The Weight We Bear

The padel court echoed with the rhythmic thwack of rubber against fiberglass, but Marcus wasn't really playing. His returns grew lazy, unforced errors piling up like the unspoken words between us.

"You haven't been yourself since Elena's funeral," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

I leaned against the wire fence, chest heaving. "Since when did we become the kind of friends who talk about feelings?"

"Since you started showing up at my doorstep at 3 AM, drunk off your ass."

The sun was setting behind the clubhouse, painting everything in bruised purples. It had been six months since the accident. Six months since I'd driven Elena home from this very court, six months since the deer, six months since I'd walked away without a scratch while she—

"I keep seeing it," I whispered. "Every time I close my eyes. Her head against the glass."

Marcus nodded slowly. He'd been my best friend since we were kids. He knew about the bear. About how, when we were twelve, we'd found that injured cub in the woods behind my house. How we'd carried it home, certain we could save it. How it had died in our arms that night, its fur matted with blood, its breathing shallow.

We'd buried it together in the pine grove. That was the first time I'd ever seen Marcus cry.

"You were the one who wanted to bury it," he said now, reading my mind. "You said it deserved better than to become something's dinner."

"She deserved better," I said, my voice cracking. "I was driving. I should've—"

"You got out of the car," Marcus cut me off, stepping closer. "You checked on her. You held her hand while the ambulance came. You bore witness to every single second of it. Don't think I don't know what that's cost you."

The padel ball rolled to a stop at his feet.

"I can't do this anymore," I said. "The pretending. The acting like I'm not the reason she's dead."

Marcus picked up the ball, tossed it in the air. "You know what I remember about that bear?" he asked, hitting it toward me with unexpected force. "I remember you sat with it for hours, even after it was gone. You wouldn't leave it alone in the dark."

The ball hit my racket with a sharp crack.

"Some things," Marcus said, "you just have to let yourself bear. Until it doesn't break you anymore."

We played until the floodlights clicked on, until my arms burned, until I was too exhausted to feel anything else. Some wounds don't heal. But maybe, like Marcus said, you learn to carry them.