Break Point

The cat—Barnaby—watched from his perch atop the refrigerator as Elena paced the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the cold tiles. She was running late for her Monday morning padel match, but something had been gnawing at her since Saturday night.

David had left his iPhone unlocked on the counter again. A careless mistake, or perhaps a subconscious cry for help. Elena's fingers hovered over the screen, her heart pounding like she'd just finished three sets in the blistering heat. She shouldn't look. She really shouldn't.

But the notifications kept lighting up: *Katerina:* 'Same time next week? ;)' *Katerina:* 'Can't stop thinking about Saturday.' *Katerina:* 'You're incredible at padel... and other things.'

The other things. Elena felt her breakfast rise in her throat.

They'd met at the padel club three months ago—or rather, David had already been a member when they'd started dating. He'd mentioned Katerina a few times: his mixed doubles partner, someone he played with 'for the strategy.' Elena had joined the club herself, partly to spend more time with him, partly because she'd fallen in love with the sport's deceptive elegance—the way it demanded precision and power in equal measure.

Now she understood the strategy all too well.

Barnaby meowed, jumping down with a soft thud and winding around her ankles. His amber eyes seemed to say, *I knew something was off.* Cats always knew. They were natural spies, observing everything while pretending to sleep.

Elena grabbed her racquet bag from the closet, her hands shaking. She'd been running from the truth for weeks, ignoring the late-night texts, the sudden 'emergency' padel sessions, the way David's phone was always face down now.

She arrived at the club ten minutes early. Through the glass wall of Court 4, she saw them—David and Katerina, laughing, their bodies pressed close as they demonstrated some technique to another couple. His hand lingered on her waist a second too long. The way it used to linger on Elena's.

The realization hit her with the force of a smash to the chest: she wasn't running late to her match. She was running toward her future.

Elena turned and walked out, dialing her sister's number. 'I need a favor,' she said, her voice steady for the first time in days. 'Can you take Barnaby? I'm going away for a while.'

Behind her, the thwack of padel balls echoed like gunshots in her marriage's dying moments.