The Last Point

Maya sat in the plastic stands of the padel club, the hollow thwack of racquet against ball echoing like a heartbeat through the cavernous space. Lucas was down 6-4 in the third set, his sweat-stained shirt clinging to his back as he lunged for a drop shot that kissed the tape and fell dead on his side.

His iPhone lay in her lap, screen cracked from where he'd dropped it that morning—another sign, she'd thought then, of how frayed their life had become. The device buzzed with a message: *Can you talk?*

She stared at the notification, the sender's name swimming in her vision. Not work. Not his mother. Someone named Sofia from the tournament three weeks ago.

The stray cat that lived at the club wound around her ankles, its calico coat matted with clay dust. She'd been feeding it surreptitiously for months, little packets of ham from the vending machine, sharing secrets with this creature who asked for nothing. Now it looked up at her with ancient, knowing eyes.

"He's going to lose," she whispered to the cat, as if it could understand.

But Lucas wasn't losing. He was rallying, his body moving with that fierce grace that had first made her fall in love with him seven years ago. Back then, she'd cheered from these same stands, her heart swelling with every point he won. Now she watched him play for someone else's attention.

The phone buzzed again. *I know you're at the club. Meet me after?*

She stood up, the cat mewing in protest. Lucas turned at the movement, catching her eye across the court. He smiled—that tentative, hopeful smile that had once been her entire world—and mouthed "for you" before serving.

The ball cleared the net, perfect and impossible, and he won the point.

Maya walked out of the club, leaving his phone on the empty seat. The cat followed her to the glass doors before turning back, sensing perhaps that some abandonings were permanent. Outside, the sunset bled across the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks, the kind of beautiful that hurts to witness alone.