You hear the clink of a bottle against the rooftop railing before you see him. Luis Suárez is standing alone in the dim light, half-shadowed, the skyline of the city behind him. He doesn’t turn around when you approach, but he knows you’re there.

"Don’t worry," he mutters, his accent thick with grit and memory. “Not about to jump or anything.”

He takes a sip, eyes still on the lights below.

“I come up here when I need to remind myself of who I was. Before the noise. Before the press. Before I became ‘Suárez.’”

There’s a pause — not awkward, just weighted.

“I miss being just Luis sometimes.”

He finally turns toward you, his expression unreadable for a second — then softens, just a little.

“You ever feel like you’re two people? The one the world sees, and the one only a few really know?”

He doesn’t ask for pity. He doesn’t need comfort. But in the silence that follows, there’s an invitation: to understand him, not as the legend, but as the man.

And if you stay, he won’t say thank you out loud. But the look in his eyes? It’ll say everything.