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seulgisqt · 11 days ago

Text

𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐓 — aitana bonmatí

aitana bonmatí x ex!psg!reader

(a/n: would like to begin this by saying you’re only a psg player for plot purposes don’t worry darlings x. also I don't know what this concept it, I had fun writing it, and hopefully I do it some justice)

word count: 2210

genre: angst (but soft?)

summary: in the aftermath of a breakup, you and aitana only speak through unsent voice memos, until a single message breaks the silence.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 17, 20:14 — Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, Parking Lot

“Hola. I don’t know why I’m recording this, I’ve recorded this like four times.”

“You’ll never hear it. But, I just left training and the weather reminded me of that January match in Bilbao–remember?”

“You were freezing and you wouldn’t stop complaining about your ears. I gave you my scarf and you refused, said it smelled like effort.” Aitana let out a soft laugh.

“You always said stupid things like that. I think I miss your stupid things more than I should.”

Silence

“I saw your goal against Lyon. Top bins. You still shoot like you have something to prove.”

You — Paris, Apartment Kitchen

October 18, 07:03

The kettle whistles. You don’t move until the noise reaches that sharp, shrill pitch, staring at the steam curling up from your mug like it might spell something out. You’re exhausted and your bones feel it first.

You scroll through your camera roll while you water for the water to cool.

You probably shouldn’t–but you do.

Barcelona. Ciutat Esportiva. Rooftops

Aitana, asleep with a book over her chest on a hotel bed.

Aitana in your hoodie, biting into a peach, capturing her moody face as she hated the new highlights in her hair.

So you tap the record button.

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 18, 07:11

“I had a dream about you last night. I woke up before I could remember how it ended, but…we were at the MNAC. Just sitting on the stairs. You had your foot over mine like you always did when you wanted to be close without admitting it.”

You wait for a beat, debating whether you should continue or not.

“I know it’s silly.”

“I still look for your name in every Barça lineup. I tell myself I just want to see how the midfield is doing but–Aitana, I lie to myself more than I lied to you. And I know I did that enough.”

Letting out a sigh, you paused for a couple of seconds.

“I don’t deserve to send this. But I wish I could.”

Aitana — Her Bedroom

October 18, 23:52

As the night settles over Barcelona, a peculiar stillness envelops the city. The warm, orange glow of the streetlamps filters through the thin fabric of Aitana's curtains, casting flickering shadows across her room. The only interruptions to the tranquillity come from the distant hum of a moped zipping along the cobblestone streets below. It was quiet, unlike her.

Aitana finds herself sprawled on her back, her headphones comfortably resting over her ears, as she gazes up at the plaster ceiling. She’s listened to the same Bon Iver track four times in a row.

She finds herself opening the Voice Memos app and tapping the folder Untitled

She presses record.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 18, 23:53

“Why did we stop talking?”

She inhaled sharply.

“I know why. I know you had to go. PSG offered you more. More minutes, more money. I just–”

The microphone picked up the faint shuffle of sheets as Aitana rolled onto her front, propping herself up on her elbows.

“I thought you’d fight harder to stay. Or at least…say goodbye properly. You left me at the airport with a half-hug and a press photo. You wore the Paris kit like you hadn’t already broken something.”

“I’ve been angry. God, I’ve been angry for months now.” she huffed in disbelief. “And I’ve been pretending not to be. But sometimes I still look up how many minutes you played. I still see your face in my head when we walk out of the tunnel.”

Zaragoza, June 2024 — Last Matchday

“You’re really leaving?” Aitana’s words echoed through the dimly lit locker room, carrying a weight that lingered in the air—more assertion than inquiry.

Her voice trembled slightly, an emotional crack revealing the turmoil beneath. The faint sound of running showers persisted in the background, a reminder of the teammates who still lingered in the hallways. You turned to face Aitana, your travel bag clutched tightly in your hand, its zipper glinting in the fluorescent glow.

“I have to,” you replied, like that meant anything.

“You don’t have to,” Aitana insisted, taking a tentative step closer, her gaze intense and pleading. But then she hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. “You want to.”

“It’s not about wanting to leave. I want to win, and I want–” You paused, searching for the right words.

“You’ve won here!” Aitana interjected, her eyebrows knitting together in frustration as your back remained turned to her.

“I barely played this season, Aita.” The note of desperation in your voice was unmistakable. “I want to play. I want to have a life beyond this.”

“You had one here,” she countered, a hint of disbelief lacing her tone.

You shook your head, the weight of your decision pressing down. “No. I had you here. And maybe that’s why I can’t stay.”

Aitana — Ciutat Esportiva, After Training

October 20, 17:58

She finds herself staring at pitch three. You had twisted your ankle there once during rondos. Aitana had piggybacked you to the locker room because you refused a stretcher.

You hated looking weak in front of the others. But not in front of Aitana. Never in front of her.

Today the pitch is quiet.

Aitana takes out her phone.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 20, 18:03 — Pitch Three

“You once told me you loved me more when I was angry.” A small smile appeared on her face at the memory

“Because it meant I still cared. If that’s true, you must’ve known how much I loved you when I screamed at you that night.”

The heat in Aitana’s cheeks rose as the wind brush passed.

“I would’ve waited. If you’d asked. If you’d said something–anything–other than, ‘Don’t make this harder.’ You made it impossible.”

She stood still, her eyes focusing on the pitch.

“Sometimes I hate you for walking away.” the brunette started matter-of-factly. “But most of the time I hate myself for not running after you.”

You — Parc des Princes, Pre-match

October 21, 16:52

You hummed under your breath, a song you couldn’t really pinpoint but it had been spinning in your head for days now. One ear is listening to the chatter of your teammates behind you, the other listens to the crowd, the announcer, and the buildup.

You’re starting tonight. No nerves. Just your heartbeat and the echo of a voice that hasn’t spoken to you in fifteen months but lives in your skull anyway.

Aitana used to say, “You light up under pressure.” What you never told her was that most of the pressure had come from knowing that she was watching.

As the final whistle blew, marking a 2-0 win, you and your teammates lingered on the pitch, relishing the moment as you strolled around to connect with the sea of fans. Your eyes swept over the crowd in a whirlwind of colour and exuberance, a swirling sea of jerseys and flags. In a moment of wishful thinking, you found yourself searching desperately for those brown eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse among the throngs of chanting supporters, hoping that somewhere in the chaos, her presence might still be felt.

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 21, 20:27 — Locker Room

“I wish you could’ve seen that pass. The one to Katoto. It looked like something you would’ve done. Maybe that’s why I risked it.” You chuckled softly.

“Everyone keeps asking if I’m happy in Paris. And I am. It’s a beautiful city. I get to play.”

“But sometimes I wake up and for five seconds I think I’m still in Barcelona. I think I’ll see your toothbrush next to mine. I think you’ll be there with your silent mornings and your coffee that’s always too bitter.”

“Sometimes I think I should just move on, Aitana, sometimes I just want to go back. But we’re both too proud to break this silence, aren’t we?”

Aitana — Bus Ride to an Away Match

October 25, 11:37

The sky outside is a muted blue, the kind that reminds her of winter mornings in Paris. She hasn’t been since you broke up back in Barcelona. She’s declined two sponsorship shoots in France, citing scheduling conflicts. The truth was, she didn’t trust herself.

She scrolls through Spotify, finding the playlist you made for her last spring. It still has her name in the title. “Ai <3”

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 25, 11:39

“You were the first person who really saw me. Not Aitana the footballer. Not the midfield engine. Just…Aitana. And you knew exactly how to love me when I didn’t know how to be loved.”

“I don’t think I’ve let anyone close since. Everyone feels like a draft I keep rewriting.” She watched the Spanish countryside run past her.

“If I sent this, what would you do? Would you answer? Would you come back?”

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 27, 01:27 — Paris

“Mum called, she knows, but she still asks about you–I just say you’re fine.” You looked out the Paris skyline, your fingernail dragging against the window as you traced the Eiffel Tower, twinkling in the night.

“You don’t call, so I tell myself it’s over. I remind myself that you’re probably in someone else’s arms by now. But then I see your face in post-match interviews, and your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. And I wonder…”

You let out a shaky exhale.

“I wonder if you’re just as lost as me.”

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 27, 01:32 — Hotel Room

“I love you. Still. More quietly now. More painfully. But I love you.”

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent, Incomplete)

October 27, 05:59 — Apartment Balcony

“I never stopped.”

The sky over Barcelona is draped in a heavy blanket of grey clouds, casting a muted light that filters through Aitana’s window in delicate beams, fragmented like memory, never full, always splintered. The room is still, a silence enveloping her as she lies in bed.

Aitana is already awake, lost in her thoughts, when her phone vibrates softly on the nightstand, cutting through the quiet.

One new message

From You

In that fleeting moment, her heart doesn’t race; it halts entirely. The air in her room thickens, and even the bustling city outside seems to pause, holding its breath in unison with her. Aitana's gaze locks onto the screen, almost as if it might dissolve into nothingness. Like if she blinks too hard, she’ll lose it again. But the notification holds steady.

Just below the name, a notification beckons:

Audio Message — 3:02

She feels a tension in the air and hesitates, the seconds stretching into eternity. One second. Then two. The weight of the moment presses on her, but finally, she gathers her courage and presses play.

You — Voice Memo (Recorded at 08:32, Sent at 10:52)

“I almost sent this a hundred times. I always deleted it. I kept thinking–maybe it’s too late. Maybe you don't want to hear from me. Maybe you’ve moved on. But then I saw your story. That stupid coffee photo with lyrics like always. And I saw the caption. I saw it.”

“Encara penso en tu.”

“I don't know if I have the right to answer that, Aitana. But if there’s even a chance…if you still mean it, then I need you to hear me say it. I miss you. I miss us. And I’ve been scared, of trying again, failing again. But I'm more scared of never getting the chance.”

“So, this is me, finally not running. You don’t have to reply. Just–know that if you ever feel like coming back, I’m here. I’m still yours, if you want me.”

Aitana covers her mouth with her hand. The edges of her eyes sting. She replays the last two sentences three times.

Her fingers shake slightly as she switches to her voice memos. She’s never recorded one after hearing your voice. Never with the possibility of being heard.

This time, she steadies herself and hits record.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Sent)

October 27, 10:57

“I listened. Four times. You sound the same. Except softer. Sadder.” Aitana inhales deeply, trying to stop the lump in her throat from cracking.

“I was angry for so long. But not just at you–at myself. For not saying what I needed to say when it mattered. For thinking you’d wait. For pretending I was okay.”

“I think about you constantly. In every pass I make. Every goal I celebrate. I wonder if you’d tease me the way you used to. I wonder if you’d be proud. I think the worst part is, I never stopped writing you into my life–even after you left.”

The brunette let out a quiet exhale, a part of her hoping that you wouldn’t reply.

“I don’t know what we are now. But I know I still love you. I know I want to see you. I know I want to stop hiding behind unsent words.”

“If you’re still mine. I want to come back.”

She hits send before she can change her mind.

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seulgisqt · 11 days ago

Text

𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐓 — aitana bonmatí

aitana bonmatí x ex!psg!reader

word count: 2210

genre: angst (but soft?)

summary: in the aftermath of a breakup, you and aitana only speak through unsent voice memos, until a single message breaks the silence.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 17, 20:14 — Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, Parking Lot

“Hola. I don’t know why I’m recording this, I’ve recorded this like four times.”

“You’ll never hear it. But, I just left training and the weather reminded me of that January match in Bilbao–remember?”

“You were freezing and you wouldn’t stop complaining about your ears. I gave you my scarf and you refused, said it smelled like effort.” Aitana let out a soft laugh.

“You always said stupid things like that. I think I miss your stupid things more than I should.”

Silence

“I saw your goal against Lyon. Top bins. You still shoot like you have something to prove.”

You — Paris, Apartment Kitchen

October 18, 07:03

You scroll through your camera roll while you water for the water to cool.

You probably shouldn’t–but you do.

Barcelona. Ciutat Esportiva. Rooftops

Aitana, asleep with a book over her chest on a hotel bed.

Aitana in your hoodie, biting into a peach, capturing her moody face as she hated the new highlights in her hair.

So you tap the record button.

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 18, 07:11

You wait for a beat, debating whether you should continue or not.

“I know it’s silly.”

Letting out a sigh, you paused for a couple of seconds.

“I don’t deserve to send this. But I wish I could.”

Aitana — Her Bedroom

October 18, 23:52

Aitana finds herself sprawled on her back, her headphones comfortably resting over her ears, as she gazes up at the plaster ceiling. She’s listened to the same Bon Iver track four times in a row.

She finds herself opening the Voice Memos app and tapping the folder Untitled

She presses record.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 18, 23:53

“Why did we stop talking?”

She inhaled sharply.

“I know why. I know you had to go. PSG offered you more. More minutes, more money. I just–”

The microphone picked up the faint shuffle of sheets as Aitana rolled onto her front, propping herself up on her elbows.

Zaragoza, June 2024 — Last Matchday

“You’re really leaving?” Aitana’s words echoed through the dimly lit locker room, carrying a weight that lingered in the air—more assertion than inquiry.

“I have to,” you replied, like that meant anything.

“You don’t have to,” Aitana insisted, taking a tentative step closer, her gaze intense and pleading. But then she hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. “You want to.”

“It’s not about wanting to leave. I want to win, and I want–” You paused, searching for the right words.

“You’ve won here!” Aitana interjected, her eyebrows knitting together in frustration as your back remained turned to her.

“I barely played this season, Aita.” The note of desperation in your voice was unmistakable. “I want to play. I want to have a life beyond this.”

“You had one here,” she countered, a hint of disbelief lacing her tone.

You shook your head, the weight of your decision pressing down. “No. I had you here. And maybe that’s why I can’t stay.”

Aitana — Ciutat Esportiva, After Training

October 20, 17:58

She finds herself staring at pitch three. You had twisted your ankle there once during rondos. Aitana had piggybacked you to the locker room because you refused a stretcher.

You hated looking weak in front of the others. But not in front of Aitana. Never in front of her.

Today the pitch is quiet.

Aitana takes out her phone.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 20, 18:03 — Pitch Three

“You once told me you loved me more when I was angry.” A small smile appeared on her face at the memory

“Because it meant I still cared. If that’s true, you must’ve known how much I loved you when I screamed at you that night.”

The heat in Aitana’s cheeks rose as the wind brush passed.

“I would’ve waited. If you’d asked. If you’d said something–anything–other than, ‘Don’t make this harder.’ You made it impossible.”

She stood still, her eyes focusing on the pitch.

“Sometimes I hate you for walking away.” the brunette started matter-of-factly. “But most of the time I hate myself for not running after you.”

You — Parc des Princes, Pre-match

October 21, 16:52

You’re starting tonight. No nerves. Just your heartbeat and the echo of a voice that hasn’t spoken to you in fifteen months but lives in your skull anyway.

Aitana used to say, “You light up under pressure.” What you never told her was that most of the pressure had come from knowing that she was watching.

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 21, 20:27 — Locker Room

“I wish you could’ve seen that pass. The one to Katoto. It looked like something you would’ve done. Maybe that’s why I risked it.” You chuckled softly.

“Everyone keeps asking if I’m happy in Paris. And I am. It’s a beautiful city. I get to play.”

“Sometimes I think I should just move on, Aitana, sometimes I just want to go back. But we’re both too proud to break this silence, aren’t we?”

Aitana — Bus Ride to an Away Match

October 25, 11:37

She scrolls through Spotify, finding the playlist you made for her last spring. It still has her name in the title. “Ai <3”

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 25, 11:39

“You were the first person who really saw me. Not Aitana the footballer. Not the midfield engine. Just…Aitana. And you knew exactly how to love me when I didn’t know how to be loved.”

“I don’t think I’ve let anyone close since. Everyone feels like a draft I keep rewriting.” She watched the Spanish countryside run past her.

“If I sent this, what would you do? Would you answer? Would you come back?”

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 27, 01:27 — Paris

You let out a shaky exhale.

“I wonder if you’re just as lost as me.”

Aitana — Voice Memo (Not Sent)

October 27, 01:32 — Hotel Room

“I love you. Still. More quietly now. More painfully. But I love you.”

You — Voice Memo (Not Sent, Incomplete)

October 27, 05:59 — Apartment Balcony

“I never stopped.”

Aitana is already awake, lost in her thoughts, when her phone vibrates softly on the nightstand, cutting through the quiet.

One new message

From You

Just below the name, a notification beckons:

Audio Message — 3:02

You — Voice Memo (Recorded at 08:32, Sent at 10:52)

“Encara penso en tu.”

“So, this is me, finally not running. You don’t have to reply. Just–know that if you ever feel like coming back, I’m here. I’m still yours, if you want me.”

Aitana covers her mouth with her hand. The edges of her eyes sting. She replays the last two sentences three times.

Her fingers shake slightly as she switches to her voice memos. She’s never recorded one after hearing your voice. Never with the possibility of being heard.

This time, she steadies herself and hits record.

Aitana — Voice Memo (Sent)

October 27, 10:57

“I listened. Four times. You sound the same. Except softer. Sadder.” Aitana inhales deeply, trying to stop the lump in her throat from cracking.

“I was angry for so long. But not just at you–at myself. For not saying what I needed to say when it mattered. For thinking you’d wait. For pretending I was okay.”

The brunette let out a quiet exhale, a part of her hoping that you wouldn’t reply.

“I don’t know what we are now. But I know I still love you. I know I want to see you. I know I want to stop hiding behind unsent words.”

“If you’re still mine. I want to come back.”

She hits send before she can change her mind.

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