The Game We Played

I watch him from across the padel court, the way his shirt clings to his back with sweat, how he moves with that predatory grace I once found charming. Now it just reminds me of all the times I played the spy—checking his phone, scrolling through his emails at 3 AM, searching for evidence of what I already knew.

The divorce papers sit in my bag, heavy as a stone. I should have left after the first time I found them, those text messages that smelled like someone else's perfume. Instead, I stayed, convincing myself that love could be enough to drown out the lies.

Our cat, Luna, chose sides months ago. She sleeps on my pillow now, as if she knows. Animals sense things—the way the air changes when someone stops loving you. She watches him too, yellow eyes narrowed, judging.

He catches me staring and waves, that crooked smile that used to make my chest ache. Now I feel nothing. Just the hollow echo of what we promised each other on that orange sunset in Valencia, when we were young and stupid enough to believe that love alone could save us.

I remember that trip. We drank cheap wine and played padel on a cracked court until our hands blistered. He kissed me behind a dumpster, tasting like olives and desperation. I thought it was passion. It was just infatuation burning too hot, too fast.

The ball hits the fence with a metallic thud. His partner laughs, head thrown back, hair catching the light. I don't recognize her, but he does. The way he looks at her—that's the look he used to give me.

I reach into my bag, fingers grazing the envelope. My phone buzzes. A message from him: "Dinner tonight? Same place?"

I delete it without responding.

Spying on him became a reflex, a sickness. But I'm done playing detective. The evidence was always there, in the way he stopped asking about my day, in the nights he worked late, in the silence that grew between us like a tumor.

Luna rubs against my leg, purring. I scoop her up, burying my face in her soft fur. She smells like home. Unlike him. Unlike this game we played until we broke each other.

I stand up, leaving the envelope in my bag. Not yet. Let him sweat. Let him wonder. Let him feel what it's like to be the one waiting, the one who doesn't know.

The orange sun dips below the horizon. I walk away from the court, from the man who taught me that love isn't enough, that some games you can't win—you can only learn to stop playing.

Luna curls in my arms, a small, warm weight against my chest. Together, we disappear into the cooling evening.