Up in the stands, the hurt was raw.
One of the broadcast cameras swept across faces that had believed, faces that had seen miracles all season long and somehow thought there might still be one more.
But now, as the fourth Barcelona goal rippled the net, you could see it setting in, the stillness, the disbelief and the shudder of broken faith.
An elderly man, scarf half-draped around his neck, just sat there blinking at the pitch, lips parted but no sound coming out.
A father stood with his son in his arms, whispering something like, "It's alright, we've had a good run," even though his own voice cracked halfway through.
And then there were the others, the ones who couldn't bear to stay.
Rows of red began to rise from their seats, shuffling slowly toward the exits, eyes glistening, scarves held against their mouths.
For them, it wasn't betrayal, it was heartbreak.
