The flight back to Milan was a quiet, somber affair.
The plane, a luxury bird that had carried us to a grand European stage, now felt like a metal coffin, a silent witness to our defeat. The score, 4-1 on the night and 8-5 on aggregate, was a brutal, heartbreaking reality. The dream was over. The beautiful, exhilarating fight was over.
I sat in my seat, my head against the cool window, watching the city lights of Barcelona disappear into a blur of color. The other players were quiet, their faces a mask of exhaustion and disappointment.
Some were listening to music, their eyes closed, lost in their own worlds. Others were staring into the middle distance, their minds a million miles away.
There was no finger-pointing, no angry words. Just a shared, quiet sense of loss.
But then, a small, quiet voice broke the silence. "Hey, Leo."
It was Julián Álvarez, his face a mix of tired sadness and a quiet resolve.
He was looking at me with a soft, understanding expression.
