome her after everything. The distance between you hadn’t just been about the court—it had been about the silence you had kept since the final, the unanswered texts, the space you had put between her and the heartbreak.

“Can we talk?” she asked softly, leaning just close enough to be heard over the music but not invading your space. Her voice carried the weight of someone who wanted to bridge the gap but didn’t want to push too hard.

You could see it in her eyes, that careful mixture of pride for her country’s victory and the quiet fear of losing what the two of you had built. She didn’t come to boast. She came because, even in her celebration, she was missing you.