"Fleur!"

The hammering at María's door is increasingly insistent.

I know who it is, and I know that she'd have been allowed inside by now if María and Carlos had been in.

I have sort of had an... episode.

Ever since Alexia brought me back to a worried María, I have stayed in the house and not left. It's not that I don't want to – I just cannot bring myself to gather the energy and move my legs that far. The club is forcing me into sessions with their psychologist after my failure to attend training in the build up to the game against Atleti, but I am yet to reply to their email. I am sure that they are mildly satisfied with the confirmation that I'm alive, courtesy of María. The game is tomorrow, and the club's admin has announced that I am 'unavailable' to play. My teammates may be worried, but I can't find it in me to care.

Only three people have visited me in my little cave of security. I do not know if any others have tried and been turned away at the door. I haven't managed to get up and face anyone yet, despite María's ever-present nagging.

Ingrid spent the entire time with Oli in her lap, updating me on the happenings of the club, regaling me with stories from training that I zoned out of the moment she opened her mouth. It was nice to talk in fast English, and not the mix of Spanish and English I use with María and Carlos. She asked me how I was doing, and what she could do to help. Ingrid is an empathetic person, but her sympathy was not something I wanted. I told her that I couldn't describe it in English, which she understood. It was the same excuse I used when pestered about seeing the psychologist regularly – claiming that they would need to get a Dutch person in so I could express myself fully, knowing that they would never be able to do that. In truth, I wouldn't be able to tell anyone how I am feeling in any language I can speak. Dutch, English, German.

There aren't words to convey just how much of a blackhole my mind has become.

I'd honestly be fine if my limbs hadn't stopped responding to the messages my brain was sending them (or was it the other way around?). At least the gaping hole in my chest tells me that there was something there to begin with. I haven't decided whether it is all to do with Scarlett yet, or if it is just a build up of ignored depressive episodes that could have been but were fought off at the last second.

"Fleur!"

Pretending that I still can't hear her, I hunch over on the sofa, mindlessly watching the fourth season of Friends for the hundredth time. Scarlett used to mouth the words or act out scenes she was particularly knowledgeable about. It was funny.

Alexia came round yesterday. It was the ultimate betrayal on María's part, especially when the evil blonde played the captain card and forced me to 1-v-1 her in María's driveway. I let Alexia win, barely kicking the ball. I think she was taken aback.

Alexia didn't really speak to me, apart from when she left and said she'd be back in two days if I hadn't yet emerged from my hole and resumed living my life. Her voice was disgustingly tender, almost as if her stern words were coming from a place deeper than the obligation that comes with the captain's armband, but it didn't do anything. I have promised myself that when I get my energy back, the first thing I will do is sit down with Mapi and talk shit about Alexia Putellas until my tongue is sliced to bits by my teeth.

Because I still hate her, even if she is trying to fix me just as hard as everybody else is.

My third visitor did not expect to walk in on me, Ballon d'Or runner-up Fleur de Voss, wrapped in a blanket, lying face down on the living room floor. I suppose María had neglected to mention my current state to her when she was invited to talk to me.

She was of average height and had her hair scraped back into a high ponytail. Her skin was sun-kissed, and she seemed very nervous. "I am Talia Segura," she had said, heavily accented words punctuated with the kind of confidence a player who is named a 'rising star' has. She was startled when I moved my head up to get a better look at her. "I am new?"

"Is that a question?" I asked her, eyebrows raised. She flushed with embarrassment, cheeks turning pink underneath her freckles. "You look like you are fifteen."

"I have twenty."

I squinted, attempting to place where I had seen her before. She was obviously Spanish, but definitely did not come from a team at the top of the table. At last, I recognised her face as though someone had altered another slightly and slapped it on top of hers. Though her hair was brown, not blonde, and her eyes were a dark, stormy blue, she reminded me of the woman I absolutely despise. Even in my emptiness, a shred of me still managed to spark alight at the thought of that woman. "Has anybody ever told you that you look like Alexia Putellas?" She seemed to store that information in her mind.

In spite of our icy introduction, we had a lovely conversation about Barcelona, and how she prefers Real Madrid. I almost felt shocked when she told me, but it enabled me to fully discuss Ajax for the first time with a member of the team, even if it was a twenty-year-old on loan from Sevilla for the last month of the season. I had not noticed her at a game before, I decided later on, but that was through my own fault, as a flicker of motivation had me reading an article about Sevilla's young star striker.

The knocking has evolved from a fist to a flat palm, slamming on the wood with a unique ferocity that only a tennis player with underlying anger issues could possess.

"Flootz, if you do not open this door right now, I will kill you!"

I sigh and look at Oli. "We don't want Jaimie to do that, do we?" He blinks back at me, yawning. Sometimes I wish we could trade places, and he had to try to convince himself to carry on with his life instead of me. Being a cat would be far less complicated.

Trudging through the mess of blankets and cushions my daily floor time has created, I get to the door before it is knocked off its hinges. Opening it causes a wash of light to ambush me, the bright sun making me shield my eyes with my hands. Jaimie pushes my hand away from my face so she can wrap me in a tight hug, and, though it would be the perfect moment to weep in her arms, I don't.

"You came early," I mumble, knowing that my sister likes to stick to every agreed time possible. "You're supposed to arrive in May."

"I cut my time with my girlfriend short," Jaimie answers, sounding annoyed with me. I lead her to the living room, where she, like Ingrid, immediately scoops Oli up into her arms. He purrs loudly. Everybody loves Jaimie.

"I'm fine."

She laughs. "In England, they think you have done your ACL because your disappearance is just fucking strange. You're usually all over Barça's Instagram. You and Alexia." She mentions her to provoke me, as told by her smirk. When her name doesn't start a spew of insults from me, Jaimie leans in closer, now seriously concerned. She looks as though she is going to shine a light into my eyes and assess how responsive I am. "I've known that you have been ignoring me for a while, but I was preoccupied with my," she gestures in the air with her hands, "and being selfish. I should have never let you get to this point, and I am here to fix it. You need to tell me what's wrong, otherwise I cannot do anything to help you."

I want to tell her that I don't need her help. Realistically, I am fine. Yes, I can't eat and am woken up every night by dreams that get creepy and weird very quickly, but I can handle that. I just need time.

"Fleur," she tries again, growing more frustrated by my silence than if I were to change the topic. She has never seen me so resigned. Avoiding something I should be feeling is a common state of mind for me, but this is new. "It's my job to look after you."

"You're not my mother," I remind her bitingly, though I know it will hurt her. She sees herself as a surrogate for when Mum moved as far away from us as she could get; a replacement for a woman I'm not convinced actually cares a lot about me. My parents definitely have favourites, and they both picked Jaimie. An example of their common miscommunication, perhaps. "I don't feel sad."

Jaimie takes in the bags under my eyes and the mess of my hair; the droop in my typically perfect posture. She seems to see straight through the cavity in my chest, noticing how it is lined with lead. It is a wonder it hasn't collapsed in on itself and taken me with it.

My face is unwashed, my teeth unbrushed. I look terrible, and the examination of her sharp, blue eyes peels back a layer of me that no one has ever thought to remove. It is like she has stripped me of a comforting layer of grime, and I have never felt so impossibly seen.

"You're not feeling anything at all, are you?" Her tone is full of pity. I squirm as though her words have rubbed my skin raw. She clicks her tongue. "Dit is niet goed."

"Ja."

Jaimie bites down on her lip, stroking Oli's head as though he is a magic lamp with a genie inside. She reaches out a tentative hand and draws back.

I hear the slap before I register the stinging of my cheek.

I stand up, enraged, wanting to shout at her. The words die on my tongue before I can spit them out. I realise it's not worth the effort.

"Did you feel anything?" she asks calmly, looking proud of herself for at least getting me to jerk upright. In all fairness, that is the most passionate I've been in a while. "Or do you need another one? In fact, we can keep on going until you laugh or cry or scream. Just not this awkward vow of silence you seem to have taken. I miss your stupid emotions, regardless of what time you wake me up to offload them to me."

Looking down at her now, I can see how much she has changed. Even with the concern brimming in her astute eyes, she has the remnants of a love-sick gaze that I refuse to imagine being directed at Leah Williamson, even if that is who it's for. She looks healthier, despite her injury. Jaimie is happier than she has been in a while.

I suddenly feel guilty for ruining her time in London.

"Well, Flootz?"

She has persuaded me.

It all comes crashing in at once; I have a lot of emotions to feel. Tears prick my eyes and laughter bubbles in my throat. Hatred and love and anger and confusion all expand within me, blossoming from my heart like some deadly rose. Thorns prod my fingertips and petals brush my toes, and I don't have the capacity to process everything at the same time.

If I am to fall, Jaimie is there to catch me, but I do not seem to lurch or lean. I stay standing up, barely able to breathe as Oli peers at my frozen face, wondering why on earth I am pulling such a pained expression when I haven't been physically hurt.

Jaimie rises, Oli's seat vanishing. Her hands clamp down on my shoulders, but I do not need her to steady me. I am as rigid as a metal rod. My sister can feel this, and shakes me instead. It is probably to snap me out of whatever she shocked me into in the first place.

But I am stuck, feet cemented in place in the same way my mind is. Replaying the same three images over and over and over.

Scarlett's lifeless face.

Alexia, just after we had kissed.

The ring that sits in the pocket of my sweatpants.

Scarlett's lifeless face. Alexia, just after we had kissed. The ring that sits in the pocket of my sweatpants.

Scarlett. Alexia. The ring.

The past, the present, and what should have been the future.

"I would have said yes to her." The words must have tumbled out incoherently, because Jaimie pauses her persistent shaking. "Jaimie. I would have married Scarlett."

The realisation dawns on me in such a cruel fashion. The control of my future was snatched out of my hands, and I didn't even know. Maybe that is why I have shut down. There is no future if I stay in one room. There is no Ballon d'Or and World Cup medal, and there is certainly not a smiling blonde whose smile has never actually been directed at me.

I feel sick to my stomach. "I would have married her, and had a family with her, and we would have grown old together."

"Scarlett is dead; she is not coming back," Jaimie tells me gently, guiding me to sit down. I fucking know my girlfriend is dead. Ex-girlfriend. Possible fiancée. "And what you are doing is, quite frankly, shameful."

Pausing my downward spiral, I turn to her, confused. "Mourning my ex?"

"No," she states, "using her as an excuse to pretend your feelings for Alexia Putellas do not exist. She did not die for you to sit in the living room of your Spanish pseudo-parent's house, pitying yourself for being so troubled. Face it – if she were alive right now, you'd probably have slept with her once more and regretted it straight away. Proposing is a question for a reason, no matter how nominal the act itself may seem. You were never asked, so stop answering."

I am spoiled for choice for what to protest about.

I go for the obvious; "I am aware that I hate Alexia Putellas."

Jaimie exhales, glowing red-hot with anger. "Do not make me slap you again, Fleur de Voss." I shuffle away from her, just in case. She claps her hands together, an idea sprouting in her self-proclaimed 'genius' mind. "We're getting drunk tonight."

notes:

i missed fleur.

i'm still catching up the jaimie and leah fic but i felt like i was letting u all starve and i can't have that

be mindful of talia segura, she's important

jaimie has been staying at leah's place since march because she's injured and can do her recovery anywhere (stay away begins in 2022, and this fic is set in 2023 if you are getting confused between the timelines)

i'm also surprised at how stubborn fleur is being about alexia (i mean, we're fifteen chapters in and it is ROUGH)

when talia says 'i have twenty', that is a direct translation from the spanish way of saying how old you are, which would be 'tengo veinte (años)'. in spanish, they say 'i have', not 'i am'. (woohoo, spanish lessons!)

thanks for reading babes!!