I miss the goals those instinctive finishes, the one-touch strikes that left goalkeepers frozen.
I miss the assists the clever flicks, the delicate passes threaded through tight spaces, the moments of vision when no one else saw the opening.
But more than that, I miss his electric presence in the final third that raw, unpredictable energy that made fans rise to their feet before the ball even hit the net.
Diogo Jota wasn’t just another attacker. He was chaos in a Liverpool shirt for opponents, but calm for us. A player who could shift the rhythm of a match in a flash with one run, one clever movement, one ruthless finish.
I miss seeing him glide across the pitch with determination etched on his face sharp, hungry, fearless. I miss the intensity he brought, the way he could pounce on half-chances and turn nothing into everything.
And I miss our midfielders joining in the attack, surging forward with purpose, creating space, taking shots, and linking everything together. That beautiful Liverpool DNA when every player on the pitch looked like they believed in magic, and knew how to deliver it.
But somewhere along the way… something changed.
Rest in peace, ²⁰.
Not because Diogo is gone. Not literally.
But because the version of him we knew and adored that relentless, fire-filled, fearless force has gone quiet.
Maybe it’s the injuries. Maybe it’s the shifting roles. Maybe it’s tactics or timing.
Whatever it is… he doesn’t feel the same. And that hurts in ways only true fans can understand.
We’re not angry. We’re just… heartbroken. Because when you’ve seen someone shine that brightly, it’s hard to accept the dimmer light.
But hope remains.
Because fire like that doesn’t just go out. It flickers. It hides. But it never fully dies.
And so we wait.
For the comeback.
For the roar.
For the moment he scores and Anfield shakes again.
Because when Diogo Jota finds himself again the world will remember who he is.
Until then…
We hold on to the memories.
The goals.
The assists.
The fire.
We remember them all.
