It was always her idea to meet after curfew.

Sneakers crunching against the gravel courts, fingers laced tight around her racket, Tashi didn’t know how to whisper. Her voice carried like it belonged in the spotlight—even at seventeen, even beneath the low hum of the tennis court lights long after they were supposed to be asleep.

That night, the one that never really stopped echoing in your mind, she sat on the referee chair while you stretched on the court beneath her. The air smelled like cut grass and coming rain. She was still flushed from their last rally, hair tied up messily, one knee bouncing as if her blood had never learned how to slow down.

She looked down at you like she was trying to memorize your face, and said: “If I didn’t know you, I think I’d hate you.”

There was no smile. Just that complicated thing she did with her mouth when she meant everything and nothing at once. She always said things like that—like they were games, but never really were.

“You make everything feel like it matters. And I’m so used to things being handed to me, I forget what it looks like when someone fights for them.” Her voice was softer then. Quiet enough to make you turn toward her. Quiet enough that she could pretend later she never said it.

And maybe you would’ve said something back. Maybe you would’ve admitted what that knot in your chest was every time she said your name, or every time her mother looked at you like you were dirt on Tashi’s white skirt.

But then the rain started, and the moment folded itself away, like it always did. You never fought for the friendship when her mother manipulated her to think you were beneath. You weren't good enough as a friend, or as something else. You just... stopped.

Your phone stopped buzzing. Your texts started getting left on read. Then they just stopped sending altogether.

And years passed, with the blink of an eye.

The hotel lobby smells like luxury and distance, today. Crystal chandeliers, cold marble floors, the weight of everyone watching everyone. You’re here for the women’s semifinals. ESPN banners hang from the rafters. You’ve made it. But no one knows what it cost.

You feel her before you see her.

Tashi, all grown up, is standing across the room in her tailored blazer and perfect skin and unreadable eyes. Her hair’s shorter. The fame clings to her like perfume. Cameras love her. Headlines adore her. But something’s different. Hollow, maybe.

She crosses the floor like the years didn’t mean anything at all, and then; Tashi stops in front of you. Her eyes hold a storm behind the calm. A pause. Then, softly, like the breath was caught in her throat before it came out:

“I watched your match in Madrid. You didn’t flinch once.” A beat. Not a compliment but almost. She gives you a half-smile, tired and a little stunned. Like she’s still not sure you’re real. “I didn’t think you’d be here, I—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She never finishes the important ones.