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It’s Saturday morning, and the house smells like coffee and warm toast. Ferran’s music hums low from the kitchen, something lazy and old-school, while Pedri hums along off-key as he flips eggs.
But upstairs, things are slower. Mateo’s door is cracked open, and inside, there’s a soft rustle - sketchbook pages turning, pencil tapping against paper. He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, hair still messy from sleep, tongue poking out a little in concentration.
Then there’s a knock.
“Don’t come in,” he calls immediately, because he’s eleven and apparently privacy is sacred now.
The door opens anyway.
Alora steps in, smirking, wearing one of Ferran’s hoodies that nearly swallows her whole. “Chill, Picasso. I wasn’t gonna snoop.”
“You always snoop,” he mutters without looking up.
“Only when you’re being weird.” She crosses the room and flops onto his beanbag. “What’re you drawing?”
“Nothing.”
Alora raises an eyebrow. “That’s your lying voice.”
He sighs and shows her the page. It’s a sketch of the pitch at the Camp Nou, all perspective lines and little dots meant to be players. One in particular - wearing number 7 - is drawn with sharper detail.
Alora grins. “You drew papá.”
Mateo shrugs. “Yeah. I wanted to see if I could get the proportions right.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, leaning closer. “Totally not because you think he’s the coolest person alive.”
He glares at her, cheeks flushing pink. “I don’t.”
“Mateo.”
“What?”
“You literally made him taller than everyone else.”
He laughs despite himself. “He is taller than everyone else.”
Alora reaches out and ruffles his hair, ignoring his protests. “You’re such a dork.”
“Stop!” He bats her hand away but he’s smiling now, his earlier quietness gone.
For a while, she just stays there, watching him redraw one of the corner flags, eyes narrowed in focus. She remembers when he used to sit beside her with crayons, copying whatever she was doodling. Now his lines are cleaner, his face older.
“You’re getting really good,” she says softly.
He glances up. “You think?”
“Yeah. Seriously.” She pauses. “You’re probably gonna end up an artist or something.”
He shrugs again but his grin is shy this time. “Maybe.”
There’s a pause. The kind that’s comfortable. Just the two of them and the faint sound of their parents laughing downstairs.
Then Mateo says, “Hey, Alora?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think they’ll still come to my recital next week? Even if Barça has training?”
Alora looks at him, startled for a second by how small his voice sounds. “Of course they will. They’d never miss it.”
He fidgets with his pencil. “You sure?”
“Mat.” She moves from the beanbag to sit on the edge of his bed. “They literally rearranged a Champions League press conference once so they could see you dance.”
That earns a small laugh. “Oh yeah.”
“Exactly,” she says. “They’re obsessed with you, trust me.”
He smiles again, and for a moment, he leans into her shoulder - something he hasn’t done in a while. She doesn’t say anything, just lets him.
Downstairs, Ferran calls that breakfast is ready. Mateo jumps up, instantly energized, and Alora follows, trailing behind him down the stairs.
They enter the kitchen together, Mateo talking fast about his drawing, Alora stealing a piece of toast off Pedri’s plate. Ferran just watches them with that look - the one that says he’s trying to memorize the moment.
Pedri catches his eye and smiles, quietly thinking, our chaos.
And maybe that’s exactly what it is. Their chaos. Their family. Their rhythm that somehow always settles back into something soft, something whole.
The house was quiet after breakfast. Mateo was upstairs sketching something dramatic on his tablet, music low in his headphones. Ferran was cleaning up in the kitchen, humming under his breath. Alora was at the door, tugging her jacket on when Pedri appeared behind her, keys in hand.
“Where are you going?” he asked lightly.
“Just… out,” she said. “The park, maybe. Kick the ball around for a bit.”
He tilted his head. “Mind some company?”
She hesitated. For a second, she wanted to say no. She wasn’t in the mood for anyone - not even him. But something in his voice, gentle and patient like always, made her nod. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
They walked in silence for a while, shoes crunching on the path lit by the faint orange of the streetlamps. The air was cool, the kind of Barcelona morning where the city hums in the distance but the neighborhood feels tucked away.
Pedri kept his hands in his pockets, glancing at her every so often without speaking. He didn’t push. He never did. He just walked beside her, letting the quiet fill the space until it was safe for her to break it.
Alora kicked a stone down the path. “You used to take me here all the time,” she said quietly.
“I remember,” he replied. “You’d get mad if I didn’t let you score.”
“You never let me score,” she muttered, half-smiling.
“Maybe I just wanted to make you try harder.”
She huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh, but it caught halfway. Then her shoulders slumped again. The quiet returned, heavier this time.
Pedri waited until they turned the corner toward the park before saying softly, “You’ve been a bit off lately.”
Her throat tightened. “Yeah.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Alright.”
But she didn’t leave it there. Maybe it was the calm of the night, maybe it was the way his voice never sounded like judgment - just care. She spoke again, voice quieter.
“I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Pedri’s brow furrowed slightly. “About what?”
“The beach,” she whispered. Her hands were in her jacket pockets, fingers twisting the fabric. “That night after the match.”
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes softened.
She swallowed hard, blinking fast. “We won. Everyone was so happy. We went for food, and then to the beach, and it was just…” she cut herself off, exhaling shakily. “And then I kissed her.”
Pedri stopped walking. The park was just ahead, the swings barely moving in the faint wind. He didn’t look shocked. Just still. Listening.
“I didn’t mean to,” she rushed out, panic rising in her chest. “It just happened. And I didn’t even… I don’t know why. I didn’t plan it or anything. And it wasn’t like… bad. It was just…” She pressed her sleeve to her face, trying to hide the tears that were already burning behind her eyes. “And I feel so stupid.”
Pedri reached out, gently lowering her sleeve. “Hey,” he said softly. “You’re not stupid.”
Her chin wobbled. “I liked it.”
There it was. The words she hadn’t been able to say out loud, even to herself, until now. And as soon as they were out, she couldn’t take them back.
Pedri’s chest ached. Not out of disappointment - never that - but because he could see how scared she was of her own truth.
He moved closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She stiffened at first, then melted into him, her forehead pressing into his shoulder.
“It’s okay to like it,” he murmured. “It’s okay to not know what it means yet, too.”
“I don’t want it to mean anything,” she said, voice muffled against his hoodie. “I just want it to go away.”
“I know,” he said. “I felt that way once.”
She lifted her head, tear-streaked and confused. “You did?”
He smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Yeah. When I was about your age. When I first started realising things about myself. I didn’t want it to be true, either. But pretending it wasn’t didn’t make it any easier.”
She sniffled, eyes wet and wide. “Did it ever stop being scary?”
He looked out toward the park, where the streetlights painted soft gold over the grass. “Not right away. But it got better. It got real. And then it stopped being something to be afraid of.”
She didn’t respond, just leaned back into him again, the silence this time not heavy, just full.
They reached the park gate and sat on the low wall nearby. She kicked at the gravel, thoughtful.
“I haven’t talked about all this properly with Papá,” she said finally.
Pedri nodded. “You don’t have to yet. Tell him when you’re ready.”
“But you think I should?”
“I think you’ll want to,” he said gently. “He’ll understand. He’ll just want to hug you.”
A shaky smile pulled at her lips. “He always does.”
Pedri grinned. “He’s soft like that.”
Alora let out a little laugh, the first real one in days, and wiped her eyes. “You’re soft too, Mamá.”
He nudged her playfully with his shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
The park was empty, but the city lights flickered faintly in the distance, and Alora felt the air shift around her. Not fixed. Not healed. But lighter. Like maybe, just maybe, things didn’t have to feel so impossible anymore.
- sofía ✎ᝰ.