Leandro took a deep breath as his eyes flew open. His lungs burned as if he had been underwater for a long time.
He saw a painted white ceiling and a fan turning slowly, creaking with every rotation. He blinked hard a few times, trying to make sense of it all.
"Where am I...?"
His heart pounded, feeling like it might burst from his chest. A wave of dizziness hit him as he tried to stand, and he grabbed the edge of the bed for support, letting out a low moan. The bed felt strangely familiar and small. The sheets were thin and old but still clean, and the mattress sagged in the middle from years of use.
He paused and said, "This isn't a hospital or a hotel room in Indonesia... This is my room in Brazil."
His eyes darted around, taking in everything: the laptop, the small wooden desk against the wall, the stack of school notebooks with bent corners, and the Ronaldinho poster peeling off the wall where the tape had given out.
Every house in his neighborhood had small windows with iron bars outside, and a closet with a broken handle that you had to lift and pull at the same time.
He could still remember every detail from years ago.
"No... no, no, no..."
At that moment, he noticed his voice sounded clearer and younger.
He staggered to his feet. As he rushed over to the crooked mirror on the wall, his legs felt strangely light.
His heart skipped a beat when he saw the boy in the mirror. He looked much thinner and younger, with shoulders that hadn't filled out yet. The small scar on his chin from hitting the goalpost last year was gone.
He had big dark eyes and messy black hair sticking out in every direction. His skin was smooth, his face still young and delicate. This year, he was exactly seventeen.
In the quiet room, Leandro's breathing was fast and rough. "I died?" he whispered, pressing his palms to his chest to feel his heart pounding.
He remembered the heavy rain, headlights cutting through the storm, the crash, the broken glass, and the sharp pain before everything went black.
"I fucking died...!"
He stood in his childhood bedroom, even though he should have been dead. He was back before everything went wrong — before Indonesia, the 9-0 loss, the years of moving from club to club, and slowly fading into obscurity.
His legs gave out, and he sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the floor between his feet as the springs creaked.
His mind raced as he tried to make sense of this impossible situation. For him, ideas like rebirth, time travel, second chances, or coma dreams were pure madness. However, everything seemed genuine.
His stomach growled with hunger. He heard faint traffic outside and felt the rough bedsheet under his hands. Everything felt completely real — like he was living it in high definition, whatever this was.
A voice cried out, warm, weary, and painfully familiar. "Leandro?"
His whole body tensed. How long had it been since he'd heard that voice? How many years had passed since his first life?
Tears blurred his vision, cutting off his thoughts. He couldn't answer; his voice was stuck in his throat.
The footsteps approached and came to a halt right outside his door.
"Leandro? Are you awake? Now that she was the only one who could express worry, the voice was gentler. Since yesterday, you have been asleep. Are you ill? Do I need to give someone a call?
Leandro's hands shook, but he wiped his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. "I'm... I'm okay," he said, his voice cracking like a child's.
From the opposite side of the door, Mariana hesitated. "You don't sound okay." After saying that, she cautiously opened the door and entered.
She looked to be in her early twenties, with brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Her eyes looked tired, older than her years. She wore pants with a small rip in one knee and an old gray t-shirt with a faded logo — her work clothes, probably just back from a shift.
She looked at him with the same worried eyes she'd had when he was younger, trying to hide it and stay strong.
"You look really pale," Mariana remarked. She walked across the room and touched his forehead with the back of her palm. Her hand was rough and cold from her job. "However, there is no fever. That's excellent.
Leandro looked up at her. In his past life, he had taken her for granted, letting her carry all the weight while he wasted time and drifted through his career.
She skipped meals so he could eat, working three jobs. Even when elite scouts rejected him and everyone, including himself, gave up, she still believed in him. "Leandro?" she said, frowning as he repaid her with years of disappointment. "You're really scaring me. What's wrong?"
He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. What could he possibly say? "I died in Indonesia eleven years from now. My whole career was wasted. I threw away everything you gave up for me. But now that I'm back, I won't make the same mistakes."
But he couldn't say any of that. Instead, he just shook his head. "Nothing," he mumbled. "I just... had a really bad dream."
Mariana studied his face for a long moment, as if trying to read a language she didn't know. She sighed and reached out to ruffle his hair.
"You've been worried about tomorrow's game, haven't you?" She gave a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Leandro, just treat it like any other match. Don't put too much pressure on yourself."
"A match?" he repeated. There was a match tomorrow?
His mind raced as he tried to remember. What month was it? What day? Even what year? Then it all came back to him. Everything clicked.
This was it — the game where, the first time around, everything had gone wrong.
Vila Nova's reserve team was playing a friendly match against a nearby town's team. It was called a friendly, but it was really a scouting game, with club scouts — even some from Europe—watching.
Leandro had been on the bench that day in his past life. He hadn't played a single minute. The coach looked right through him, as if he were invisible. After that game, everything changed. The coaches stopped considering him for important matches. He became part of the background, ignored.
The end had begun with that friendly game.
But now, he had a chance to change things before it all went wrong.
Leandro looked up at his sister. "I won't overthink it," he said, clenching his fists on his knees, his jaw set. This time, his voice was calm.
Mariana raised an eyebrow. "That's a first. You always overthink things."
He grinned. He knew he wasn't the most talented, but this time he wouldn't waste a single chance to improve. With hard work and determination, he'd make up for it, even if all he had were his legs and a ball.
All that so-called talent was nothing compared to what he had now. He remembered the failures and the lessons from every match.
He carried the weight of eleven lost years. The fear of going back to that empty life in Indonesia—with a cheap car, rain on the windows, and nothing to show for it — drove him.
That fear would push him harder than any natural talent ever could.
Mariana told him breakfast was ready. She reminded him that training started early and told him not to skip it this time. She left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
In the stillness of early morning, Leandro sat on the edge of his bed.
He looked at his hands, free of scars. They were the hands of a seventeen-year-old. Even after years of training, the calluses hadn't formed yet.
He slowly curled them into fists.
"Never again," he whispered to the empty room. It was a promise to himself — a vow not to waste his life again.