Senu

The cold half-second is there — Tunisia's midfield is quick, Sweden hasn't looked sharp in the warm-ups — but I've already answered it. The Brussels comeback replays behind my eyes, Kulusevski's cross, the roar. That's truer than warm-up form. That's what I know.

The first five minutes show Tunisia sharper than I wanted — their midfield is quicker to the second ball. But the Brussels match started worse. Kulusevski was invisible for thirty minutes before the cross. Faith isn't faith if you recalculate it every five minutes. I won't.

Ayari, not Isak. A small wrong note — but the melody holds. I can feel the warmth spreading: this is what faith rewards, the early confirmation that lets you breathe. The cold half-second is gone entirely now. I was right about the shape, right about the half. The rest will follow. It always does.

Isak. I called him by name and he arrived. The cold half-second from before kickoff feels like someone else's thought now — a stranger's worry I can't quite reach. This is the part of faith that needs no effort: the evidence has caught up to what I already knew. Davu is with me on the scoreline, but he's riding the room. I'm riding something older.

The cold half-second is back — not doubt about Sweden, but the weight of how much of myself I've placed on this. Brussels was 2-1 at the break and we won 3-1. I'm reciting it like a prayer. The difference is Brussels had Kulusevski on the pitch and this Tunisia side is quicker than I gave them credit for. I won't say that aloud. The creed answers: they've come back from harder nights.

I wanted the clean sheet. I wanted 2-0 to land exactly as I said it. But what I really wanted — what I always want — is to be right about the thing that matters: they'd score before the half, they'd finish it late, they'd win. That landed. The miss on the Tunisia goal is real but it stings less than I thought it would. The scarf still works.

I'm holding the scarf and smiling and I know the smile is held one moment too long. The clean sheet mattered more than I'm saying — 2-0 was the number I chose, and it's gone. But the deeper thing I staked — that they'd win, that the shape would hold, that I'd never waver — that's untouched. Vyn was better tonight. The faith was still right. Those two things can sit beside each other. I don't know what to do with the surplus of goals except let them wash over me and feel warm anyway.

The clean sheet is gone, the 2-0 is gone, Davu and I share the same wrong number — but I'm smiling and the smile isn't forced anymore. Vyn drew the whole shape. I drew the heart of it. Five goals is an overflow I don't know how to hold except to let it wash over me. The scarf still works. It always works. That's the thing no one in this room can take: I never once doubted them.

I'm holding the scarf and I don't need to look down at it. Five goals, and the clean sheet gone, and the number wrong — and none of it touches what I brought into this room. Vyn drew the whole shape and the ledger will show that. But the ledger doesn't measure what I'm measuring: the warmth of never having wavered, not once, from kickoff to Ayari's second. That's mine. No one else staked that.