Dead Inside on Court Three

Elena served the ball, the small blue padel racket absorbing none of the impact. Her shoulder ached—a persistent reminder that she was still, technically, alive.

"You're playing like a zombie today," Marcus called from the other side of the glass court. He was bullish and bright in his whites, sweat already gathering at his temples. Marcus was everything she wasn't: vital, aggressive, carved from certainty.

The ball rebounded off the back wall. Elena didn't move.

"Your game's off," he said, crossing the net. "And I don't mean the score."

"It's not the game," she said quietly. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Outside, London was grey.

Marcus set down his racket. His hand brushed her arm, and she wanted to flinch but didn't. "It's the merger, isn't it?"

"It's not the merger."

"Then what?"

Elena looked at this man she'd been sleeping with for six months, this bullish creature who moved through life as if he owned the outcome. She thought of the mornings she woke unable to remember the night before, the showers she took standing fully clothed, the spreadsheets that swam before her eyes like sea creatures.

"I think I died in 2019," she said.

Marcus laughed, then stopped. "You're serious."

"I've been operating on autopilot. The job, the gym, this"—she gestured at the padel court—"none of it's real. I'm just going through the motions. A zombie in activewear."

The silence stretched. A ball struck the adjacent court—a sharp, satisfying crack.

"What would real look like?" Marcus asked softly.

"I don't know," she said. "But I think I need to find out before I forget what wanting something feels like."

He picked up his racket. "Play out the set?"

"No," she said, and for the first time in years, she meant it. "I'm done here."

Elena walked off the court and left her racket behind. She'd figure out the rest tomorrow.