The Art of Bearing Loss

The padel court echoed with the rhythmic thwack of racquets against ball, a sound that had become the soundtrack of our Thursday evenings for three years. But tonight, every stroke felt like an accusation.

"You're not focusing, David," Elena called out from across the net, sweat matting her dark hair. "What's going on with you?"

I should have told her then. About the messages I'd found on her phone. About Mark from her office, whose name now made my stomach clench. About how our supposedly perfect marriage had been dissolving like sugar in hot water, and I'd been too cowardly to taste the bitterness.

Instead, I served into the net.

"Sorry. Just tired."

Later, over dinner at the Italian place where we'd celebrated our second anniversary, I watched her laugh at something on her phone while picking at her spinach and ricotta ravioli. The same dish she'd ordered on our first date, back when we were twenty-three and convinced love could conquer anything.

Now I wondered if she'd been thinking about someone else even then. The question was a weight I'd been forced to bear for six weeks, since the night I'd seen the notification light up her screen: "Can't wait to see you tomorrow."

The spinach wilted on her plate, dark and slightly stringy. Like us.

"David?" Her voice cut through my reverie. "I asked if you wanted to come to my work event on Saturday. Mark's getting some kind of recognition."

Mark.

"I can't," I said, and for the first time, the lie felt unnecessary. "I have plans."

"What plans?"

"To file for divorce."

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Her fork clattered against her plate. A few strands of spinach clung to her lower lip, and I didn't tell her.

"You're joking," she said, but her eyes said she knew I wasn't.

"I saw the messages, Elena. I saw them six weeks ago."

"I never meant to—"

"It doesn't matter what you meant. It matters what you did."

I signaled for the check. The waiter's arrival broke whatever spell had held us together through the padel games and dinner dates and morning coffees. I'd bear the memory of us alone, without her weight to carry anymore.

That night, I sold my padel gear online. Let someone else make new memories on the court. I was done playing games I'd already lost.