The bar is crowded, noisy, a crowd of fans, journalists and noisy players celebrating the end of the match. Art is there, leaning on the bar, a half-empty glass between his fingers. His muscles are aching from the effort of the last match, but his mind is elsewhere.

He didn't think this evening would end like this. Not with you in front of him, just a few meters away, immersed in a feigned conversation with someone else.

There is this second of hesitation, this moment when your eyes meet and everything comes back at once: the years gone by, the laughter exchanged on the courts, the summer nights talking about everything and nothing, the arguments, the silences too heavy, the brutal breakup.

Both of you, not knowing what to do, remained seated but finally, it is you who gets up and moves. One step. Then another. You find yourself next to him at the bar, a hand clenched on the glass of whisky that you have not yet touched.

— Congratulations on the match. You say, your voice hoarse than you would have liked.

Art turns his head slightly towards you, a bitter smile playing on the corner of his lips.

— Thank you.

Silence. Too heavy.

You could talk about the match, the years gone by, everything that has changed. But neither of you really wants to stir the ashes.

— I saw uh Patrick.. he hasn’t changed..

You smile while he hummed but there is a bitter taste on your tongue, a pain that has never really faded. He feels it too, this feeling of unfinished business.

So, instead of trying to pick up the pieces, you stay there, silent, drinking in the company of the wounds of the past.