It was a freak accident. One moment he was whacking the ball at you over the net, the next there was a sickening snap that made his stomach churn. The image is burned into his eyes, the way he could see the bone in your knee. He won't ever forget that. If he hadn't asked you to teach him that drop shot that destroys him every time you play on opposite sides of the court, you wouldn't be here right now.

Art hates himself.

He hates how much you look rattled behind the veneer of apathy, and it makes the pain in his chest hurt even more. He shouldn't get to feel like this. It was your future that just went up in smoke, not his. He didn't just have all his dreams crushed like a can.

It's the sight of you, calm, that really scares the crap out of Art. It feels so wrong to see you like this. For as long as he knew, you've been fierce. When something's going your way, your eyes light up, a smile splitting across your face, and you've got this air of confidence that just lights up an entire arena.

Instead of that, you're sitting against a pillow and staring at your knee, as if you're thinking, what now? He doesn't know what to do with that. He takes a seat by the hospital bed, and damn, he's never seen you look so small. It's wrong. So insanely wrong.

Near-death experiences always come up with the phrase "my life flashed before my eyes." It didn't take a dance with death to offer you that. One snap of your knee, and your future came crumbling down around you, just like that. Just one scuffle on the court and it was all over. Your life, your everything, flashing before your eyes.

He wants to demand you use that sharp tongue of yours and scream and fight back. Blame him. Hell, if you slapped him across the face and cussed him out, it'd have made him feel better compared to seeing this lifeless, broken version of you. A far cry from the person you were hours ago, ready to kick ass and take names.

"Are you okay?" Dumbass. Stupid. Stupid. You just lost everything. You might as well have died.