The Score We Settle

The orange glow of sunset bled across the padel court as Marco served, the ball smacking against the glass wall with a hollow echo. I hadn't seen him in three months—not since the Christmas party where everything between us had calcified into something unspoken and unbearable.

'You're still slicing your backhand,' I said, leaning against the fence. My iphone buzzed in my pocket, a work email I couldn't care less about.

Marco stopped mid-serve. 'And you're still standing there thinking you're too good to play.' He wiped sweat from his forehead with the tail of his shirt. 'Same Elena who wouldn't date me because we work together, right?'

The air between us thickened. 'I never said that.'

'You didn't have to.' He laughed bitterly, hitting the ball against the wall again. Thud. Thud. 'We've been friends for six years, Elena. Colleagues for three. And somehow that's always been the line you wouldn't cross.'

I watched the orange light fade to gray. 'It's complicated.'

'It's really not.' He walked toward me, close enough that I could smell him—salty skin and the expensive cologne he wore to client meetings. 'I'm leaving for Madrid in two weeks. The partner track there.' He pulled his phone from his pocket, screen cracked. 'I was going to tell you at Christmas. Then you made that speech about how much you valued our—what did you call it? Professional friendship?'

My phone buzzed again. I ignored it. 'I didn't know.'

'You weren't supposed to.' He brushed past me toward the exit. 'See you around, Elena.'

The orange glow had vanished completely. The court lights flickered on, harsh and clinical. I pulled out my iphone, opened the email I'd been ignoring all night—my own transfer approval. Madrid. Same office. Starting in two weeks.

I watched Marco walk away, a silhouette against the artificial lights, and realized sometimes the people who leave are the ones you're running toward all along.