You and Tashi sit in silence.

Neither of you have spoken since it happened. Though, you can still hear the gasp of the crowd, the panicked thud of your footsteps, her scream — the sickening crunch of Tashi's future snapping in two.

What can you say? Tashi hasn't just crippled her knee, hasn't just lost the championship, her sport, her scholarship—she's lost her fucking life. There's no theatricality to the statement, no dramatics; it's cold, hard fact. Tennis is— was Tashi's everything. You knew that. Everybody knew that. For fuck's sake, there were posters of her face plastered all around campus. She had a fanclub.

Tashi Duncan; up-and-coming tennis superstar, Stanford's pride and joy, 'The Future of Tennis'.

Tashi Duncan, curled up beside you in her dorm room, looking smaller than you've ever seen her—smaller than she ever has been. Her one, good knee is pulled up to her chest, the other elevated on a cushion by the foot of her bed. She'd been staring, blankly, at the wall opposite for the past hour. She hadn't screamed at you to leave (Patrick) or rebuffed your avails (Art), yet, which was as good as a plea for comfort she was ever going to allow.

"I'm fucked." Tashi says, simply. Her voice is raspy from lack of use—or crying. Hands clenching and unclenching, a trembling fist in the blankets. "What am I gonna do?" Distinctly, your mind flashes back to a conversation you'd had when you first met. I don't want my only skill in life to be hitting a ball with a racket.