Court 4

Marcus lined up the supplements on his kitchen counter at 6:03 AM—vitamin D, fish oil, magnesium, that expensive multivitamin Lena had swore by before she left. Eight months later, he still took them daily, though he couldn't say if they helped or if he just needed something to swallow each morning.

The running helped more. Six miles through the predawn darkness, his breath visible in the streetlights, legs burning until his mind went quiet. Until today, when the woman from the padel courts waved at him.

"You're Marcus, right? From Court 4?"

He'd been playing padel for three months, something the therapist suggested. Social activity. Low stakes. He played with the same older men every Tuesday and Thursday, their games desultory and polite. He'd never really spoken to anyone else there.

"I'm Sarah," she said, falling into step beside him. "You left your water bottle yesterday."

"Oh." He hadn't realized she'd noticed. "Thanks."

She ran easily beside him, matching his pace without effort. "I watch you play. You've got a good backhand, but you're too careful."

Marcus laughed, surprised. "Too careful?"

"You hold back." She glanced at him, and for the first time in months, someone really seemed to see him. "Like you're afraid to want anything too much."

The words hit him like a physical blow. Because she was right—he'd been careful with Lena, careful at work, careful on the padel court. Careful with his vitamins and his running routine and his carefully contained grief.

"I'm not always careful," he said, and it felt like a confession.

"Prove it." Sarah's voice was soft, challenging. "Play with me Saturday. No holding back."

The morning sun broke over the horizon as they turned toward home, and for the first time in eight months, Marcus thought he might actually let himself want something again. Even if it was just a game on Court 4. Especially if it wasn't just a game.