football imagines {premier league}

Dele Alli

- maybe.

Five months have passed and you're doing fine.

Fine. A-okay. Great, even, depending on the day.

You've realised you don't care as much about football, but sometimes you find it difficult to listen to some of the bands you'd previously called your favourites, but it's okay.

Change is good. You've discovered a bunch of new shows, bands even artists, and your constantly reminding yourself that broadening your horizons is good and nothing bad could possibly have come from it.

Sometimes you think you spot him in the corner of your eye. A flurry of dark hair in front of you or across the street, a broad set of shoulders ordering a coffee, a man with a booming laugh and a twinkling smile. You see him and it's like a switch has been flicked within you, it's him, you know it's him immediately. Suddenly it's like you've stepped into a time machine, you want to approach him and say hello, hi, good morning, how are you, you look great.

Or something, but you couldn't guarantee it would be a friendly exchange.

Then, more often than not, you notice usually around the 30 second mark, that's it's not him. It's another man.

The differences then become obvious, he's got a nice smile but his hair fails differently, he's tall but he doesn't have a confident lilt in his step, he has the same jacket but his laugh is different, too high pitched.

You think sometimes that you could have simply gotten it all wrong. He's invaded and took over your brain, marked his stamp and presence in your head and completely ruined every other man's chances with brown hair, handsome grin and a deep laugh. Trapping you, preventing you from moving forward, it's like your stuck in this viscous cycle where everything leads back to him.

The man you've been staring at for the better part of 10 minutes' flashes eye contact with you briefly as he gets up to leave.

You've been imaging this man as him, projecting a story and a life and a plot onto some random stranger you never ever see again.

Maybe that's all it was.. projecting.

Maybe you'd projected this idea of what the perfect man should be onto him, looked at him with rose tinted glasses and imagined every second wrong.

Maybe.

Or maybe you hadn't.

Maybe you remembered everything exactly as it was, remembered the way he'd smile at you, the way he'd make you laugh so much that your stomach would ache, the way he'd offer to massage your shoulders after a long day, the way he'd motivate you to do more push yourself more, be better, every single day.

Maybe that's why it still hurt.

*a nice short one;
please comment what footballers you prefer to read about in this book, so i can focus on them for you guys, hope you enjoyed.