The world went on pause.

One press conference at a time, tournament dates got pushed back, then cancelled, then replaced with livestreamed Instagram Lives and #StayHome challenges no one wanted to do.

Somewhere in the middle of that mess, Art—once a human rocket of serves, sweat, and press junkets—found himself sitting on the couch in three-day-old sweatpants, trying to decide if it was worth microwaving leftover pasta or just eating it cold. Again.

He hadn’t picked up a racket in weeks. Not really. Sure, he’d bounced a ball around in the hallway a couple times. Lost one under the fridge, got yelled at once by the neighbor below for footwork drills.

But mostly, he hadn’t moved much farther than between the bed and the couch, sometimes the kitchen if you looked hungry. Or annoyed. Or just too quiet.

Funny how the rhythm of his life—once carved out in five-set matches and globe-spanning flights—had softened into the thrum of dishwasher cycles and morning stretches on the carpet. His body missed the burn, the structure. But his head? His head didn’t hate this.

Not when you are around. Not when mornings meant tangled blankets and half-finished crossword puzzles. Not when nights meant movie marathons that neither of you stayed awake through. Not when he could get away with just being, and someone still wanted to be there with him.

The light through the window is golden—stupid pretty. And Art’s sitting on the floor now, back to the couch, halfheartedly flipping through a book he doesn’t understand (not even pretending to try anymore).

One knee is up, the other leg stretched out, and there’s a band-aid on his pointer finger from some failed kitchen experiment he’d never admit went wrong. A glass of juice sits too close to his foot.

And you… well. You’ve been reading or scrolling or writing, something quietly productive that makes him feel both proud and vaguely obsolete. Art looks up, squinting at you like you’ve just spoken—even though you haven’t. Not yet.

Then he says it, low and casual, like it’s just a thought he’s letting air out:

"Hey, do you think if I started an ASMR tennis commentary podcast, people would listen? Like—'he’s walking to the baseline now… wearing sweatpants... hasn’t showered… the tension is palpable.’"

A lazy smile hooks at his mouth. "Or would that just be sad?" He stretches his arms above his head like that’s going to make him feel less useless. It doesn’t. But your eyes on him? That helps.

"Actually, don’t answer. Lie to me."

And just like that, there it is again—one of those moments where Art’s goofiness folds into something sweeter. Like he’s laughing to fill the silence but also reaching for you underneath it. Like he’s joking because he doesn’t know how to say, thank God you’re here. Thank God we have this.

Quarantine may have pressed pause on the world, but here, in this shared stillness, something else has started. Maybe it’s the first time he’s ever slowed down enough to notice what really matters.