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I've seen dark before, but not like this
This is cold, this is empty, this is numb
The life I knew is over, the lights are out
Hello, darkness, I'm ready to succumb
It didn’t feel real. Just three days ago, Alisson had thought that things were perfect. Liverpool had kept four straight clean sheets in the league, and Firmino and Fabinho were there to stay. The Brazil national team would play a friendly soon, and he looked forward to that more than anything.
But then Firmino decided to leave. And on that same Friday, the new interim for Brazil refused to call up any of the three Brazilians.
Ever since Firmino had told him and Fabinho, Alisson hadn’t spoken to Firmino. He hadn’t looked at him. He couldn’t even think of him without tearing up.
With Muriel in faraway Cyprus, Firmino was Alisson’s second older brother figure. The two shared everything: curly hair, a love of hugs, even their birthday. It was like they were always meant to be together.
They were yin and yang, two peas in a pod. They had a mutual understanding of each other—Firmino could usually sense when Alisson wasn’t doing well, and vice versa. They, along with Fabinho, had bonded quickly—and permanently, Alisson always loved to think with a fond smile.
He should’ve learned that nothing good was permanent by now.
I follow you around, I always have
But you've gone to a place I cannot find
To Alisson, it seemed like everybody he’d ever loved left him at some point. His Roma teammates, his Liverpool teammates. His brother had left Internacional at one point. His own father—permanently.
"You are lost, hope is gone
But you must go on
And do the next right thing"
How he wanted to laugh at that. He wanted to laugh and laugh until somebody had to pick him up and drag him to bed. No voice told him to go on or anything. Everything inside of him laid balled up in a dark hole, afraid to come out. Afraid that if he did, there was no protection. One of his favorite people was about to leave—again.
Now there would be only two Brazilians—three if Pitaluga returned from his loan. Alisson would be the oldest one. He didn’t know how he would handle not being in the middle of things. He’d always been in the middle at Liverpool—between goalposts, between compatriots, between the other goalkeepers. He’d never been the head of anything. Firmino was his light, and now he wasn’t going to be there.
Ah, Bobby. Foi assim que você se sentiu quando Philippe partiu. Sozinho.
He had Fabinho. But it was never going to be the same again.
Vaguely, his nerves reported somebody touching him, taking him by the hand. Alisson wasn’t sure who, until he caught the sight of perfectly manicured nails and the smell of Dutch baby oil. Van Dijk.
Wordlessly, Alisson allowed Van Dijk to pull him off the floor of the broom closet, wrapping him in a strong yet gentle embrace. Van Dijk didn’t speak either; Alisson was fine with that. It was a small reminder, a small light in his new darkness.
Like both Darwins, Alisson would have to change, adapt to his new norm. He didn’t like change—but he’d done it before.
Quietly, and nearly whispered, Van Dijk began to sing. Alisson couldn’t help but smile when he realized it was the same song he’d been listening to earlier.
So I'll walk through this night
Stumbling blindly toward the light
And do the next right thing
And with the dawn, what comes then
When it's clear that everything will never be the same again?
Then I'll make the choice to hear that voice
And do the next right thing