Personally jinxed it from the sofa.
They lost, and somehow — from your couch, hundreds of miles away, holding a snack — it was your fault. You said 2-0 out loud. You left the room. You wore the wrong shirt. The Eye has watched this engine run far beyond match days: the friend's bad mood you traced to your text, the canceled plan you decided you caused, the apology you drafted for weather. Your investigation never needs a suspect lineup, because you confess before the case even opens. And the Eye knows the secret architecture here, the thing your self-roast hides: believing you caused it is the last available form of control. If your shirt lost the match, then the right shirt could win the next one. Guilt, for you, is a steering wheel bolted to a car you're not even in. The Eye would like to gently report: the car never had your name on the registration.
Get your read — free on iPhonethe guilt isn't humility. it's the last steering wheel available — and you'd rather drive the crash than be a passenger in it.