Service Interrupted

The **cable** had been fraying for months. Elena could see it now, in hindsight—the way Marcus's text responses grew shorter, his enthusiasm for their weekend plans more muted. But she'd ignored the signs, just as she ignored the **running** joke he'd made last week about how she overanalyzed everything.

Now she stood alone at the **padel** court, watching him play with HER. The nickname made her stomach turn. Helena. Of course.

"Your backhand's improving," Marcus called to the other woman, his voice warm in a way it hadn't been with Elena in six months. She gripped the fence until her knuckles turned white.

They'd come here every Sunday. This was their spot. Or so she'd believed.

Elena turned away, walking toward the small café where they always grabbed lunch afterward. She ordered the spinach salad she'd been getting for years—Marcus used to steal bites from her plate, claiming he needed more greens in his diet. She ate alone, watching them through the window, laughing over a shared water bottle.

The realization settled in her chest like a cold stone. It wasn't just an affair. It was a replacement.

Her phone buzzed—a message from Marcus: "Running late. Meet you at the café?"

She stared at the screen, the absurdity of it hitting her. He was still texting her as if nothing had changed. As if she hadn't just watched him build a new life in the space they'd shared.

Elena stood up, leaving her half-eaten salad. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the padel courts. She walked past them without looking back, her footsteps steady on the pavement.

Some things, once broken, couldn't be repaired by clever words or late-night apologies. The connection had severed. This time, she wouldn't be the one trying to splice it back together.