Service Break

The padel court smelled of rubber and stale sweat, the enclosed glass walls trapping the afternoon heat. Marcus served, the ball hitting the wire mesh with a dull thwack. "Your form's off," he called across the court, grinning that easy grin that used to make me feel like we'd be friends forever.

I adjusted my cap, conscious of the hair that wasn't there anymore—not because of fashion or choice, but because the chemo had taken it along with whatever future I thought I had. Three months in, and I still hadn't told him. Some things you can't say across a net.

"You're overthinking it," Marcus added, retrieving the ball. "Just like you did with—"

"Don't."

The word hung between us. He knew what I meant: Sarah, the job, the life I'd abandoned like a baseball game called on account of rain. I'd walked away from everything with the same suddenness I'd later learn to say words like *oncologist* and *remission*.

We played in silence after that. The rhythm of the game—serve, return, the satisfying pop of the ball against the padel racket—was almost meditative. I watched Marcus move: loose limbs, casual confidence, the kind of physical ease I used to take for granted.

"Your scarf slipped," he said softly during a water break.

I froze. He'd noticed. Of course he'd noticed. Marcus noticed everything—that's what made him a good friend, and that's what made this impossible.

"I didn't want you to look at me differently," I said finally. "Like something broken."

He set his water bottle down carefully. "You think I don't already?" A sad smile. "We've been looking at each other differently for months. That's what people do when they love someone and don't know how to help."

The glass walls suddenly felt less like a cage and more like a mirror. I realized then that friendship isn't about having the right words or fixing things. Sometimes it's just about showing up, game after game, even when the score's hopelessly lopsided.

"One more set?" Marcus asked, picking up his racket.

"You'll win."

"I always do." He winked. "But you've got better serves than anyone I know."

I adjusted my cap and stepped to the line. For the first time in months, I wasn't thinking about what I'd lost. I was thinking about the game ahead, the friend across the net, and the simple, imperfect fact that we were both still here, still playing.