The Court We Never Played

The gray in my hair had started appearing the week you died, as if grief had a direct line to my follicles. Three years later, I stood outside the padel court we'd reserved for your birthday—the court we never got to play on because cancer doesn't respect reservations.

Mark opened the gate beside me, his hand finding my shoulder. 'You sure you're ready for this?'

'No,' I said. 'But neither was she.'

We'd been friends since college, Elena and I, the kind that don't need words to fill silences. We'd made plans to try padel together, something new and ridiculous to mark her fortieth year. She'd bought a pink racquet. It's still in my closet.

I walked onto the court, the artificial grass crunching under my sneakers. The walls reminded me of something—you in your hospital room, talking about how you felt like a zombie trapped in a body that was betraying you. The drugs made you float, you said. Your real self was somewhere else, watching.

'I played baseball with my dad on Sundays,' Mark said, leaning against the glass wall. 'Every Sunday until the dementia got too bad. Then I kept coming alone, hitting balls into the net.' He shrugged. 'Grief doesn't follow rules.'

I served the ball against the back wall. It bounced back at my ankles, a small, blue betrayal.

'That's what I don't tell people,' I said. 'Sometimes I miss who she was at the end more than who she was before.'

Mark nodded, like he understood. Maybe he did. We all carried our own versions of missing.

The padel ball sat in the corner, abandoned between games. I picked it up, felt its weight, and threw it against the wall once. Twice. Three times. Each impact echoed like a heartbeat the room had forgotten.

'Next week,' I said. 'Same time?'

'You buying the post-game drinks?'

'Always.'

We left the court empty, but something in the silence had shifted. Some loves don't end—they just find new courts to play on.