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The bitter taste of the London air welcomed Bukayo as he woke up.
Dried tear tracks stained his cheeks, and he sniffled softly, wiping at his eyes that never seemed to dry, a hand rubbing his face.
He opened his phone, ignoring the dozens of messages to look at the time.
02:38.
Bukayo dropped his phone onto the bed, flipping over to his other side and curling up into himself like a child.
He knew that he should respond to the messages, concerned team mates, worried family members, inquiries from managers and PR teams that he couldn't bear to read.
Again. He had ruined it for the country again.
A lone tear made its way down his cheek, and Bukayo frustratingly wiped it away, choking back a sob as another tear fell, then another, then another.
Bukayo's face scrunched up, and he covered his eyes with both his hands, finally allowing himself to sob and heave. The wind blew harshly against his window, and he could feel his phone vibrate on the bed next to him, but he continued to cry, shirt and hands soaking with tears.
Breathing uneven, Bukayo clutched at his chest as he wailed, voice breaking, and he forced his eyes shut. He had failed again, just like 2022, just like 2021. Just like the past two years of the league, he hadn't been good enough to give his team a win, to give his country someone to be proud of.
Maybe he wasn't meant to be on the national team in the first place, maybe he didn't deserve to be thought of so highly by Mikel, maybe he didn't deserve any part of his career.
Bukayo whimpered into his pillow, body stiff and curled as he tried to shield himself from the outside world, childishly hoping that once he opens his eyes, everything will be fine.
He thought of his parents, his family, his friends. Tolami was probably worried, he had seen her name in the barrage of messages on his lockscreen, plastered next to the dozens of missed calls and voicemails.
There were messages from Martin, from Kai and Wilo and Jakub. He refused to acknowledge them.
Even though they too were knocked out, it was never their fault. They had never failed their country to the extent that he had, their reputations had never been tarnished due to the misfortune of being too young, too inexperienced, lacking enough skill to win when it mattered the most.
Bukayo heaved, a hand returning to his chest as his breaths came in short gasps, and suddenly, his vision blurred, his chest tightening. He unfurled, sitting up in his bed as he gasped, tears of oxygen deprivation building at the corner of his eyes.
His body screamed at him to take a breath, but he couldn't, it was almost as if he had lost control of his body, an insistent ringing in his ears almost deafening him, and all he could do was cry and wheeze.
A hand on his shoulder startled him, and Bukayo lifted his head to see none other than Mikel sitting next to him on the bed, a concerned expression on his face.
He tried to speak, but all he could do was sob, and Mikel seemed to understand, his arm wrapping around Bukayo's shoulder, bringing him closer until the forward's face was buried in his chest.
"It's okay," Mikel whispered gently, "They can't hurt you here. You're okay."
Bukayo wept into Mikel's expensive jumper, his breathing slowing down as a hand traced circles into his back, and soon, he was reduced to whimpering pitifully into his coach's chest, snuffling and gasping every so often.
"M-Mikel," he stuttered, voice thick with tears.
He turned his head to face Mikel, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the subtle fatigue in his features, the wrinkles on his face that never seemed to be there before.
"You didn't have to come all this way..." Bukayo mumbled, tearing his gaze away in embarrassment, voice trailing off.
Mikel lifted a hand to Bukayo's chin, and with gentle force, turned his head back so that they were staring into each other's eyes.
"You weren't answering anybody. We were worried, cariño," Mikel said, a finger wiping away a stray tear. "I needed to make sure that you were okay, you gave us a bit of a scare."
Bukayo nodded dumbly, tongue heavy in his mouth.
"I'm..." he began, trying to find the right words. "I'm so scared that they all hate me," he admitted. "I failed. I failed again."
"I failed! I f-failed, I failed-" Bukayo's breaths became shorter, his tone tinging on the edge of hyperventilation, tears reappearing in his eyes, unwelcome.
"Shh, none of that Bukayo, you're okay," Mikel hushed him, pulling his player closer to his body, as if trying to shield him from his own panic.
"I won't let any of them hurt you. You did so well, querido. I'm so proud of you."
Bukayo cried into his neck, and Mikel sat there, stroking his hair for as long as needed to comfort his player. It was the least he could do.
The cold night air of the city was trapped behind the closed window, and all Mikel could do was pray that the next season would be better