Serving to the Dead

The padel court echoed with each shot I missed, the ball ricocheting off glass walls like my own distracted thoughts. Marcus played with mechanical precision—same serve, same footwork, same grim smile that never reached his eyes. He'd been like this for months, moving through our marriage like a zombie, hollowed out by whatever he refused to tell me.

'I need water,' I said, though my palms weren't sweating from the heat.

He nodded without speaking, already pulling his iphone from his pocket. The screen illuminated his face in the gathering dusk, and I watched his thumb scroll, scroll, scroll—some endless feed that held more interest than I did. When had I become the ghost in our own life?

I walked to the bench where our towels lay, palm trees fringing the court casting long shadows across the concrete. My phone vibrated—work, probably, or another reminder of the electric bill due tomorrow. The mundane machinery of living that kept us both moving forward even when everything inside had stopped.

'Marcus,' I said, my voice cracking. He looked up, screen still glowing. 'Are you even here?'

He pocketed the phone slowly. 'What kind of question is that?'

'The kind you ask someone who's been dead for six months.' The words hung between us, heavier than any serve. 'I don't know who you are anymore. I don't know what's happening inside that head.' I pressed my palm against my chest. 'I don't know if you still love me.'

The court lights flickered on, automatic and cold.

'I'm trying,' he said finally, voice hollow. 'Every day, Sarah. I'm trying to come back.'

'Trying isn't being here.' I picked up my racket, fingers tight around the grip. 'One more game. If you can look me in the eye and tell me the truth, I'll stay. If you can't, I'm done watching you walk around like you're already gone.'

He served. I didn't move to return it. The ball bounced twice, then rolled to a stop between us. In the silence, his phone lit up with another notification. Neither of us moved to answer.