The Last Match at Sunset

The padel ball cracked against the glass wall, a sharp report that echoed Mark's hollow chest. Sarah stood across the court, racket loose at her side, watching him with those eyes that had once held everything and now held only pity.

"You're taking too many," she said, nodding toward his water bottle where the vitamin D capsules spilled like strange candies onto the court. "Marcus said you're up to fifteen a day."

Mark laughed bitterly. "Marcus the personal trainer who thinks life is one big protein shake? What would he know about bearing the weight of a dead marriage?"

The words hung between them, heavier than the humid September air. This was their new courtship—sparring across the padel court three times a week, pretending the game was about forehands and backhands when really it was about who could hurt whom more efficiently.

"Your brother called," Sarah said, hitting a lazy return that died at Mark's feet. "He's worried about you. Says you're not sleeping."

Mark chased the ball, his movements jerky and unfamiliar. This body used to be strong, reliable. Now it was just a vessel he was trying to optimize with pills and supplements, as if chemistry could fix what three years of therapy couldn't. The bear incident in Montana had fractured something fundamental—not just his leg, but his belief that the world was safe, that he was safe.

"I sleep," he lied.

"You stare at the ceiling and count the cracks." Sarah's voice softened. "I can hear you through the walls. It's like you're trying to bear the whole sky on your chest."

They played in silence after that, the rhythm of the ball between them the only conversation. Mark found himself remembering their wedding day, how she'd looked in cream silk, how certain he'd been that happiness was something you could earn through effort, through being good enough. Now he knew better. Happiness was a cable that could snap at any moment, leaving you falling through space.

"I'm leaving," Sarah said suddenly, not looking at him. "New job in Portland. I start next month."

The ball sailed past him, unanswered. Mark watched it bounce against the glass, again and again, each rebound weaker than the last.

"I know," he said finally. "I saw the cable company's truck at your apartment yesterday."

"You knew?"

"I know everything about you, Sarah. That's the problem." Mark walked to the net, the vitamin bottle heavy in his pocket. "I'm going to stop taking them. The pills."

"Why?"

"Because I'm tired of trying to optimize a life I'm not actually living." He reached across the net, fingers brushing hers—first contact in six weeks. "Bear with me? While I figure out how to be human again?"

Sarah's eyes filled. She didn't pull away. "Always, Mark. Even when I'm three thousand miles away."