Limitless Pitch-Chapter 74 – The End We Shared

The morning after the win should have tasted like victory.

Golden sunlight streamed through the thin dorm room curtains, painting stripes of warmth across Thiago’s rumpled sheets. He lay there, his dark brown curls—still damp from the shower—tangled against the pillow, the scent of his coconut shampoo mixing with the musk of sweat that still clung to his skin. The crisp morning air carried the scent of freshly cut grass from the training pitch below and the smoky tang of distant barbecue from the street vendors already setting up for lunch. Through the open window, the rhythmic thump of a soccer ball being kicked against a wall echoed from the courtyard below.

Down the hall, laughter erupted—teammates reliving the game’s best moments, their voices booming through the thin walls. The sharp citrus of muscle balm and the rich aroma of strong Brazilian coffee filled the air as players prepared for their recovery session. Someone had brought a tray of pão de queijo from the bakery down the street, the buttery aroma of the cheese bread mingling with the earthy scent of taped ankles and fresh laundry. But Thiago barely noticed, his calloused fingers tightening around his phone, his thumb absently rubbing the faded Palmeiras logo sticker on its case.

One message.

From Camila.

"Can we talk? I’ll be at the bookstore near Rua Oscar Freire at noon." fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

No heart emoji. No softening. Just one line, cutting through him like a cold blade. His thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the digital imprint of her name, remembering how her fingers had felt when she’d last texted him—

A knock rattled his door.

"Thiago! You alive in there?" Rafael’s booming voice carried through the wood, followed by two sharp raps. "Eneas wants us on the pitch in fifteen!"

"Yeah," he called back, forcing lightness into his tone. His bare feet hit the cool tile floor as he stood, his muscles protesting from last night’s battle, the bruises on his shins a mottled purple beneath the fine dark hair. The digital clock on his nightstand blinked 10:47 AM—just over an hour until he’d see her.

The training ground buzzed with relaxed energy, the morning sun baking the dew off the grass as players stretched on the sidelines

Thiago moved through warm-ups mechanically, his curly hair bouncing with each stretch. The morning sun highlighted the golden undertones in his brown skin as he reached for his toes, the muscles in his back rippling beneath his training shirt. Around him, teammates joked and jostled, their voices carrying across the dew-kissed grass.

But his mind was kilometers away.

Can we talk?

Rafael appeared at his side, his own dark eyes narrowed in concern. "You’re somewhere else today, brother."

"Just tired," Thiago lied, rolling his shoulders.

The bookstore stood unchanged, a relic of quieter times.

Its wooden sign, weathered to a soft gray, hung slightly crooked above the entrance. Lush green vines crawled up the brick facade, their heart-shaped leaves trembling in the afternoon breeze. Through the window, the warm glow of reading lamps illuminated stacks of well-loved books.

Camila sat waiting on the wrought-iron bench outside, her dirt-blonde hair catching the sunlight like spun gold. She wore a simple white sundress that contrasted with her sun-kissed skin, the emerald green of her eyes startling even from a distance. Her fingers—nails painted a chipped sky blue—fidgeted with the strap of her leather crossbody bag.

Thiago approached slowly, his shadow falling across her lap.

"Hey," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

Camila looked up, and for a heartbeat, he saw everything they’d been in those emerald eyes. "Hey."

She patted the space beside her. The bench felt cold beneath his jeans as he sat, the iron pressing through the fabric. The familiar scent of her shampoo—jasmine and something citrusy—wrapped around him like a ghost.

"I’ve been thinking," she began, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. The small silver hoop in her cartilage glinted.

"I figured."

A faint smile touched her lips, revealing the dimple in her left cheek that only appeared when she was truly amused. "It’s not easy to admit when something good has an end."

His chest tightened. "I didn’t want this to end."

"I know." She turned fully toward him, the sunlight catching the faint freckles across her nose. "You’re not cruel, Thiago. Just... honest."

"Then why does it feel like I failed you?"

Her fingers—always so expressive when she talked—danced in the air between them. "You didn’t. I just..."

"I hoped we’d have more time."

A delivery bike roared past, its engine temporarily drowning out the bookstore’s soft classical music. Somewhere nearby, a barista called out an order. Life continued, indifferent to their quiet unraveling.

Camila’s voice dropped to a whisper. "I love you."

The words hit like a body check. His hands—still marked with fading bruises from last night’s match—twitched in his lap.

"I do," she continued, her emerald eyes glistening. "But I can’t follow you to Europe." Her fingers traced the embroidery on her dress—little yellow flowers along the hem. "My life is here."

From her bag, she produced a cream-colored envelope, its surface slightly wrinkled from handling. When she pressed it into his hands, her fingertips—always cold, no matter the weather—brushed his palm.

"Don’t read it now," she murmured.

Thiago turned it over. No name.

Suddenly she stood, the sundress fluttering around her knees. "You’re going to do great things." The afternoon light haloed her hair as she leaned down.

Her forehead pressed against his. Her hand—the one with the tiny scar from when she’d burned herself baking—cradled his cheek. For one suspended moment, they were everything they’d been: study sessions where her hair fell into her face, rainy days sharing headphones on the bus, the way she’d always steal his hoodies.

Then she kissed him.

Not desperate. Not pleading.

A perfect, heartbreaking goodbye.

When she pulled away, a single tear tracked through her light dusting of makeup, but she didn’t wipe it away.

She turned.

Walked.

Didn’t look back.

Thiago sat until the streetlights flickered on, the unopened letter heavy in his hands. The scent of her perfume still hung in the air—jasmine and citrus and something uniquely Camila.

He didn’t cry.

But something inside him hollowed out—a space once filled with her laughter now echoing with absence.

And yet...

Beneath the grief, beneath the ache...

The game still called.

The second leg awaited.

Europe beckoned.

He stood, slipping the letter into the pocket over his heart.

Tomorrow, he’d train.

Tomorrow, he’d fight.

But tonight?

Tonight, he let himself remember the way her hand would find his beneath the table, a quiet anchor in crowded rooms.

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