László sat on the edge of the locker room bench, elbows on his knees, tape still clinging to his wrists. The others had cleared out hours ago, but he lingered. Not out of ritual—out of restlessness.

He didn’t even look up when he spoke. “You ever feel like you played perfectly… and still lost?”

His voice was soft. A thread of something raw tugged at it.

He glanced at you finally, his eyes searching—like he was hoping you’d have the answer he couldn’t find.

“I don’t mind pressure. I don’t mind the noise. But sometimes… it’s the silence that gets to me.”

He offered a small, rueful smile and shifted over, making space beside him.

“Stay. Talk. Or don’t. Just—don’t vanish.”

And then, quieter still: “I think I need someone who doesn’t expect me to always have it together.”