Limitless Pitch-Chapter 69 – The Distance Between Words

The café was tucked beneath a row of old jacaranda trees, their gnarled branches stretching wide, casting dappled shadows on the pavement below. Purple blooms drifted lazily in the breeze, settling on the sidewalk like soft lilac dust. The air smelled faintly floral, mixed with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans wafting from inside. Thiago arrived early, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh as he waited. He hadn’t dressed up—just a plain white tee, slightly wrinkled from the morning rush, and well-worn jeans—but he’d spent too long rehearsing what to say, only to have the words dissolve the moment he saw her.

The café was quiet, the mid-morning lull settling in after the breakfast crowd had dispersed. The low hum of conversation from other patrons blended with the occasional clink of silverware against ceramic, the sounds muffled, as if underwater. A barista behind the counter steamed milk, the hiss of the machine cutting through the air before fading into the background. Somewhere, a radio played softly—a song Thiago recognized but couldn’t name, its melody weaving through the space like a whispered secret.

Camila arrived five minutes late.

Not on purpose—he knew her well enough to know she wasn’t the type to play games like that. But still, those five minutes had stretched unbearably, each second tightening the knot in his chest. He had watched the door, his stomach twisting every time it opened, only for it to be a stranger walking in.

She wore a faded denim jacket over a floral sundress, the fabric swaying lightly around her knees as she walked. Her hair was pinned back, a few loose strands framing her face, catching the sunlight. When she spotted him, her smile flickered—there and gone, like a candle struggling against a breeze.

"Hey," she said as she approached, her voice steady but softer than usual.

Thiago stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "Hey."

They hugged. Lightly. No anchor in it. No pull. He could still smell the faint trace of her shampoo—something floral, like jasmine—and it made his chest ache.

He gestured to the small round table he’d chosen near the window, where sunlight spilled across the wooden surface in golden patches. She sat, carefully smoothing her dress beneath her, her fingers lingering on the fabric for a second too long.

A waiter approached, and they ordered quickly—black coffee for him, iced tea with a slice of lemon for her. The silence returned, heavier now, pressing between them like an unspoken question. Thiago traced the rim of his cup with his thumb, the porcelain cool against his skin.

Camila stared out the window, watching as a stray petal spiraled down from the trees outside. Then, without looking at him, she asked, "So... what’s on your mind?"

He looked at her. Really looked.

Her eyes were the same warm brown they’d always been, but there was something different in them now—a weariness that hadn’t been there before. The faint shadows beneath them spoke of late nights spent studying or early lectures she hadn’t fully adjusted to. He knew the way those eyes softened when she smiled, the way they sharpened when she challenged him, the way they crinkled at the corners when she laughed.

For a moment, he almost couldn’t say it.

But then he did.

"I’m going to Europe," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "After the Paulista ends."

She blinked. Once. No quick reaction. No gasp. Just a slow, sinking stillness, as if the air had been pulled from her lungs.

"You’re... going?"

He nodded. "It’s not confirmed yet—no club signed. But I’ve made up my mind. I signed with an agent. Marina. Caio introduced us. She’s already reaching out to teams."

Camila didn’t respond at first. Her gaze dropped to her glass, her finger tracing the condensation as it beaded along the surface. A droplet slid down, disappearing into the paper coaster beneath.

"When were you going to tell me?"

"Now," he said, instantly regretting how flat it sounded. "I wanted to before. But with the matches, and—"

"That’s not why," she said, cutting him off. Not harshly. Just... tired.

Thiago’s jaw tightened. "I didn’t know how. I knew it would hurt."

Camila looked up, meeting his gaze. "And it does."

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "I’m not asking you to wait. Or follow me. Or change anything about your life. I just wanted you to know. Because you matter to me."

"You matter to me too," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Which is why this sucks."

Their drinks arrived—the coffee steaming in its delicate porcelain cup, the iced tea clinking with ice cubes. Neither of them touched them.

Camila exhaled slowly, as if steadying herself. "I knew something was changing. You were drifting. Not on purpose—but it was there. In how you talk. How you look at things." She paused, her fingers curling lightly around the edge of the table. "I guess I thought maybe I was imagining it."

Thiago opened his mouth, but nothing came. No words fit.

"You love football," she continued, her voice low but clear. "You’ve always made that clear. I never asked you to choose."

"I’m not choosing," he said.

But she tilted her head, just slightly, her eyes searching his. "Aren’t you?"

He couldn’t answer.

Camila reached for her purse, the leather strap slipping over her shoulder as she stood. "I need to think about what you just told me."

"Camila—"

"I’m not angry," she said, shaking her head. "But I’m... sad, Thiago. I didn’t expect to feel so replaceable."

"You’re not," he said, standing as well, his chair scraping loudly in the quiet café. "You’re not."

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes glassy but not crying. "Then why does it feel like the story just kept going—and left me behind?"

Before he could answer, she turned and walked out, pushing open the café door with a soft chime of the bell.

Thiago stood there, his hand still gripping the back of the chair, watching as she disappeared down the street. Sunlight scattered over her shoulders, catching in her hair, while jacaranda petals crunched softly beneath her heels. The distance between them had never been more real.

And yet, somehow, this too felt like part of the price. The cost of chasing something bigger than himself. He wondered if she had always known this moment would come—if she had seen it in him long before he had seen it in himself. The thought made his chest tighten. He sat back down, staring at her untouched glass of iced tea, the ice melting into water, diluting everything it touched.

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