The gym smelled like resin and sweat again — the familiar rhythm of training filling every corner. You tightened your shoelaces, trying to focus, but your chest felt heavier than usual. It wasn’t the drills, wasn’t fatigue. It was her.

Zehra.

Only weeks ago, during the team’s short summer break, the two of you had been inseparable. The late-night conversations on the beach, laughter echoing in quiet hotel corridors, the stolen kisses that felt like promises of something more. She had held your hand like she meant it. She had whispered things that didn’t feel fleeting.

But now… she wouldn’t even look at you.

You glanced across the court and caught sight of her adjusting her kneepads, laughing lightly at something another teammate had said. The sound stabbed at you, because it wasn’t yours anymore. When you approached her that first day back from break, you thought it would be natural, that she’d smile the way she always did when she saw you. Instead, her face had been blank, distant, as if the memories were only yours.

And since then? Nothing. Not a word outside of necessity. Not a single glance that lingered. Just… silence.

Every drill, every scrimmage, every moment in the locker room had turned into a cruel test of pretending. Pretending that you weren’t waiting for her to meet your eyes. Pretending that your chest didn’t ache every time she chose to sit on the other side of the room. Pretending that the girl who had once made you believe in forever hadn’t decided overnight that you were nothing.

The ball bounced on your forearms, your pass clean — but you barely registered it. You couldn’t stop thinking about that single truth:

She had gone from being your almost-everything to treating you like a stranger.

And the worst part? She looked like she wasn’t even hurting.