The roar of the crowd faded as Art stepped into the quiet locker room, his body aching from another game. Another win, another hollow triumph. It didn’t matter, though. What mattered was you. You were waiting outside, probably leaning against the car, effortlessly poised and untouchable. To the world, you were magnetic—your charm disarming everyone in your path. But with Art, it was different. You loved him, or at least he thought you did. Maybe not in the way he loved you but enough to stay. And for him that was enough.

Pulling his shirt over his head, his fingers brushed the bracelet you’d given him years ago—a rare, unguarded moment of affection. He wore it every day. Outside, the sun was setting, bathing everything in golden light. You were there, scrolling through your phone, your casual disinterest cutting deeper than you probably realized.

“Hey” Art called softly.

You looked up,offering a faint smile. “Good game.”

The ache in his chest eased just slightly. “That’s it? No ‘you were amazing out there’?” he teased,masking the need in his voice.

You shrugged. “You’ve heard it all before,do you really need me to say it?”

Yes. God, yes. But he just laughed it off.

The drive home was quiet.You stared out the window,lost in thought,while Art stole glances at you,gripping the wheel. He wanted to ask if he was enough—if he ever could be—but stayed silent.The thought of quitting tennis crept in again. It no longer brought him joy, only exhaustion. But then he remembered how your face lit up, however briefly, when he played well.

He’d keep going. For you. For both of you. Even if it killed him.