I never really understood the type of people that would cry over football. Growing up, I thought they were crazy for letting twenty two men chasing a ball dictate their mood. That was until today. For as long as I can remember, Lionel Andres Messi was football. The first match I ever attended was an El Clasico back in 2010. That night at the Camp Nou sticks with me. Although Messi's name wasn't attached to one of the 5 goals that evening, the way he moved on the pitch mesmerised me. Messi was the reason I fell in love with the beautiful game. I've seen him turn impossible situations into moments that somehow looked effortless. The way he would pick up the ball and glide past players felt almost unreal. I've watched him rise to new heights, lifting multiple trophies for Barcelona. But I've also been there for the heartbreaks. And yet somehow, I never thought I'd have to see him wear the albiceleste for the last time. That's probably why today feels so strange. You convince yourself there will always be another season, another tournament, another moment of magic. But football doesn't work like that. Nothing lasts forever. What hurts most isn't simply knowing Messi's career will end. It's knowing the version of me who watched that little magician at the Camp Nou in 2010 is gone too. That's the strange thing about football. You can spend years caring so deeply about someone who has absolutely no idea that you exist. To Messi, I'm just another face in a crowd of millions. But to me, he is attached to memories I'll carry for the rest of my life. So when I found myself getting emotional today, I realised I wasn't crying because a footballer was getting older. I was saying goodbye to a part of my childhood. So thank you, Lionel Messi. Thank you for the goals, trophies, celebrations, heartbreaks and memories. Thank you for finally making me understand why people cry over a game that, at its core, is still just twenty two men running around a pitch chasing a ball.