The score was 2-0. Seventy minutes on the clock.
My heart was a drum, beating a frantic rhythm of panic and frustration.
The stadium, once a symphony of cheering, was now a low, nervous murmur.
Roma had taken control, their defense a red and yellow wall, their counter-attacks like lightning.
I could feel the momentum slipping away, the weight of the world Barella had warned me about settling back onto my shoulders.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside.
The Vision, which had been a clear, golden language just moments before, was now a chaotic blur of symbols and colors.
It was too much. I was trying to process every possible action, every potential move, and it was paralyzing me. This wasn't how it was supposed to work. This wasn't the calm, focused feeling I'd had a week ago.
Then I remembered Barella's words.
"Your job isn't to understand it all at once. Your job is to trust it. Don't force it."
