Love in the Age of Screens

The padel court echoed with the satisfying thwack of racquets against ball, a rhythm that had become the soundtrack of our Wednesday evenings. David's shirt clung to his back, sweat mapping the geography of a body I once knew intimately but now viewed like a stranger's across the net.

'Your serve,' he called, avoiding my eyes.

I checked my iPhone again, its screen illuminating the empty space where his text should have been. Three nights since he'd stayed at his 'office.' The bright display reflected in my sunglasses—no messages, just the blue bubble of my own unanswered question: 'Are we okay?'

'Coming.' I tossed the phone onto my bag, where it landed face down beside a container of spinach salad, wilting in the summer heat. I'd made it fresh this morning, remembering how he'd claimed he wanted to eat healthier, wanted us to be healthier together. Now it sat untouched, a perfect metaphor for everything I'd been trying to nourish between us.

The game ended predictably—David won, just as he always did at everything. He walked to the net, extending his hand for the post-match handshake. That brief touch, his palm warm against mine, sent electricity through my tired limbs. My body remembered what my mind was trying to forget.

'Good game,' he said, pulling away too quickly.

'David.' My voice cracked. 'The spinach—it's going to waste.'

He blinked, confused. 'What?'

'The salad. Our routine. Everything.' I gestured vaguely at my phone, then at him. 'You're there, but you're not there. I'm competing with a dead battery for your attention.'

The silence stretched between us, heavy and unspoken. Behind him, my iPhone buzzed with a notification—just another app demanding my time, another digital ghost haunting our modern life.

'Saturday,' David said finally, not meeting my eyes. 'Let me make it up to you Saturday.'

'I'll bring fresh spinach,' I said, knowing even as the words left my mouth that I'd be bringing it alone.