The Lightning and What We Lost

The cat, Elias, blinked at me from the windowsill—his one good eye judging my lack of resolve. Outside, lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the empty padel court below my balcony where, three months ago, Marco had laughed so hard he'd dropped his racquet. That laugh. The way his hair curled damp against his neck when we'd played until midnight, the pool's surface broken and starlit beside us.

I'd been on the verge of telling him everything that last night. Not just that I loved him—god, that would've been simple—but the harder thing. That I'd been offered the job in Berlin. That I was leaving in two weeks. That the padel games and the poolside drinks and the way he looked at me like I was something rare weren't just a fling anymore. Not for me.

But I'd said nothing. Just watched the lightning flash across his face and pretended I wasn't terrified of losing something I hadn't even claimed yet.

Now the pool below was still and dark, a mirror for storms. Elias butted his head against my palm, demanding, and I thought about how we let moments pass—how we stand on edges, lightning struck and heart exposed, and still we choose silence. Marco had married someone else last month. I saw the photos online. His wife loves padel too.

The sky split open again, brilliant and terrible, and I finally let myself remember: some lightning doesn't strike twice. Some edges, once crossed, can never be uncrossed. And some stories end before they really begin.