football imagines {premier league}

Jadon Sancho

- yes.
*last part..

- 

Days pass, which soon become weeks. 

Its like you'd disappeared from the face of the earth. your leaving your apartment, going staying with friends temporarily on the outskirts of town, haven't posted anything on social media and the team are currently employing a strict 'no-one-mention-her-name-around-him-ever-ever-again-if-you-want-to-live' policy. He misses you dearly, even though he doesn't really deserve too, because he only ever saw you when he was there too, and could probably count the number of meaningful conversations you have had on his hand. 

The last one being particularly memorable.

-The panic and shock in your eyes as he confessed his feelings, the way your voice cracked as you told him how much of a friend he was to you and how you squeezed his hand when walking him to the front door.

He didn't expect it to feel so shit. Not because you rejected him, but because you hadn't. You hadn't told him no, or that your feelings for him were non-existent or friendly at best. In fact, the way you looked at him as he left and the soft, chaste kiss you pressed to his cheek, said quite the opposite.

It was like he was at the top of a rollercoaster he had never wanted to go on in the first place. Experienced the build-up to the top, climbed the highest of heights, only to be held hostage at the very top, everything swinging in the balance, awaiting the thrill, pain, fear, elation and everything else of the fall.

He was expecting it all to undoubtedly come crashing down disastrously in front of his very eyes, but he had always prided himself on being an optimist.

He hasn't tried to contact you since, hasn't known how  to, considering that he doesn't have your phone number and Snapchat would probably be too casual. To make matters worse, he only found out what had actually happened when your fiancé- no, ex fiancé- turned up to training the next morning with red eyes and shaky hands which haven't stopped trembling since. Now, he walks with slouched shoulders, always gripping a flask of triple-shot coffee to keep his eyes open and his eyes sting with tears whenever someone comes to console him or ask how he's been doing.

It's almost enough to break his heart all over again and abandon any hopes of reuniting with you. He's the picture of a broken, deflated man, and he almost wants to offer a hand to him and bitterly jibe that hey, I guess that makes two of us who've had our hearts broken by her now!

Like an exclusive club where they could bitch about you and giggle like gossiping teenagers about how they're both much, much, much better off now that you've gone.

He doesn't even know if she would have told him about his confession. Hopefully not, because otherwise, that would make the sporadic heart to hearts they've shared or the few times he's turned up to his apartment with a takeaway, FIFA and 750ml bottle of bourbon a whole new kind of cruel.

And he doesn't want to lose, as well as you, a genuine friend.

Rumours are aplenty everywhere they go, scattered from the training ground to the team bus, from the hushes of the tabloid gossip columns to his WhatsApp group chat.

-How shit. I feel so bad for him – he was absolutely head over heels.

-I heard she just got up and left him, no reason and no explanation. Heartless if you ask me.

The worst is the rumour that you left him because there was someone else in the picture. It makes his blood run cold.

Nevertheless, he's quick to brush off these comments, quick to forget about their last exchange in which you'd told him you wouldn't be able to go through with things, and he still goes home alone and heartbroken, with his shoulders slumped and his head in his hands. There's the tiniest glimmer of hope and that's his only solace, but the possibility of a happy ending is so tiny, and there's still the realisation that you could simply get up and leave permanently, without him, a word or a proper explanation.