Water Marks

The last time we played padel, you sliced the ball into my back—'accidentally,' you said, though your smile didn't reach your eyes. That was three months ago. Now I'm standing at the edge of the infinity pool at this solo resort I booked on impulse, watching another couple play padel on the court below. She laughs when he misses. He doesn't hit her with the ball.

I step into the pool. The water is colder than expected, shocking my skin, and I begin swimming laps with the desperate rhythm of someone trying to outpace their own thoughts. At the far end, I flip and push off the wall, my palms stinging against the rough tiles. Somewhere between laps, I realize I'm not swimming to get fit or even to relax. I'm swimming because, for the first time in months, no one is watching.

You used to comment on everything—my stroke technique, my breathing, the way my palm didn't properly cup the water. 'You're doing it wrong,' you'd say from the lounge chair, never dipping a toe in. Criticism wrapped as coaching. That was your pattern, your currency. The padel court was just another arena for it.

Now, in the silence between breaths, I understand something obvious and terrible: you didn't love me. You loved how I looked when I tried to please you.

I stop swimming and tread water, watching the sunset paint the palm fronds gold against the purple sky. A staff member approaches the edge with a towel and a smile, and for a moment I consider inviting him for a drink. Instead, I thank him and climb out, water streaming from my palms like I've washed something away.

Tomorrow I'll play padel on that court below. I'll probably miss every shot. But no one will be watching to correct me, and that, I think, might be what winning feels like.