Kulia i ka nu’u🌺

Arsenal PR Manager Sarah generally had two rules for putting you on live radio no live callers, and a strictly enforced seven second delay button.

Unfortunately, the host of the morning sports talk show had just bypassed both of those safety nets.

You and Leah were sitting in the studio. The interview had been going relatively smoothly until the host a washed up, middle aged former player named Donny decided to change the conversation.

"Look, the women's game has come on leaps and bounds, credit where it's due," Donny said, leaning into his mic with a condescending patronizing smirk. "But you've got to admit, the physical differences are still there. The pace, the power. Honestly, no offense girls, but even at my age, I reckon if I strapped my boots on, I could still put two or three past your keeper in the WSL."

Leah took a deep breath.

"Well, Donny the demands of our league are actually incredibly high—" Leah started.

"Donny, mate," you interrupted, leaning casually toward your microphone.

Leah immediately tensed. On the other side of the glass, Sarah stopped breathing.

"Donny," you repeated, your voice completely flat, radiating withunbothered confidence. "You are forty seven years old and you’re shaped like a scotch egg."

Donny’s condescending smirk instantly vanished. "Now, hang on a minute—"

"I watched you audibly wheeze when you had to bend over to pick up your pen ten minutes ago," you continued, entirely ignoring his protest. "Your knees sound like packing peanuts when you walk. Our keeper wouldn't even need to dive to save your shot. She’d just stand there and watch your hamstrings spontaneously detonate on the run up."

Leah pressed her lips tightly together, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. She was staring at the desk, actively fighting the most unprofessional, desperate urge to burst into hysterical laughter.

"I played ten years in the Championship!" Donny argued defensively.

"Yeah, in 2008," you countered cheerfully. "Donny, if our centre-back shoulder barged you on a Tuesday morning, you would literally wake up in an ambulance on Thursday afternoon. But please, if you think you’ve still got the pace, Training is open tomorrow at 10 AM. Bring your boots. I'll even ask the medical team to keep the defibrillator on standby for you."

Leah’s shoulders were visibly shaking. She had entirely abandoned the diplomacy and was just hiding her face in her hands, her face buried against your shoulder as she silently lost her mind.

On the other side of the glass, Sarah didn't wave her arms to cut the feed.

It had been exactly three weeks since Alessia packed her belongings into cardboard boxes and handed her key back to you. The books she had stacked on the coffee table were gone. Her shampoo was missing from the shower.

But the apartment was still full of her.

It was a quiet Thursday evening. You were standing in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a dinner you had absolutely no appetite for. The radio was playing softly in the background to fill the silence of the flat.

At exactly 4:15 PM, you heard it.

The unmistakable noise of the elevator doors opening in the hallway outside, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching your door.

Your brain bypassed all logic.

It was 4:15. Training at finished at 3:00. Factoring in the traffic, this was the exact minute Alessia always arrived home.

You stopped chopping. You held your breath, your eyes instinctively darting toward the front door. You waited to hear the door swing open, waited for the bright energy she always brought into the room. You could practically hear her voice that warm, *"I'm home, love, I am absolutely starving!"*

The footsteps grew louder. They reached your door.

And then, they kept walking, fading down the hall toward a neighbor’s flat.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

"Stop it," you whispered out loud to the empty room, your voice cracking. "Stop it."

But the apartment didn't listen. It was full of echoes, a haunted house built out of your own grief.

You walked into the living room, trying to escape the kitchen, but it was worse in there. You sat down on the sofa, and your eyes immediately drifted to the rug. You saw the exact spot where she used to sit. You looked at the television, and the phantom sound of her infectious laughter echoed in your ears, replaying a memory of a movie night from six months ago so vividly you actually flinched.

You picked up the TV remote, blindly turning on a football match just to have human voices in the room. You stared at the screen. Ten minutes in, a winger pulled off a ridiculous piece of skill.

A laugh bubbled up in your throat. You instinctively turned your head toward the other end of the sofa.

"Less, did you see—"

The words died in your mouth.

The cushion beside you was smooth. The knitted throw blanket was folded neatly over the armrest, completely untouched.

There was no one there to watch the match with you. There was no one to debate the referee's call.

It felt like a phantom limb your brain reaching out for a part of your life that had been severed only to grasp at nothing.

You dropped the remote. It fell onto the coffee table.

You pulled your knees to your chest, burying your face in your arms. The dam finally broke, a sob making its way out of your throat. You wept for the loss of the girl, yes, but you wept harder for the realization that erasing her from your life was going to take so much more than just taking her name off the lease.

You were going to have to unlearn how to love her.

Alexia settled between your thighs, her eyes dark with hunger. "Mírame," she commanded. You were already slick, and she didn't waste time. She drove two fingers inside you in one smooth, stretching thrust, drawing a broken cry from your lips.