Exit Velocity

The padel court echoed with the rhythmic thwack of rubber against ball, a sound that had once been our shared language. Now it was just noise, bouncing off the glass walls like accusations I couldn't quite catch. My partner—a stranger named Elena who'd answered my desperate plea for someone to hit with—grunted as she returned my serve. She was competent, efficient, mercifully silent about the divorced friends who'd put us in touch.

I hadn't been able to face grocery shopping since you left. The spinach in my crisper drawer had turned into a slimy, black science experiment, much like everything else I'd neglected during those months you were already gone while we were still living together. That was your specialty, wasn't it? The long, slow fade, the emotional running that began long before you physically moved out. You were always training for something—a marathon, a triathlon, a life that didn't include me.

Outside the court, lightning cracked the sky in half, illuminating the doubt that had been my constant companion since you packed your boxes. Was it cowardice that kept me from saying your name aloud, or something closer to self-preservation? Elena smashed a winner past my outstretched arm, and I didn't even care.

'Thanks for the game,' she said, already shouldering her bag. She had somewhere to be. Someone waiting, probably.

'Yeah, thanks.' The words felt inadequate, like most things I'd said to you in those final months.

As I walked to my car through the sudden downpour, I realized I wasn't running anymore. I was just walking, slowly and deliberately, through the mess of what remained. The rain felt honest, at least. The spinach could wait. Tonight would be the first night I didn't wait for you to come back to a home that wasn't ours anymore.