The Weight of Oranges

The bear market had eaten Marcus's portfolio alive, but still, there he was on the padel court at 7 AM, sweat dripping onto the clay. Elena slammed the ball against the glass wall—thwack—and he didn't even flinch.

"You're not here," she said, leaning on her racket. "Haven't been here for weeks."

Marcus wiped his forehead with the hem of his shirt. The orange sunrise bled into the horizon, the same color as the eviction notice taped to his apartment door. "Just tired, El."

"Bullshit." She stepped closer, dropping her voice. "I saw you at the grocery store. You bought one bag of dog food and nothing else. Buster's eating better than you are."

His throat tightened. Buster was the only living thing that still looked at him like he was worth something. The dog had been Sarah's idea—a rescue with anxiety issues, perfectly matched to Marcus's own particular brand of brokenness. When she'd walked out eight months ago, she'd left Buster too. "He's fine."

"You're not." Elena's expression softened. "My brother knows someone. Consulting gig. Not much, but—"

"I don't need charity."

"It's not charity, Marcus. It's a friend helping you carry the bear before it crushes you." She gestured at the court walls. "Even walls have limits. Even glass breaks."

The orange ball lay motionless at their feet. He thought about Buster waiting at home, about the hollow echo of his apartment, about the forty-seven unanswered emails from creditors. The weight of it all sat in his chest like something he could almost spit up.

"Marcus?" Her hand on his arm. "Sarah didn't break you. The market didn't break you. You're breaking yourself."

He finally looked at her—really looked. At the concern etched around her eyes, at the way she'd shown up every Tuesday and Thursday for three months, hitting balls against a wall with a man who'd forgotten how to hit back.

The sun broke fully over the horizon, painting everything in blinding gold.

"Your brother," Marcus said. "The consulting job. What kind of hours?"

Elena's smile was small but genuine. She tossed him the ball. "Flexible enough that you can still lose to me on Tuesdays."

Marcus caught it. His palm stung with the impact. For the first time in months, something did.