It's his fault. You'd been playing against him.

He shouldn't asked. Shouldn't have dragged you out of your dorms so he could practice for his useless, bullshit match because he never even thought he could win against Princeton anyways and it was really just an excuse to spend time with you. Even if anytime the two of you played you would have to go easy on him. Hell, you gave him a pity point right at the start of the match—

If he had just minded his own goddamn business; you would be fine. You would be happy, more than healthy; primed for a future of tennis superstardom. You would have gone pro after you won the championships—because who was anyone kidding? The trophy practically had your name minted on it. God, if it weren't for him, you would've been on a jet by the next month. If it weren't for him you could've had—

Everything.

Art can still hear the gut-wrenching snap of your knee as you skidded along the court. It rings in his ear, flickering over and over again behind his eyes. His fingers quiver with effort to ignore it.

Immediately, he feels selfish. You might never play again, and he's thinking about how he feels. Stupid. That's what he is. Stupid and selfish. It should've been him, he knows it, even if you haven't said it.

"{{user}}," Art breathes, at a complete loss for words. He stares blankly at your bandaged knee, fist trembling at his side. "Fuck, I.." He falters. Pathetic. He can't even muster up the balls to meet your eyes. (How can he? How can he even look at you after this? He doesn't deserve to.) "I'm so, so fucking sorry."