Love

The silence in Mi’s apartment was heavy, the kind of silence that didn’t just signify a lack of noise, but a lack of life. For months, she had existed in a state of quiet mourning. She wasn't mourning a death, but something that felt just as final: the slow, agonizing erosion of her friendship with Jamal Musiala.

They had been inseparable since they were toddlers. Jamal was the quiet boy with the magic at his feet, and Mi was the petite shadow that followed him from the muddy pitches of their youth to the glittering stadiums of Munich. They were a package deal. "Jamal and Mi," their families would say, as if their names were hyphenated.

Then came the girlfriend.

At first, Mi had tried to be supportive. She wanted Jamal to be happy. But his new girlfriend, a woman who looked like she’d stepped off a runway and possessed a gaze as cold as a Bavarian winter, saw Mi as a threat. The subtle snubs at dinners turned into missed calls, which turned into months of Jamal being "too busy" to grab coffee. The girl’s jealousy was a physical wall she had built around him, and Jamal, perhaps too naive or too smitten to see the manipulation, had let himself be walled in.

Mi sat on her windowsill, hugging her knees to her chest. She felt small—smaller than usual. The depression had settled in like a persistent fog, making every movement feel like she was wading through waist-deep water.

A rhythmic knocking at her door broke her trance. She didn't want to answer it, but the person on the other side was persistent. When she finally swung the door open, she found Michael Olise standing there, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie.

"You look like you haven't seen the sun in three weeks," Michael said, his voice low and blunt.

"I’m fine, Michael," Mi lied, stepping back to let him in.

"You’re a terrible liar. Put on some shoes. We’re going for a walk."

Michael had been a godsend lately. As Jamal’s teammate, he saw the shift in the locker room, the way Jamal seemed distracted and the way he’d stopped mentioning his "best friend" altogether. Michael wasn't one for flowery speeches, but he was observant.

They walked through the park near the Isar River. The autumn air was crisp, turning Mi’s nose pink. Michael tried everything to distract her. He told her ridiculous stories about training sessions, complained about the gaffer’s drills, and even tried to get her to laugh at a video of Thomas Müller being chaotic. Nothing worked. Her smile didn't reach her eyes; it barely reached her lips.

"It’s about him, isn't it?" Michael asked, stopping by a wooden bench.

Mi didn't have to ask who 'him' was. "It’s just different now. I feel like I’ve lost a limb, Michael. But I can’t exactly complain to him when he’s finally found someone he likes."

Michael turned to face her, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Listen, Mi. You’re miserable. He’s... well, he’s not himself either, even if he doesn't realize why yet. This friendship you’re trying to save? It’s already gone. The version of you two that existed before her is dead."

Mi flinched at the harshness of his words.

"I’m not trying to be mean," Michael continued. "But you’re holding onto a ghost. If the friendship is already ruined, what do you have to lose by telling him the truth? At least then you can walk away with your head up. Give yourself some peace of mind. Tell him you love him, let him react, and then move on. Anything is better than this slow rot."

Mi looked at the rushing water of the river. He was right. She was already grieving. What was a little more heartbreak if it finally meant she could breathe again?

---

The opportunity came two days later. Jamal had messaged her—a rare, brief text asking if he could drop off a box of her things that had been sitting in his trunk for months.

When he arrived at her door, he looked tired. The boyish spark that usually danced in his eyes was dimmed. He held the cardboard box awkwardly between them.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft.

"Hey, Bambi." The old nickname slipped out before she could stop it.

He winced slightly, a flash of nostalgia crossing his face. "I, uh, I have your stuff. From that weekend at the lake last summer."

"Right. Thanks." She took the box, setting it on the floor behind her. She knew this was it. If she let him walk away now, she would never say it. "Jamal, wait. Can we talk? For five minutes?"

He looked over his shoulder, checking his watch. "I’m supposed to meet her for dinner in twenty minutes, she’s already a bit—"

"Five minutes," Mi interrupted, her voice trembling. "Please. For the sake of everything we used to be."

He sighed and stepped inside, closing the door. He didn't sit down. He stood in the middle of her living room, looking like a stranger in a place he used to call his second home.

"I’m not going to make this long," Mi started, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I know why we haven't been hanging out. I know she doesn't like me. And I’ve spent months being depressed, trying to figure out how to be just your friend while you drifted away."

"Mi, it’s not like that, I just—"

"It is like that. But the reason it hurts so much isn't just because I lost my best friend." She took a deep breath, the air burning her lungs. "It’s because I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen. I never told you because I didn't want to lose what we had. But I’ve lost it anyway. So, there it is. I love you, Jamal. More than a friend. Always have."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jamal’s jaw dropped slightly. He looked completely caught off guard, his brain seemingly unable to process the confession. He searched her face, looking for a sign that she was joking, but all he found was raw, painful honesty.

"Mi..." he started, his voice cracking. "I... I didn't... I had no idea."

"I know you didn't," she whispered, tears finally blurring her vision. "And that’s okay. I just needed to say it so I can try to get over you. You should probably go to your dinner now."

Jamal looked lost. He reached out a hand as if to touch her shoulder, then pulled it back. He looked at the door, then back at her, his expression a chaotic mix of shock, confusion, and a sudden, sharp sadness.

"I have to go," he blurted out, sounding choked. He didn't wait for a response. He turned and practically ran out of the apartment.

Mi collapsed onto her sofa and sobbed. It was over. She had burned the bridge.

---

Four days passed. Mi stayed in bed for most of them, ignoring her phone. She assumed Jamal was disgusted, or awkward, or simply done with her.

She didn't know that Jamal had gone home that night and sat in the dark for six hours. He didn't go to dinner. He didn't answer his girlfriend’s increasingly angry calls. Instead, he thought. He remembered the way Mi used to lean her head on his shoulder when they were tired. He remembered the way she was the only person who knew exactly how he liked his tea, or how she could tell he was nervous before a big match just by the way he tapped his fingers.

He realized that his girlfriend hadn't just been jealous of a friend; she had been jealous of the person who held his heart without him even realizing it. The realization hit him like a physical blow. He broke up with her the next morning. It was messy, and she screamed, but all he could think about was Mi’s face when she told him she loved him.

On the fifth day, there was a knock at Mi’s door. It wasn't the polite knock of a stranger or the rhythmic beat of Michael Olise. It was frantic.

Mi opened the door, wearing an oversized, faded grey t-shirt that hung off her petite frame. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes were puffy.

She didn't even have time to say hello.

Jamal was there, looking disheveled in a tracksuit, his chest heaving as if he’d run all the way to her building. The second the door was wide enough, he stepped into her space. He didn't say a word. He simply cupped her face with both hands and crashed his lips against hers.

Mi gasped, her back hitting the hallway wall. It was a long, slow kiss, born of years of suppressed tension. At first, it was awkward—their teeth clinked as they struggled to find a rhythm—but then Jamal’s desperation took over. He groaned into her mouth, his tongue seeking hers with a hunger that made her knees weak.

He moved his hands from her face, sliding them down her neck to her back, pulling her flush against him. He started moving his body against hers, his hands gripping the soft fabric of her shirt, feeling the curves he had ignored for far too long.

Mi’s head was spinning. She pulled her mouth away just an inch, gasping for air. "Jamal, wait—what are you—"

He didn't let her finish. The sight of her flushed face and the pulse jumping in her neck was too much. He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, his lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck. He began to kiss and suck at the junction where her neck met her shoulder, his stubble grazing her skin.

Mi let out a shaky breath, her fingers tangling in his curls. She wasn't wearing anything under the loose shirt, and she could feel the heat of his body through the thin cotton. Every time his lips moved against her skin, a jolt of electricity shot through her.

"Jamal," she whimpered, half-protest and half-encouragement.

He finally pulled back, though he kept his arms locked around her waist, refusing to let her go. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on her.

"Sit," he commanded softly, guiding her toward the sofa.

They sat down, Mi tucked into the corner and Jamal hovering close, his knees brushing hers. The silence now wasn't heavy; it was charged.

Mi rubbed her neck where it felt tingly and warm. "You broke up with her?"

"The same night you told me," Jamal said, his voice sounding deeper than usual. "I’ve been a fool, Mi. A complete idiot. I spent four days thinking about every second we’ve spent together since we were kids. I realized that every time I looked for happiness, I was looking at you. I just didn't have a name for it until you said it."

He reached out, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together. He looked at her lips, then back at her eyes, a sheepish but determined smile tugging at his mouth.

"I’m just making up for lost time," he whispered, leaning in again. "All the time I should’ve been kissing you and wasn't."

Mi felt the heat rush to her cheeks, her heart finally finding a steady, joyful beat. "That’s a lot of time to make up for, Musiala."

"Good," he murmured, closing the gap between them again. "I’m not planning on going anywhere."