• •
  The roar of ninety thousand fans never really reached me anymore.

By the time the referee blew the opening whistle, I’d already taken hundreds of photos—players warming up, coaches pacing the touchline, supporters draped in scarves that looked like rivers of red and blue. Through the lens, everything felt quieter. Simpler. It was just timing, focus, and waiting for the one moment everyone else would miss.

You crouched beside the advertising boards, camera pressed against your face, finger resting lightly on the shutter.

Barcelona were pushing forward again.

The stadium held its breath.

A perfectly weighted pass split the defence. The youngest player, Lamine Yamal, on the pitch sprinted onto it, took one touch, then buried the ball into the bottom corner.

The stadium erupted.

Your camera fired in a rapid burst as his teammates swarmed him, capturing every second of the celebration.

Then, instead of running toward the corner flag, he broke away from the crowd.

Straight toward you.

You barely had time to lower my camera before he stopped a few feet away, grinning like he’d just won the world. He pointed toward the lens, held your gaze for the briefest second…

…and winked.*

The shutter clicked one last time.