Water Under the Bridge

The padel court smelled of rubber and desperation. Elena adjusted her grip on the racket, sweat already pooling at the base of her spine despite the morning chill.

'You're still holding it wrong,' Marcus said from the other side of the net. He hadn't changed in three years — still the same measured patience, the same way he looked at her like she was a puzzle he'd almost solved.

'And you're still giving unsolicited advice.' Elena's voice came out sharper than intended.

They'd been something once. Friends, then more, then nothing at all. The fade had been slow, like water erosion — imperceptible until the damage was done.

Marcus served. The ball hit the wire mesh fencing with a dull thud.

'Your ex-husband called me,' he said, as if discussing the weather.

Elena missed the return entirely. 'What?'

'He called. Asked if we were still...' Marcus gestured between them. 'Whatever we were.'

The club pool shimmered beyond the court's glass wall. Water always made her think of that night — their last night, three years ago. They'd stood in her kitchen, both soaked from the sudden storm that had caught them walking back from dinner. 'I can't do this anymore,' she'd said. 'I can't be your friend when I want—'

She'd never finished. Some things were better left unsaid.

'I told him I hadn't seen you in years,' Marcus continued, hitting another serve. 'Which was technically true. Until today.'

'Why did you agree to play?' The question escaped before she could stop it.

Marcus caught the ball on the bounce. His eyes held something she recognized — weariness, affection, the same complicated weight she carried.

'Because you asked, Elena. You never ask.'

The revelation hit her like cold water. She'd sent that invitation as a joke, expecting him to decline. The fact that he'd shown up — that after everything, he still showed up —

'The game,' she said, voice thick. 'Let's just finish the game.'

But as they played, Elena found herself noticing things: how Marcus's laugh lines had deepened, the gray at his temples, the way his hand still trembled slightly when he thought she wasn't looking. The water in the pool caught the morning sun, fracturing into impossible patterns.

Some bridges burned for good reasons. Others — perhaps — were worth rebuilding.

'After this,' Marcus said, wiping sweat from his forehead, 'do you want to get coffee? Like old times?'

Elena considered the friend she'd lost, the water she'd cried, the game she'd been playing with herself for three years. She adjusted her grip.

'Only if you promise to stop critiquing my backhand.'