Chapter Text
No me valoras. ¿Sabes cuándo me vas a valorar? Cuando me pierdas.
Ferran's words from that stupid reality show we've been to together keep running through my head. Did he know since then? Has he been lying to me?
I open my twitter to check the news again. The clock reads 3 AM, but I can't care less as I read what a french journalist wrote:
“Ferran Torres to PSG is 80% done! The player has a personal agreement with the french champions, who just sold Kolo Muani and Barcola so the World cup winner can have a proper place in the squad. Luis Enrique likes him very much and will provide a great salary. In the following days Barcelona will receive the great offer, one which they can't refuse! Stay tuned!”
Weeks ago I wouldn't care less about these news—the source is not the most reliable and some facts don't add up. And some weeks ago, exactly two, Ferran was here. Telling me I have nothing to worry about. He promised me it was just media noise.
But since that last talk in Barcelona... everything changed.
"Ferri, you are drunk, you almost kissed me on that scene in Madrid!" I can still hear my own voice trembling with fear in my room that night. "I had to stop you from doing it for, what, 5, maybe 6 times, in front of the whole Spain?"
He looks at me, his eyes barely open, but he tries to sober up as he speaks to me—I can hear it in his voice.
"Pepi, lo siento, amor... You know i get drunk very fast, damn, i feel like i'm floating right now—"
"You know that in a couple of hours you are leaving with Joan and Marc and Marcos in Ibiza, si? How are you getting into the plane like this?"
Ferran fumbled for his phone in his pocket, but gave up, letting his head heavy drop onto my shoulder. The sharp smell of alcohol mixed with his familiar cologne was suffocating.
"I'll get on my own damn feet, Pepi..." he mumbled, his voice suddenly raspy, losing his attempt at a calm tone. "Why are you always lecturing me? Why does everything have to be a problem when it comes to me?"
"Because you are not thinking, Ferri!" I tried to keep my voice down, even though my heart was hammering against my ribs. I took a step back, breaking the physical contact, and the cold air of the room instantly rushed between us. "You got drunk in Madrid because your anxiety was killing you, I get it. But almost kissing me on stage? In front of the whole country? What if someone took a photo from the wrong angle? My PR team barely managed to arrange this China trip with... with her, just to keep the press quiet. My parents already think it's all real. We can't play around like this."
Ferran blinked heavily, and his eyes suddenly went blank. That raw, painful anxiety I knew all too well flooded his gaze. He stood up, swaying slightly, but fixing me with a devastating intensity.
"Ah, right. China. The PR girlfriend. The perfect Pedri," he let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Are you that scared of a picture? Scared of what people might say? I am suffocating,
Pepi! I feel like I'm dying every time I step onto that pitch and the fans boo me, and the only moment I can actually breathe is when I'm with you. And you push me away because you're scared of a headline."
"I am not pushing you away, I am protecting you! Protecting us!"
"No, you are protecting yourself and your spotless image," he snapped back, his voice visibly trembling from a mix of panic and anger.
"Ferri, please, just sleep it off. We'll talk tomorrow," I pleaded, my voice cracking. "And those French rumors... about PSG... you promised me weeks ago I had nothing to worry about. You said it was just noise."
Ferran looked at me, a cold, unreadable expression washing over his face. The alcohol seemed to turn his anxiety into pure, defensive detachment.
"I did say that, didn't I?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "But tonight? Tonight I think you're right. Maybe I should give you the space you so desperately want."
I open my eyes, staring blankly at the hotel ceiling in Shanghai. That was two weeks ago. Two weeks of absolute radio silence.
The rumor about PSG that he told me to ignore weeks ago? It doesn't feel like just noise anymore. Now, it feels like a looming death sentence. Did that night change his mind? Did my anger push him right into Luis Enrique's arms? I am completely in the dark, left with nothing but unconfirmed tweets and agonizing doubts.
My chest tightens as I switch from Twitter to Instagram. I shouldn't look, but I can't help it. Joan's stories are still up. It's another wild party in Ibiza. And there Ferran is, in the background, a drink firmly gripped in his hand, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He looks miserable, hiding behind a fake smile, drowning the very anxiety he used to share with me in endless bottles of alcohol. He is drinking himself to oblivion, and there is nothing I can do about it.
And here I am. Halfway across the world, trapped in a luxury hotel room, forced to wake up in a few hours to hold hands with a girl I don't love in front of my own parents, while the only person I actually care about is slipping through my fingers.