The first thing he noticed after returning from Frankfurt was how strangely normal everything felt.
That was the part nobody outside football understood.
A Bundesliga defeat could feel enormous inside the ninety minutes — the noise of the stadium, the frustration of missed opportunities, the disappointment of watching the opposition celebrate.
But once the team bus returned to Bremen, once the players separated and walked toward their cars, life continued.
The city did not stop.
The streets were still filled with people walking home from work.
Cafés still opened in the morning.
Students still rushed across the university streets with backpacks over their shoulders.
The Weser River still moved quietly beneath the grey autumn sky.
Football could feel like the entire world during a match.
Then, suddenly, it was only a part of it again.
He sat on the floor of his apartment the morning after the match, his back resting against the sofa.
His laptop was open in front of him, paused on the replay of Frankfurt’s first goal.
He had already watched it several times.
Not because he wanted to punish himself.
Because he wanted to understand.
The moment was frozen on the screen.
Veljković’s pass.
Boateng behind him.
Bargfrede open.
The space that was available.
The decision that wasn’t.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
The frustrating part was that he knew the answer now.
The easy pass had always been there.
The Bundesliga was not asking him whether he could perform difficult skills.
He had already proven that.
The Bundesliga was asking whether he could make simple decisions when the difficult option looked tempting.
His phone suddenly vibrated.
A message from his uncle.
“Free today?
Your aunt wants to see you.
Also Arjun has been asking about your FIFA skills.” He smiled.
That was exactly what he needed.
Not another analysis session.
Not another discussion about mistakes.
Just a normal day.
By afternoon, he was standing outside his uncle and aunt’s apartment in Bremen, holding a small bakery box.
The door opened before he could knock again.
“Finally,” his cousin Arjun said dramatically.
“The Bundesliga superstar arrives.” He immediately laughed.
“Please don’t start.” Arjun stepped aside.
“I am legally required to tease you.
You are famous now.” “Famous?” “Yes.
My friends saw your Hoffenheim assist.” He walked inside, taking off his jacket.
“And what did they say?” “They said your cross was amazing.” He smiled.
“See?
Good.” “They also said you got bullied by Boateng.” The smile disappeared.
Arjun immediately laughed.
“Relax.
I’m joking.” “You are exactly like everyone else.” “Because everyone else is correct?” He threw a cushion at him.
The apartment filled with laughter.
The day passed without any football seriousness.
That was what he appreciated most about visiting his uncle’s family.
Nobody treated him like a project.
Nobody asked about statistics.
Nobody asked about transfer rumours.
His aunt simply asked whether he was eating properly.
His uncle asked whether his apartment heating was working.
Arjun wanted to know if the new football game update had improved career mode.
“Your team selection is terrible,” Arjun complained later that evening as they sat in front of the television.
“You lost 5–2.” “Because you don’t understand tactics.” “I understand enough to beat you.” “You literally play football professionally.” “Exactly.” “That makes it worse.” He laughed.
For a few hours, he wasn’t analysing pressing structures or thinking about defensive transitions.
He was just playing video games with his cousin.
Later that evening, while Arjun searched through movies, he sat on the couch scrolling through his phone.
His social media notifications were increasing.
More messages.
More tags.
More football edits.
A few months ago, he would have been excited by every single one.
Now, after Frankfurt, he viewed them differently.
The attention was nice.
But it disappeared quickly.
One bad match could change the conversation completely.
Arjun noticed him looking at the screen.
“You reading comments?” “Some.” “Don’t.” He looked at him.
“You sound like my grandfather.” “Your grandfather is usually right.” That was unfortunately true.
He laughed.
Before leaving, his uncle stopped him near the doorway.
“Agastya.” “Yeah?” His uncle looked at him carefully.
“I saw the Frankfurt match.” He expected criticism.
Instead, his uncle smiled slightly.
“You know what I liked?” “What?” “You made a mistake.
Then you kept trying.” He stayed quiet.
“Many people only see the mistake.
They don’t see the response.” He nodded.
“Still, I should have played the simple pass.” “Yes.” The direct answer surprised him.
His uncle smiled.
“But knowing that afterward is how players improve.” He smiled.
“Everyone is becoming a coach now.” “Because you need many coaches.” The following morning, Bremen training resumed.
The atmosphere was different from after a normal defeat.
There was frustration, but not negativity.
The coaching staff focused on corrections.
The players focused on recovery.
He spent extra time after training with Thomas Delaney and Miloš Veljković.
Not because anyone forced him.
Because he wanted to.
After a passing drill, Veljković collected the ball and looked at him.
“Still thinking about Frankfurt?” “A little.” “Good.” He looked surprised.
“Good?” “Yes.
Forgetting mistakes quickly is dangerous.
Obsessing over them is also dangerous.” Veljković tossed the ball back.
“Learn.
Then move.” He nodded.
That evening, back at his apartment, he cooked dinner while music played quietly from his phone.
A mixture of Indian pop, Bengali songs from childhood, and newer tracks his friends had recommended.
It was not something he thought about deeply.
It was just part of his routine.
The same way he cleaned his boots.
The same way he checked the weather before matches.
The same way he watched old football clips before sleeping.
Small habits.
Comfortable habits.
Normal things.
Two days later, during recovery training, he received another message.
This time from his agent.
Rohan: We need to talk this week.
Nothing bad.
Actually, something very positive.
He stared at the message.
Positive?
After Frankfurt?
He smiled slightly.
Whatever it was, it was probably another part of becoming a professional footballer that nobody talked about.
The matches were only one part.
The attention.
The expectations.
The opportunities.
They were beginning too.
And he was slowly learning that growing as a footballer meant learning how to handle everything that came with it.