The Day After the Final
It was June 8th—the night every football fan had been waiting for. The final match between Spain and Portugal. The atmosphere was electric across the world, and I could feel the tension even through the screen as the national anthems echoed through the stadium. All eyes were on two football titans—Cristiano Ronaldo for Portugal, and Lamine Yamal for Spain. Both were in top form, and the anticipation was unbearable. The air felt heavier, almost like the world had paused for this one game.
I sat in the living room with my eyes glued to the TV. My heart was beating faster than ever. I had always supported Spain—and so did he. We used to talk about the team endlessly, analyzing line-ups, replaying goals in our minds, comparing the tactical brilliance of the coach. But tonight, we weren't together. I didn't even know where he was watching from. But I knew, wherever he was, he was hoping for the same thing I was—a Spain victory.
The match was brutal, a constant back-and-forth. Every pass, every shot, every block was filled with tension. Yamal danced across the field with the kind of grace and fire that made you forget he was still so young. Ronaldo, on the other hand, was the seasoned warrior, determined to lift one more trophy for his nation.
By the time the final whistle blew and it went to penalties, my hands were shaking. My voice was hoarse from shouting. And then... heartbreak. Spain missed one. Portugal scored all five. The stadium exploded in cheers for Portugal, while my chest sank like a stone in deep water.
I sat there in silence, the final score flashing on the screen like an insult: Spain 2 - 2 Portugal (Portugal wins on penalties 5-4). My phone buzzed nonstop, messages flooding in, mostly from friends and classmates rubbing it in. I didn't answer. I couldn't.
The next day felt like a void. I walked into class with my head down, hoping to blend in, to go unnoticed. But the moment I stepped through the door, the whispers began.
"Spain lost, huh?"
"Told you Portugal had it."
I clenched my fists, every nerve in my body tightening. I could feel my face heating up, and before I could stop myself, I was about to explode—to yell, to shout, to say something that would make them back off.
But then it happened.
From the back corner of the classroom, a calm but powerful voice cut through the noise.
"Shut up."
Everyone froze. I recognized that voice instantly. I turned my head slowly, and there he was—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable but eyes full of quiet fire. It was him.
My heart jumped to my throat. My face flushed red—not from anger this time, but something else entirely. He walked forward slowly, eyes scanning the room like he was silently judging everyone.
"It was a draw," he said, his voice steady and controlled. "Portugal only won on penalties. You want to celebrate a shootout? Go ahead. But don't act like Spain didn't fight till the last breath."
The room went silent. People looked at me like I had done something wrong, like I was the reason Spain had lost. I could barely breathe.
As the final bell rang and class ended, people shuffled out awkwardly, their earlier cockiness gone. I stayed behind, still stunned, still processing. He walked past my desk and paused.
Without turning to look directly at me, he muttered, "Next time, handle the situation yourself."
Then he left.
And I just stood there—completely frozen.
His words echoed in my mind, sharper than any insult, heavier than any defeat. It wasn't just about football. It was something else. Something more.
That one sentence made me rethink everything—my reactions, my pride, my silence. It wasn't about the match anymore. It was about strength, about presence, about learning when to fight and when to hold back.
The game was over, but something else had just begun.