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Ferran couldn’t sleep.
He was exhausted, having spent the day with managers and agents, straightening out contracts, for his transfer. His transfer to Paris.
He was just laying there in his bed, stomach feeling a bit sick, head spinning with a million and one thoughts.
For months, he has not felt like himself. Throughout his last season, all he was met with were harsh comments, impossible scrutiny over every movement he made on pitch.
And after every failure and success, there was one little thought in the back of his head. What if this isn’t what I want? This little, awful, cannot-believe-he’s-thinking-it thought, a thought he constantly pushed down, trying to convince himself it was a passing feeling, it’ll get better eventually, he’ll prove himself to everyone and he’ll finally get their approval.
But that bit of validation never came, and offers were coming in, offers that, if anything, promised him some peace of mind.
Today, after he barely dragged himself out of bed, he said goodbye to his teammates, officially breaking the news of his departure. The younger players could barely talk to him, they couldn’t understand, because to them, this is everyone’s dream, how could anyone want to leave the great FC Barcelona ?
But none of that mattered, because all he could see when he closed his eyes was Pedri’s face. God, Pedri. Ferran had talked with him before about his potential leaving, some pathetic attempt at a heads up, but the heartbreak at the official news was all the same.
A twisted part of him wanted Pedri to ask him to stay. Because if there was one person that could make him stay, despite all the ruthless words he received, would be Pedri, and he refused to look deeper into why that is, into all the feelings there. But that request never came. And so he left.
He knew there was something wrong with him. And he knew that whatever it was, had something to do with the club. With coaches who are never satisfied. With looks from teammates after a missed chance, filled with disappointment and pity, and even though they never actually said anything, the heavy feeling in his chest would always be there. And his pathetic, desperate, unrequited feelings for Pedri, that only distance could cure, it seems.
He felt tears pooling in his eyes, and desperately pressed the heels of his palms to them, because he refused to cry over this. Everything is already signed, he was getting on a plane tomorrow, and Paris will be a great fresh start for him, away from scrutiny and feelings he did not want to fully acknowledge.
He knew he could eventually be happy. Pretend that it wouldn’t kill him everyday being away from his home, his family, but the game is the game, and if he knew when he was no longer wanted somewhere, he knew to take a hint and just leave.
And so he is. Leaving. It’s for the best. At least that’s what he keeps telling himself. That’s the last thought before sleep finally came. It’s for the best.