The Sunday Morning Padel Court

Elena stood at the edge of the padel court, her sweatband already damp at 7 AM. The sport had become her refuge since Carlos left — a ritual of movement and impact that let her stop thinking, if only for an hour.

Her partner today was Marcos, a man she'd known since their university days. His dark hair was now threaded with silver, and he wore a ridiculous straw hat that made him look like a misplaced fisherman. He insisted it was for skin cancer prevention. Elena suspected it was just another layer of Marcos being Marcos.

"You're serving like shit today," he called out, retrieving the ball from the fence. "Everything okay?"

Elena adjusted her own grip on the racket. Her palm was sweating. "Fine. Just tired."

It wasn't entirely a lie. The insomnia had started three months ago, around the time she'd found herself sleeping in the guest room, then the sofa, then sometimes in her car outside the building where she and Carlos had once hosted dinner parties. Those parties felt like belonging to another lifetime.

After padel, Marcos invited her for coffee. His Golden Retriever, Luna, sat in the passenger seat of his truck, muzzle pressed to the window, tail thumping a steady rhythm against the door. Carlos had never wanted a dog. Too much responsibility, he'd said. Too messy.

They sat at a café terrace. Elena took off her hat and ran a hand through her hair, now shorter than she'd ever worn it. The choppy bob had been an impulse decision two weeks ago, a physical manifestation of everything she couldn't say out loud.

"You know," Marcos said, watching Luna investigate a discarded sandwich wrapper, "Carlos asked about you yesterday."

Elena's chest tightened. "What did he say?"

"He wanted to know if you were seeing anyone." Marcos studied his coffee cup. "I told him that wasn't my information to share."

"And am I?" Elena heard herself ask, surprising them both.

Marcos looked up. His eyes were warm, familiar. "That's also not my information to share."

Luna returned to Marcos, resting her head on his knee. He scratched behind her ears automatically, like he'd done it a thousand times before.

"But," Marcos added softly, "for what it's worth — he's still living in the apartment. You're the one who's been showing up at padel every Sunday with different variations of the same sad story in your eyes."

Elena looked at her palm, at the callus formed from months of gripping a racket too tightly. She thought about the guest room bed, the car, the Sunday mornings that had become her only anchor.

"I'm not sad," she said. "I'm just... not done figuring out what comes next."

Marcos nodded. "Take your time. Luna and I aren't going anywhere."

The dog whined, as if agreeing, and Elena finally smiled — a real one, small but genuine. Whatever came next, at least she wouldn't be facing it alone.