The Padel Court at Sunset

The vitamin D supplement sat on the kitchen counter, a daily reminder of how thoroughly she'd planned her exit. Six months of tennis lessons, of building a new body, of preparing to leave him for someone who actually knew how to play.

"You coming?" Marcus called from the hallway, already wearing the hat she'd given him last Christmas—the one with the stupid embroidery that said 'Court King' in letters that were already starting to fray.

She swallowed the vitamin with tap water. "In a minute."

The padel court was theirs, or had been. Every Tuesday and Thursday for three years, they'd played at the club where they'd first met. She'd been terrible at first, laughing at her own ineptitude, while he'd showed off with these patient, condescending lessons that she'd eventually grown to hate. Now she played better than him. Now she played with Julian, who didn't correct her backhand.

"Your form's getting better," Marcus said as they walked to the court, evening light painting everything in that desperate golden hue that makes ordinary moments feel meaningful. "Julian must be teaching you well."

The bitterness in his voice was so subtle she might have imagined it. But the hat shadowed his eyes, and she couldn't read him anymore.

They played in silence for twenty minutes. The ball echoed between them, this hollow punctuation mark to a conversation they'd both stopped having months ago. When she finally smashed one past him—Julian had taught her that too—he didn't say "good shot" the way he used to. He just stared at the wall where the ball had landed, like it was pointing out something he'd always known but refused to acknowledge.

"I'm leaving after the game," she said, and the ball rolled to a stop between them. "To stay with Julian."

He adjusted the Court King hat, his expression unreadable in the dying light. "I know," he said, and walked to the net to shake her hand. "I finished the vitamin bottles last week. I figured you wouldn't need them anymore."