Argentina had won.

On the other side of the field, Lionel Messi was being lifted onto his teammates' shoulders, the trophy glinting under the lights. The celebrations were manic, euphoric.

But here, on this side of the pitch, it was a graveyard.

England players stood scattered, some on their knees, hands on their heads. Others stood frozen, staring at nothing. Staff members moved between them like ghosts, offering water, patting shoulders.

You spotted him.

Jude stood alone, a few meters away from the huddle of his teammates. His shirt was untucked, mud-streaked. His hands were pressed over his face, shoulders rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths.

Then his hands dropped.

He was staring at the ground, jaw tight. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed. He blinked rapidly, trying to force it back. Trying to be tough. Trying to be Jude fucking Bellingham.

Then he looked up and saw you.