Three Serves Left

I was basically a zombie.

Fourth consecutive all-nighter will do that to you. Caught in that scrolling infinite loop until 4 AM, eyes burning, brain feeling like it had been microwaved. But here I was, at 9 AM Saturday, standing on the padel court with Leo, my best friend since seventh grade.

"You good, man?" Leo asked, bouncing the ball. His racquet hit it with this satisfying *thwack* sound. "You look dead."

"I'm *chillin'*," I lied, wiping sweat off my forehead. "Just tired."

The truth was, things had been weird between us lately. Ever since he started hanging with the popular crowd — the ones who actually got invited to parties and didn't spend Friday nights overthinking their crush's Instagram stories — I felt like I was becoming background noise in his life. Like a goldfish swimming in circles in a bowl while the room moves on without you.

"Your serve," he said.

I grabbed my racquet. My hands were shaking. Not from the exhaustion — well, maybe that too — but from what I needed to say.

"Leo," I started, then stopped. The ball sat there on my side of the court, waiting.

"Yeah?"

"Are we still tight? Or am I just, like... your backup friend now?"

The silence stretched. A car drove past on the street outside. Someone's dog barked somewhere.

Leo dropped his racquet. Just let it fall onto the court surface.

"Bro," he said, stepping closer to the net. "You think I'd be here at 9 AM on a Saturday if you weren't my main? I turned down Mia's party for this."

My brain, functioning at maybe 20% capacity, tried to process this. "Wait, seriously? Mia's party?"

"Yes, you absolute zombie. Now hit the ball before I change my mind."

I served it into the net. Naturally.

Leo laughed. "That was tragic."

"Whatever," I said, but I was smiling too. "Zombie reflexes."

"Goldfish memory, more like," he shot back. "Remember when we tried to win one at that carnival last summer?"

"Don't remind me. I spent forty bucks."

"And got zero goldfish. Exactly."

We played another hour. I was terrible, but it didn't matter. Some friendships survive parties. Some survive new friend groups. Ours was apparently strong enough to survive me being a sleep-deprived mess who couldn't serve to save my life.

"Same time next week?" Leo asked as we walked to our bikes.

"Yeah," I said. "I'll try not to look like I crawled out of a grave this time."

"No promises," he grinned. "But hey — at least you're not watching from a bowl, right?"

"Touché."