The Eighth Game

The storm broke during our eighth game of padel, lightning cracking the sky open as Elena's backhand sliced past my ear. She always played like she had something to prove—fluid, aggressive, merciless. Sweat dripped down my spine as I watched her through the chain-link fence, her silhouette framed by each successive flash of white light.

"You're not even trying anymore," she said afterward in the locker room, peeling off her wrist guard with deliberate slowness. The fluorescent lights hummed above us, clinical and unforgiving. Something in her tone made me hesitate.

"I'm tired, El. That's all."

She laughed, but it wasn't her usual laugh. It was sharp, knowing. "That cable guy was here again today. The one who's been coming every Tuesday for three months."

The air between us thickened. "Our internet's been crap. You know that."

"He's not with the company, Marcus." She pulled her bag onto her shoulder, not meeting my eyes. "I ran his badge number. He's private security. Someone hired him to install monitoring equipment in our home office. Your home office."

The silence that followed was heavier than anything I'd felt in years. Outside, rain drummed against the metal roof.

"You think I'm spying on you?" I finally asked.

"I know you are." She turned toward the door. "What I don't know is why. Or what you're looking for."

Another flash of lightning illuminated the parking lot as she walked away. The truth was, I wasn't looking for anything. I was just afraid—of losing her, of this comfortable life we'd built, of the way she sometimes looked through me instead of at me. So I'd monitored her digital life, her communications, her movements, convinced that surveillance was the same as security. That control was love.

Now, standing alone in the fluorescent hum of the locker room, I understood what I'd actually been watching for: signs that she was already gone. And the cruelest part was, I'd found them months ago. I just hadn't wanted to see them.