Love

The flashing lights of the stage were a world away from the manicured grass of the Allianz Arena, but for Mi, both felt like home. As she stood center stage, her curly brown hair bouncing with every beat of the drum, she felt the familiar rush of adrenaline. To her right, Leo, the band’s lead guitarist, leaned in, their shoulders brushing as they shared a microphone for the chorus.

To the fans, it was the ultimate "ship." The internet was flooded with edits of their "accidental" touches and the way Leo looked at her during rehearsals. So, when a grainy paparazzi photo surfaced of Mi holding hands with Jamal Musiala in a quiet corner of Munich, the internet nearly broke.

Jamal didn't mind the spotlight; he lived in it. He loved that his girlfriend was a rockstar. He’d sit in his car after training, blasting their latest single, feeling a swell of pride every time her raspy, melodic voice filled the speakers. But there was one thing he couldn't stand: Leo.

It wasn't just the fans' comments. It was the way Leo draped an arm around Mi’s neck after a show. It was the way he’d "accidentally" call her late at night to discuss a riff. It was the boundary-stepping that felt less like friendship and more like a slow-motion claim.

The tension reached a breaking point on a Tuesday night. Mi had invited Leo to join her in Jamal’s private box for a midweek home game. She thought it would be a nice gesture—a way to bridge her two worlds.

From the pitch, Jamal looked up during a break in play. He saw Mi, looking petite and radiant in an oversized Musiala jersey. But beside her was Leo, leaning in so close his head was practically resting on her shoulder, pointing at something on the field and laughing in her ear. Jamal’s jaw tightened. He misplaced a pass three minutes later, his mind anywhere but on the ball.

The drive home was silent. The air in their apartment felt heavy, thick with the kind of unspoken words that leave a bitter taste.

"You were quiet after the game," Mi said, kicking off her shoes. She looked up at him, her brown curls a mess from the wind. "Tough match?"

Jamal tossed his keys on the counter, the metal clattering loudly. "It was fine, Mi. Just hard to focus when your guitarist is basically sitting in your lap in the stands."

Mi froze. "What? Leo was just asking about the offside rule. He doesn't know much about football."

"He knows enough to know he shouldn't be breathing down your neck while I'm down there trying to do my job," Jamal snapped, his voice rising. He hated how petty he sounded, but the image of Leo’s hand hovering near her waist wouldn't leave his mind.

"He’s my best friend, Jamal! We’ve been in this band for years. You know how we are."

"I know how he is," Jamal countered, turning to face her. "He’s in love with you, Mi. Everyone sees it. The fans see it, I see it—the only one who doesn't see it is you. Or maybe you just like the attention."

The silence that followed was deafening. Mi’s eyes welled with tears, her expression shifting from confusion to deep hurt. "You think I’m using him for attention? After a year of us being together? You think I’m that person?"

"I didn't say that," Jamal groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. "I just... I'm tired of sharing you with someone who doesn't respect that you’re mine."

"I am not 'yours' like a trophy, Jamal," she whispered, her voice trembling. "And if you can't trust me after everything, then I don't know what we're doing. I need some time. I need to think."

She grabbed her jacket and left. Jamal didn't stop her. He stood in the middle of their living room, the silence of the apartment mocking him.

Three weeks passed.

Three weeks of Jamal staring at his phone, waiting for a text that never came. Three weeks of Mi sitting in a dimly lit studio, her guitar in her lap, pouring every ounce of her heartache into a notebook.

During those weeks, the breaking point finally came for the band. During a late-night rehearsal, Leo had finally crossed the line, cornering Mi in the breakroom and confessing that he’d been waiting for her and Jamal to fail. He’d tried to kiss her, and in that moment, the rose-tinted glasses shattered. Jamal had been right. The closeness wasn't friendship; it was an agenda.

Mi realized she couldn't go back. She couldn't stand on that stage and pretend the harmony was still there.

On a rainy Friday, a new song appeared on the band’s official page, titled 'Number 42'. It wasn't a rock anthem. It was a stripped-back acoustic ballad. The lyrics spoke of the way a certain someone crinkled their nose when they laughed, the way they looked in the morning light, and how the silence of an apartment was the loudest sound in the world. It was a love letter, plain and simple.

Along with the song came a statement: the band was disbanding. Mi cited "irreconcilable personal differences" and a need to find her own voice again.

Jamal was in the locker room when he heard the song. He sat on the bench, headphones on, tears stinging his eyes as he listened to Mi sing about the "little details" of him that she missed. He didn't care about the game anymore. He didn't care about the media. He just needed her.

He drove to her small studio apartment, the one she’d kept as a workspace. He didn't even knock; he used the spare key she’d never asked back.

Mi was sitting on the sofa, a mug of tea in her hands, looking smaller than ever. When she saw him, she didn't move, but her eyes softened.

"The song is beautiful," Jamal said, his voice thick with emotion. He stayed by the door, unsure of his welcome.

"I meant every word," she replied softly. "And you were right. About Leo. He told me. I ended the band, Jamal. I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't be around someone who didn't respect what I have with you."

Jamal crossed the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees in front of her. He took her hands in his, pressing his forehead against hers. "I'm so sorry. I was jealous and I was an idiot. I should have trusted you to handle it. I just... I hate the thought of losing you."

"You’re not losing me," she whispered, setting her tea down and reaching out to cup his face. "I've been miserable, Jamal. I missed you so much it physically hurt."

"I missed you more," he murmured, his eyes searching hers. "I love you, Mi. More than the game, more than anything."

"I love you too."

The tension that had held them apart for weeks snapped. Jamal stood up and sat on the sofa, pulling her onto his lap. Mi moved instinctively, straddling his legs and wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder.

When he pulled back to look at her, the air between them was electric. He leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was slow, eloquent, and desperate all at once. It was a conversation without words—an apology, a promise, and a homecoming.

Mi’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. Jamal’s hands gripped her waist, his thumbs tracing the skin beneath her shirt, anchoring her to him. They broke apart only when their lungs burned for air, foreheads still pressed together, their breathing synchronized.

"Don't leave again," Jamal panted, his eyes dark with affection.

Mi smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that reached her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere. I think I've had enough of the rockstar life for a while. I’d rather just be the girl in the stands."

Jamal grinned, pulling her back in for another kiss. "As long as you’re my girl in the stands."