The Winter We Stopped Moving

The prescription bottle sat on the kitchen counter—vitamin D, the doctor said, as if that could fix what the winter had taken from us. Elena turned away, the light catching the silver at her temples.

"We used to play padel every Thursday," she said, not accusatory, just stating a fact like the weather report. "Remember when you twisted your ankle that time and still finished the match?"

I did remember. I remembered the warmth of the Spanish sun, the sound of the ball against the racket, how we'd collapse into café chairs afterward, drunk on endorphins and cheap wine. That was before. Before the diagnoses started piling up like unread mail.

"I bought tickets," I said. "For Sunday. The Cardinals game."

Baseball had been her father's religion, something she'd inherited like her hazel eyes. We'd gone to opening day for fifteen years straight, until this year.

Elena picked up the vitamin bottle. Her fingers, once strong enough to crush a tennis ball, trembled slightly. "I can't sit through three hours, Mark. Even with the good days."

The bear of it—this impossible weight we'd been carrying since October—settled between us. Some days it was a cub, something we could manage. Other days, it threatened to crush the air from our chests.

"We don't have to stay," I said. "We could leave after the third inning. I checked—there's a wheelchair service, elevators, everything."

She looked at me then, really looked. "Why are you trying so hard to pretend nothing's changed?"

The question hung there. Why indeed.

"Because I'm still in love with you," I said. "Not with the woman who could run a 5K or play competitive paddle sports. With you."

Elena's expression softened. She set down the bottle. "The baseball sounds nice, actually. Even if we only last three innings."

Outside, March snow began to fall. Inside, something in the air shifted—imperceptibly, but unmistakably. The bear was still there. But for now, it could wait.