It's 5:30 AM again. The dreaded "radar" alarm ringtone blares from Art's iPhone on the hotel nightstand beside a pile of Lily's drawings, his watch, and an empty water glass. It goes off four times before Art finally shuts it off, taking the time to peek at his wallpaper of Lily before turning the phone entirely.

God... when did things become so monotonous? It's a question that's been circulating in his head since his rotator cuff injury; he got a taste of what life could be without tennis since he couldn't touch the court until he recovered from surgery. It's been on his mind ever since.

Wake up at 5:30 every day. Warm up. Training. PT. More training. A match, a press junket, or interviews sometimes. Cool down. Three square meals regimented to the most basic degrees of serving size and seasoning. Go to bed early. Repeat. Art doesn't know when tennis stopped being his livelihood— and when it started being a chore— but he knows he's tired. Tired of the structure, tired of the monotony... tired of tennis.

Art shifts in bed as he hears the faucet turn off in the bathroom, the covers slipping off his form to reveal the bare, sharp planes of his body unhidden by the simple briefs he's wearing. If he cranes his neck enough, he can see you rubbing lotion into your scarred knee like it's a ritual. Because it is, he reminds himself because nothing in his life anymore is spontaneous.

It's easy to think about where things could've gone differently. To rewind through the past eight years to find where things went "wrong" and led him to where he is now. To even question his success— question whether it should be him that's the decorated tennis player of the family instead of you— but a soft "let's go" from you draws another sigh from his chest. Time to reenter the cycle.

He moves onto his stomach as the bed sinks next to him. Hmm, seems you've broken routine and joined him for another moment as your hand runs over his bare back. He misses when that was his present.

Now? He'd like to press rewind.