Sunday Games

The ball cracked against the glass wall, that familiar sound that had anchored our Sunday mornings for three years. Elena adjusted her ponytail, and I noticed new silver threads catching the light at her temples. Hair, like everything else, was changing.

"Your serve," she said, but her eyes had that glazed look again. The zombie quality had crept up gradually since the layoffs at the firm—first the hollowed cheeks, then the flat affect, now this walking-dead shuffle through padel matches she used to dominate. We'd been friends since law school, survived bar exams and her mother's death together, but this corporate shell of a person was becoming a stranger.

"Elena." I let the ball drop. "When did you last sleep?"

She shrugged, the movement jerky, unnatural. "Thursday, maybe. The Bear merger—that's what they're calling it. I'm bearing the whole due diligence alone since Marcia left." She attempted a smile that looked painful. "See what I did there? Bear? Bering?"

My chest tightened. I'd loved her through her divorce, through her miscarriage, but this was different. This was self-erasure.

"The merger's been over for weeks," I said softly. "You're still working sixteen-hour days. Elena, you're not even there anymore. You're haunting your own life."

She picked up her racquet, fingers trembling. "If I stop moving, everything catches up. You don't understand."

"I understand that I miss my friend," I said. "The one who actually showed up. Not this... whoever you are now."

The ball hit the floor. Elena looked at me, really looked, and something broke behind her eyes. She sank onto the bench, face in her hands, and I sat beside her as the Sunday light stretched across the court, watching her come back to life, one ragged breath at a time.