CHAPTER 121: CHAPTER 121 THE ONE LEFT BEHIND

The apartment was finally his, but Thiago still hadn’t moved in. The boxes were stacked neatly against the wall, his contract signed, and the keys sat on the kitchen counter, glinting under the dim overhead light. The place smelled faintly of fresh paint and new wood, still untouched, still waiting. But for now, he remained in his temporary hotel—a small, rented space with mismatched furniture and a couch that sagged in the middle. Comfort wasn’t urgent tonight.

Tonight, something else held his attention.

Thiago sat cross-legged on the couch, a worn-out blanket draped over his knees, eyes locked onto the TV screen. The glow of the match cast flickering shadows across the living room walls, painting his face in streaks of blue and white. Santos vs. Palmeiras. A classic. A derby. The kind of game that made his pulse quicken just by hearing the crowd roar through the speakers.

His stomach twisted—not from nerves, but from something deeper. A cocktail of memory and ambition, of pride and longing.

The television showed a packed Vila Belmiro, the stands a sea of black and white for Santos, with pockets of green from the traveling Palmeiras supporters. The noise was deafening even through the screen—drums, chants, the occasional flare of fireworks. The camera panned to the players in their white away kits, his old club. Familiar names. Familiar faces.

"Nando..." Thiago murmured, leaning forward, elbows digging into his knees. The young winger jogged toward the sideline, adjusting his socks before taking up his usual position on the left flank.

That used to be his position.

And then there was Raphael—the captain—still commanding the midfield with that same steady presence. Short, barrel-chested, always barking orders, always the first to throw himself into a tackle. Just like back then. Thiago almost smiled.

These weren’t just names. They were the ones who had seen him grow.

He remembered the cramped bus rides with them, the meals from plastic containers after training, the muddy sessions under the relentless São Paulo rain. Raphael had once patched him up after a brutal tackle, wrapping his ankle with the precision of a medic while muttering, "You’re tougher than this, kid. Walk it off." He remembered the endless scuffles with Nando, fighting for the same spot on the left wing, pushing each other in training until their lungs burned.

Now they were out there. Playing under the lights. Still fighting.

He clenched his jaw and turned up the volume, letting the announcers’ voices fill the room.

The match kicked off with immediate intensity. Palmeiras pressed high from the first whistle, suffocating Santos in their own half. Raphael was everywhere—intercepting passes, spraying the ball wide with that same effortless precision. Nando hugged the touchline, darting in and out of space, his quick feet a blur. For a moment, Thiago felt like he was watching a family dinner from outside the window—close enough to see, but too far to join.

He was proud of them. But the ache in his chest whispered something else.

The ball switched sides, and with it came the shift. Santos, patient, began building from the back. Then it happened—Neymar dropped deep, received the ball with a deft first touch, turned, and carved through two defenders like they were statues.

Thiago exhaled through his nose.

The kid hadn’t changed.

At 17, just like Thiago, maybe even younger by a few months, Neymar moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. His balance was unreal—every feint, every step-over, every sudden change of direction looked effortless. The commentators erupted.

"Look at that flair! The balance! He’s always two steps ahead!"

"Another assist? It’s only a matter of time before Europe comes calling."

"Haha, Europe has already been making attempts! It’s the kid himself who doesn’t want to leave," the other chimed in.

Thiago didn’t flinch, but his thumb tapped a nervous rhythm against his knee. Every time Neymar touched the ball, it reminded him of the invisible weight he’d carried back in Brazil. Even though they’d never played for the same club, they’d been measured against each other. Neymar was the future. The golden boy. The one who made headlines every week.

Thiago was the one who left.

And tonight, even as he silently rooted for Palmeiras, even as Raphael intercepted a Santos pass and sprayed it wide, even as Nando whipped in a cross that just missed the striker’s head—Thiago couldn’t keep his eyes off Neymar.

Because deep down, he knew.

That kid was better right now.

He had the flair. The confidence. The instinct to attack space like he owned it.

A Santos counter led to a goal. Neymar wasn’t the scorer, but he was the architect. A dizzying one-two at the edge of the box, a dummy that sent a defender stumbling, then a final pass that split the center-backs like a knife. 1–0.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" the commentator gushed, his voice rising with excitement. "Did you see that? Neymar doesn’t even need to score to dominate a game! The way he pulled the defender in, sold him the dummy—it was like watching a magician at work!"

His co-commentator laughed in disbelief. "That’s not just skill, that’s vision! Most players would’ve taken the shot there, but Neymar? He knew exactly where his teammate was without even looking. That’s the difference between a good player and a special one."

The first commentator nodded emphatically. "And look at the weight on that pass—perfect. Not too hard, not too soft. Just enough to slice through both center-backs and leave the striker with an open invitation to finish. That’s not luck, that’s genius."

"At 17 years old!" the other added, shaking his head. "Most kids his age are still learning the game, but Neymar? He’s teaching it. If he keeps this up, Santos won’t be able to hold onto him for long—no matter how much he says he wants to stay."

"You’re right," the first agreed. "The big clubs are already circling. Barcelona, Real Madrid, Chelsea—they’re all watching. And after a pass like that? The offers are only going to get bigger."

A pause, then a chuckle. "Meanwhile, the Palmeiras defenders are probably still trying to figure out what just happened to them!"

Thiago clenched his jaw, fingers tightening around the remote. The praise was deserved—he knew that. But hearing it out loud, so effortless, so certain, made something hot coil in his chest.

"Damn," Thiago muttered under his breath. He leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Still, he didn’t hate it. How could he?

That goal... he understood it. The way Neymar saw the game, the way he manipulated space—it was something Thiago had studied, something he envied.

The crowd roared through the speakers. Santos players huddled in celebration, Neymar at the center, grinning like he’d known this would happen all along.

On the sidelines, Nando was bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. Raphael yelled out instructions, voice hoarse but unwavering.

They weren’t giving up. Palmeiras never did. And that’s what made Thiago proud.

As the second half dragged on, the game opened up. Palmeiras pushed harder, pressing Santos into mistakes. Nando came closest—a curling shot from the edge of the box that scraped the crossbar, leaving the Santos keeper rooted. Raphael even tried his luck from distance, a thunderous strike that forced a desperate save.

But it ended 1–0.

Thiago sat in silence as the final whistle blew. The Palmeiras players trudged off, heads low but shoulders squared. Raphael walked off with his arm around Nando, saying something that made the younger boy nod firmly. There was disappointment, sure—but no shame.

They had fought.

And so would he.

He reached for the remote but didn’t turn the TV off. Instead, he let the replays run—Neymar dancing through midfield, Raphael’s crunching tackle that sent the ball into the stands, Nando’s relentless runs down the wing.

All of it seared into his mind.

Neymar was ahead. There was no point denying it.

But the thing was... it didn’t feel like defeat.

Not anymore.

It felt like clarity.

A benchmark. Something to chase.

Thiago stood and walked over to the window, pushing it open slightly. Dortmund lay quiet outside, the night air crisp against his skin. Distant streetlights shimmered across the horizon, and the faint hum of the city reminded him that he was far from home. The cold European breeze licked at his face, carrying with it the scent of rain and pavement.

This world was still foreign. Still tough.

But he belonged here. Not just to escape Neymar’s shadow, but to cast one of his own.

He let out a long breath, watching it fog up the glass for a second before fading.

"Neymar might be ahead," he whispered to himself. "But not for long."

His eyes dropped again to the streets below. Somewhere back in São Paulo, Nando and Raphael would be on the team bus, maybe laughing despite the loss, maybe rewatching plays on someone’s phone, dissecting every mistake.

He missed them. Missed home.

But he also knew... the only way back was forward