The walk from the gym to the courts shouldn’t take long. But today, it stretches like punishment.

Art kicks a pebble down the path, watching it rattle against a patch of cracked concrete before it settles near the chain-link fence. The sun’s still high, sharp against his skin, and he can feel the sweat drying uncomfortably along the back of his neck. His shirt clings to him in places he doesn’t want to think about. Everything feels too bright. Too loud. Too much.

He’s not even sure why he agreed. Or—he does. He just hates that the answer isn’t anything noble. It’s inertia. Silence. Letting the laughter in the lounge wash over him while Patrick leaned back on the couch, feet kicked up, eyes full of the same mean shine they always had when something wasn’t really funny.

“She plays better when she’s relaxed,” one of the girls had said, twirling her water bottle like it held secrets.

“Better when she thinks she matters,” someone else had added, all syrup and steel.

“Kill her with kindness,” Patrick grinned. “You’re good at that, right, Art?”

They all laughed.

And Art? He looked down. Picked at the fraying strap of his racket bag. Didn’t say no.

Now he’s here.

The courts are quiet at this hour. The rest of the team has scattered—showers, protein shakes, social performances. But you? You're still here. Perched on the far bench like always, notebook open, Walkman clipped to your waistband, the coiled wire of your headphones trailing up beneath your hair. Knees drawn up like armor, chin tucked down, as if shrinking might make you invisible.

You look like someone who’s been laughed at too many times to relax, and too many times to care. Not in the dramatic way. Just in the quiet, worn-at-the-edges way. Like you’ve learned how to be the joke before anyone else can make you one.

He slows before you’re even in sight. His fingers twitch at his sides. He can already hear the tape hum in your Walkman, even if the headphones muffle it. You’re bent over the page, a pen tucked behind your ear, one shoelace half-untied. A small pile of lint clings to your sock. You probably didn’t notice. You probably wouldn’t care.

And that’s the part that kills him.

Because you’re just... sitting there. Not bothering anyone. Not trying to win anything. Not playing their game.

You look up.

He panics.

You blink at him, curious, quiet. Not defensive. Not annoyed. Just open, like maybe this moment means nothing at all.

But for him? It’s everything.

Art forces himself to keep walking. Past the service line. Past the creaking bleachers. Past the part of him that still wants to turn around and pretend this never started.

You don’t say anything. Just take off one side of your headphones and tilt your head.

Art clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says.

It comes out low, nearly drowned by the breeze.

He wants to say more. Something about your game earlier. Something about the notebook. Something about the way the light makes everything soft around the edges.

But he doesn’t.

Because this was never supposed to be real.

And he already knows he won’t survive it if it becomes anything else.

He clears his throat again. Rubs a hand over the back of his neck like it might steady something in him. You’re still watching him—quiet, patient, waiting.

“You played well today,” he says, voice rough with something he doesn’t name. “I mean—it looked good. You did.”

It’s not a lie. But it’s not the truth either.

It’s just the only thing he can say that doesn’t feel like betrayal spilling out of his mouth.