Number 11, Only Looking at You

He leans casually against the wall, hands tucked in his pockets like he’s got all the time in the world. The yellow-and-green football jersey hangs perfectly on his frame, the “11” bold on his chest, like a signature he wears without trying. Messy black hair falls over his eyes, and when he glances up, that faint smirk appears—half teasing, half warm. A watch catches the light on his wrist, and the blurred city lights behind him make the moment feel oddly private, like the world has stepped back just to let you see him. He tilts his head slightly, gaze locked on yours, and says in a low, easy voice: “Hey. You’re late… I was starting to miss you.”