ponchais wife 2.0, but this is irrelevant

Ever since Michael's career started taking off, it had become harder for the both of you to stay in contact. You two used to be glued at the hip, a package deal, his friends would say. He woke up to you, came home to you, his 5 senses drowned in you. Yet what of it, if you can even maintain a conversation over text.

"we'll keep in touch" you'd say, "I'll call you" he'd promise, yet the texts got dryer, the calls became a rare occurrence. You felt desperate, pathetic, every time you asked to call, since it was only you asking for it. He never really initiated much, nor kept a conversation for long.

You stared into the screen, olise on the other side. What do you even say? You felt like just another fan, as if you didn't know him your whole life. He looked tired, bored. Was it you boring him? Possibly, but he'd never say. When has he ever?

Yet again another video call in silence as you asked random questions and he gave one word answers. Yet another call that ended with either of you learning anything about each other's lives. Ever so often you get the urge to ask "what are we even doing, am I wasting your time? Are you wasting mine?" Sometimes even typing it out, your thumb hovering over the send button, only to delete that same message you've been typing repeatedly for months now.

You hated how unneeded this made you feel. You saw him on the world stage, making passes, scoring goals, cheering with his team with every success. And where did you come in? Not in his celebrations, not even in his after parties, you were a stranger to your own boyfriend, how embarrassing.

~~

He stared at the chat between you two, watching the three dots indicating your typing appear and disappear like clockwork before slipping his phone back into his pocket with a huff. He checks your messages twice a day, once when he first wakes up, and again after a long day's practice out of habit, despite knowing there wouldn't be much. He didn't like texting, it couldn't portray what he wanted to show. It felt dry, lacked personality and god it made him miss your voice so much.

If he was lucky, you'd suggest a video call, and of course he'd take that opportunity to hear your voice. I guess his silence during those calls could be seen as boredom, especially when paired with his tired stare but he really does savour it. Why then, does he never suggest them himself?

He noticed when the daily texts stopped coming in, turning to once every two or three days, to weekly, and sometimes even once a month, he noticed it all and he hated it. Yet he never initiates, never asks for a call even when he most craves it. Why? Pride? Weakness? Or does he wish to be chased? Deep down he tries to hide the fear that he's losing your interest, fumbling your love so badly. He chooses to believe everything is still alright, turning a blind eye to the strained, awkward texts and the wordless calls. He tells himself just seeing you is enough, hearing your breath is good for him, but by the day he grows annoyed with the morsels hes getting.

It never affected his play on the field, he'd tell himself, and truly his passes were as sharp as ever. And yet, there was a tenseness to him that his teammates could almost feel when he walked by. They know he hates when they pry, but at a certain point it gets overwhelming, his distance.

After training, he no longer hung around in the field with his pals, instead rushing straight to the locker room to check if you'd sent him anything, or if you were online, or if you'd posted a story. He ate those crumbs like a street pigeon, how pathetic.

I guess that makes the both of you

~~

France lost to England for the title of third place.

Some of his teammates cried, some apologized to the crowds of french fans, some felt pride for making it so far, but Michael? He felt blank.

After missing 3 goals, one would expect a bigger reaction, or at least a reaction at all, yet he just stood there, the loss hitting too hard to currently comprehend. Maybe if one had made it in, the match's tide would've turned, France wouldn't be relegated to fourth, lacking in medal and honor. He honestly felt lost, ungrounded, it was just too unreal, too much to feel sorry for himself, and he looked the part too. And how would he ground himself? You, it was always you. Where were you when he needed so dearly to hold onto something real. You have to have come to this match, right? It was his most important one yet, you'd have to.

Harry noticed his darting eyes and approached him, congratulate him on the game, thank him for the good play, make small talk, something to snap him out of his frantic search through the crowd. One, two word responses were all Michael could muster right now. He was afraid without you he might just go mad. He pushed down his fear, saying a few niceties to end the conversation with cane and walked off the field. He knew you were here, and he had to find you.

~~

The crowd started to disperse, almost taking you with it. You couldn't help but slow your pace as you thought to stay, wait for him. But would he want to see you, after so long, you doubted every move you made that brought you closer to him, telling yourself it would be a mistake, yet mistake after mistake you made, your foolish feet bringing you to the crowd of journalists and fans that were waiting for the french team to pass through. You didn't make it to the front, heck you couldn't even get halfway past that dense pack.

Just a glimpse of him and I'll be off, you'd tell yourself, even though you knew that ripping yourself away after just a glance would ruin you. You felt a stir in the crowd, the people around you shifting forward, almost pushing you over with the sudden jolt. The french team must be coming, you say? Wrong. Just a frantic looking Michael olise, or at least as frantic as he can possibly look with his blank, tired expression. Not a person there noticed how unnerved he looked, instead pressing him to speak into a mic or sign a jersey. You didn't blame them, he had the same expression he always did in their eyes, but you knew that was not typical Michael.

You stared and stared, debating whether to give him a wave, call his name, anything to get his attention. He must've somehow felt that because the next moment he set his eyes in you, his already wide eyes widening further. You gulped, the thrill that he was looking for you eating you alive. You started backing out of the crowd, hoping he'd follow, and follow he did.

He dodged the interviewers as if he were on an obstacle course, fluidly making his way through the crowd without a pause. He made it to you way quicker than you could make your way out of the crowd. His hand wrapped around your wrist, trying so hard not to just stop there and melt into you, but not here, it can't be here. After all this time, he needed a moment for the two of you, alone and private where he can finally let loose.

"Michael-" you started as he dragged you further away from the near following crowd. He paused, turning back to you and repeated, brows furrowed, "Michael...?" Oh right, nicknames. You only really use his name when things are serious, but it's been so long it slipped your mind. "I- mike? Mikey? Akpovi? Baby-" you shuffled through your nicknames for him, not wanting his face to fall any further. By the time you were done, the crowd had already engulfed the two of you, cameras flashing, videos recording, but Michael couldn't care less anymore because god, did that bring back memories for him. Memories of what you two were, what you should have been. He closed the already small gap between you two with a step before carefully resting the bridge of his nose on your shoulder, eyes closed, breathing slowed, just taking you all in, as he had wanted to for so long.

You stood still as a board, your hands slowly creeping their way up his back, patting him in an awkward attempt at comfort. Your eyes wanted to dart around at the crowd that poked it's nose in this moment of yours, but nothing you rip your attention away from him right now. You could hear him sigh and mutter something about the match, you couldn't quite make it out though, much too distracted. You couldn't tell whether it was sweat or tears that wet the shoulder of your tee shirt.

The crowds pestering got louder, it wasn't everyday one got to see THE Mr nonchalant in such a state. They'd long given up on getting a word from him, a hopeless case, so instead they redirected their attention to you. Who are you, they'd ask, a girlfriend? Fiancee? Maybe even a wife? You couldn't even begin to speak before you were cut off with another question. It was as if they didn't even want an answer, just a mannequin to hurl their words at.

You glanced at him, as if searching for approval. Could you even call yourself that, his girlfriend? It wasn't something you've said in a while, but boy it sure sounded good in your head. You imagined what it'd be like, bragging to them about being his girlfriend, but right now all you wanted was to hear that from himself.

He eventually finished "rebooting", raising his head back up like nothing ever happened, taking your hand once again, much calmer now. "Move in with me." He muttered for only you to hear, leaning so close his lips brushed your ear before he resumed leading you through the crowd. It felt so slow for some reason, as if he was letting them revel in the sight of you and him, show off. The fact that you were feeling pretty dazed didn't make it go any faster.

~~~