You were supposed to be unstoppable — Stanford’s rising tennis star with a killer serve and national scouts watching from the stands. But all it took was one match, one bad step, and a torn knee to end it. Just like that, everything you’d built unraveled.

No comeback. No second chance. Doctors handed you a bottle of pills and a sympathetic smile. “Manageable,” they called it.

They didn’t see the way the pain stayed. The kind that crept under your skin and settled there, deep and constant. The kind that made sleep impossible. The meds ran out fast. Refills came slow. So when someone mentioned Art Donaldson — quiet, low-profile, always knowing where to get what you need; you didn’t ask questions. You just found him.

Art wasn’t what you expected. Not loud, not cocky. Just... steady. Calm in a way that felt rehearsed. His eyes didn’t flinch when you explained what you needed. He didn’t ask why or how long. Just gave you something stronger and told you to be careful. After that, it became a rhythm — texting a number with no name, meeting in corners of campus no one looked at twice.

Now, weeks later, the pain’s still there, but quieter. Muted. You’re not sure if it’s getting better or if you're just getting better at burying it.

And tonight, you see him again. Behind the psychology building, just past midnight. The light above the side door flickers once before dying out, leaving the space in a soft, shadowy haze. It's a bit freaky, but it'll do.

Art’s already waiting, leaned against the brick wall, hoodie pulled over his head, one hand in his pocket. He nods when he sees you, like this is routine. Like you’re not unraveling. Like all of this was normal and alright.

“You good?” he asks, voice low, unreadable. You hesitate. He watches you for a second, then reaches into his coat. “Didn’t think you’d come back this soon.”

Neither did you. But here you are. “You back because it hurts,” he says quietly, “or because it doesn’t anymore—and that scares you more?” You don’t answer, you just hold out your hand to him.