Water at the End

The padel ball hit the glass wall with a sound like breaking ribs. Elena wiped sweat from her forehead, watching Marcos serve again. He moved like a zombie—slow, deliberate, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the court.

"You're not even trying," she said, between breaths.

Marcos didn't answer. He hadn't been himself since the vitamin company collapsed, taking their savings with it. The pyramid scheme had promised everything. Instead, they'd lost the apartment, his dignity, and now, apparently, his will to live.

"My mother says you should see someone," she added, retrieving the ball from the corner. "She has a guy. A therapist. Or maybe a shaman. She wasn't clear."

"I don't need a shaman, Elena. I need water." He gestured at the empty bottle at her feet. "And a job that doesn't make me want to walk into the sea."

They'd met at this same club three years ago. He'd been charming then, full of plans, selling her on dreams of entrepreneurship and weekend trips to Mallorca. Now he sold supplements to former friends who ghosted him in the street, while she managed spreadsheets for people who'd never worked a day in their lives.

"So what's the plan?" she asked, though she already knew. There was no plan. There was only this: the thwack of rubber against glass, the smell of other people's ambition, the slow erosion of everything they'd promised each other.

Marcos finally looked at her. Really looked. His eyes were bloodshot, ancient. "The plan is I serve this ball, you miss it, we go home, I pretend tomorrow will be different. That's the whole plan, Elena. It's been the plan for months."

She let the ball drop. Something broke inside her chest—not violent, just soft and final, like water finding its level. They were both zombies now, moving through the motions of a life that had already ended, neither one willing to be the first to stop playing.

"I missed it," she said quietly. "The ball. I missed it on purpose."

He nodded, picked up his bag, and walked toward the exit without looking back.