Unspooled

The coaxial cable dangled from my bedroom wall like a dead snake, its end frayed where I'd ripped it from the wall during last night's fight with Dad. He didn't get it. Why would I need cable when everything worth watching lived on my phone anyway?

"You're always running," he'd said. "From conversations, from family time, from everything real."

Maybe he was right. I'd been running since middle school—first from the bullies who called me "Vitamin D deficient" for never going outside, then from anything that felt like effort. But today, something pulled me out of my room.

"You coming?" Maya stood at my front door, holding a padel racquet like she'd been born with it in her hand. We'd been best friends since kindergarten, but lately she'd been drifting toward the popular crowd, the ones who played sports and had weekend plans that didn't involve gaming marathons.

"Padel? Seriously?" I asked, pulling on my sneakers.

"Coach needs one more player. Besides," she grinned, "you could use some actual vitamin D."

The court was nothing like I expected. Glass walls, synthetic turf, and this weird energy that made my hands shake. But when Maya served the ball—*thwack* against the wall, *thwack* against my racquet—I didn't feel like the awkward kid who'd spent three years hiding behind screens. I felt solid. Grounded.

"You've got this, Leo!" Maya called out, and something in my chest unspooled. All those years of running from everything, and all I'd needed was someone to stop chasing me and start playing *with* me instead.

After the game, drenched in sweat and grinning like an idiot, I found myself actually wanting to go home. Not to my room with the frayed cable and glowing screens, but to the kitchen where Dad was probably making dinner.

"Hey Dad," I'd say. "About that cable. Maybe we can get it fixed. And maybe... maybe you could teach me to play padel?"

For the first time in forever, I wasn't running anymore. I was exactly where I needed to be.