to the man in the future, love you infinity

The interior was even more ornate, which you didn’t think was possible considering the intricately carved wooden door you entered through. Your breath caught in your chest when your heels clicked on the decadent marble floors, eyes dancing around the house to admire the crystal chandeliers, expansive windows, and large paintings hung on the walls. Unimpressed by his usual surroundings, Patrick led you through the house towards the reception room as you gasped.

“Is that a real Francis Bacon?” you exclaimed, staring at the famous painting as your boyfriend pulled you through his house. 

“Probably,” Patrick replied. “Otherwise my dad paid $86 million for a really good replica.”

“Your dad is the guy who bought the Francis Bacon painting last year? I learned about this in my art history class last quarter,” you realised, wide eyes greedily inspecting the renowned artwork. “I know I’m repeating myself, but you’re really fucking rich, Pat!”

“You’re rich too.”

You shook your head, laughter bubbling from your lips. “My mother made money in tennis and has some kind of a wealth manager who invests it so she can stay rich. We don’t have expensive paintings or crystal chandeliers. You’re old money rich,” you accused Patrick in a hushed whisper. “You’re so rich that your parents aren’t going to approve of me!” 

The musical sound of Patrick’s cackles echoed through the large hall. “Trust me, they’re going to approve of you more than they approve of me,” Patrick insisted, glancing back and smiling reassuringly at you. “Besides, my parents really aren’t that intense about who I date.”

“Your parents are going to think I used my wiles to seduce you and steal your family fortune,” you said, ignoring his encouragement. “Honestly, I’m kind of mad I didn’t think of it myself.”

“You’re overreacting,” Patrick accused you. “Your house is big.” 

“Yeah, my house is pretty big,” you admitted. “But not compared to this! You should provide headphones for a guided tour, like the ones they have in museums. It looks like Mr Darcy should be living here and fending women off,” you emphasised how beautiful and humongous his house was. “Is that an original Jeff Koons balloon dog sculpture?!”

“All right, Elizabeth Bennett, settle down,” Patrick teased, coming to a halt outside a set of deep brown wooden double doors. 

He was getting noticeably anxious. You noticed him shifting nervously from foot to foot, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. The hand that clasped yours shook, and you watched as Patrick swallowed hard, the nervous gulp audible in the quiet room. His forehead glistened with a faint sheen of sweat, and he kept wiping his free palm on his suit trousers. Patrick’s eyes – unusually dark and nervous – had a distant, unfocused look, as if he was lost in the maze of his anxious thoughts.

Worriedly, you asked, “Pat?”

“I always feel like I’m ten years old when I visit my parents,” Patrick confessed quietly. “I know they love me and I’m a lot luckier than most people, but I just know they think tennis is a waste of time. It’s like they’re rooting for me to fail so I can join the family business, get a cushy job, and continue the family tradition of being a rich asshole.”

“Don’t they know you can still be a rich asshole if you have a successful tennis career?” you teased, trying to cheer your boyfriend up. Patrick chuckled a little. “We can leave whenever you want to. We don’t even have to go in at all.”

“They’ve been helping me out and paying for my accommodation on tour,” Patrick admitted. “I haven’t been winning enough competitions to cover that, so I kind of owe them.”

“Fuck that,” you declared. “Fuck owing them. The Nike sponsorship more than covers accommodation costs, you can just stay with me from now on,” you offered. “I don’t want you to put yourself through this if it’s unnecessary.”

“I have to face the music eventually,” Patrick decided, sighing defeatedly. “It’s one small party. If we do this, I don’t have to show my face until this time next year, so it’s worth it.”

“If you’re sure.” You smiled encouragingly at your boyfriend. His deep blue eyes searched yours, looking for a semblance of comfort. When Patrick was anxious, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he squinted, and his lips pursed worriedly. “You’re incredible, Patrick. If they don’t see it then it’s their loss,” you insisted. “Ready?”

Patrick nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Nothing could have prepared you for the sight that greeted you when you and Patrick opened the doors and stepped into the reception room of his parents’ mansion. You were immediately enveloped by the lavish party. Waiters in crisp white uniforms manoeuvred through the crowd of guests, holding silver platters with tiny food and flutes of champagne. A crystal chandelier cast an enchanting glow over the room. Freshly cut flowers adorned the room in crystal vases, and the guests at the party were dressed to the nines. In the corner, a pianist played a soft song on the grand piano, blending in with the quiet conversation and bursts of laughter. 

“What did you say your dad’s job was?” you wondered as a waiter stopped for you to take a champagne flute. 

“His company works in Financial Management,” Patrick replied, grabbing and downing his champagne in one go. You elbowed him in the ribs, a silent yet stern reminder that he had to pace himself, and he nearly spit out his drink in surprise. “I don’t know what the fuck it means, but he gets a boatload of money for dealing with other people’s money.”

“Right.” You nodded, sipping your champagne and nervously scanning the room. 

“Should we get introductions out of the way?” Patrick wondered, fiddling with the top button of his tuxedo jacket. You nodded, giving him a reassuring kiss on the cheek before he led you to a small group of adults by the small of your back. “Mom, Dad,” he greeted two ornately dressed individuals.

“Darling,” Patrick’s mother greeted him with two air kisses, and his father nodded. “So good to see you.” She eyed you next, and you were grateful Patrick had warned you to wear your best dress and jewellery–and that your house was only a half hour away despite being in a different state. Mrs Zweig had looked at your dress with an approving smile, her eyes shining as she nodded slightly in appreciation. “You must be Y/N.”

“This is Y/N Y/L/N, my girlfriend,” Patrick introduced you. 

You reached out to shake his parents’ hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr and Mrs Zweig,” you said earnestly. “You have a beautiful home. I love your Francis Bacon in the foyer.”

“Thank you,” Mr Zweig replied. “It’s marvellous, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely exquisite,” you agreed.

“These are my cousins Jess and Alex,” Patrick added, motioning to the dark-haired man and woman beside his parents. They looked older than you and Patrick but still below thirty-five. 

“You look incredibly familiar,” Jess admitted as she shook your hand.

“Y/N just graduated from Stanford, she started playing tennis professionally at the start of the year,” Patrick added, knowing that was where his family recognised you from. It felt nice to brag about your accomplishments, but there was a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knew your achievements would translate to his failures in his parents’ eyes. 

“Of course, I know you,” Alex exclaimed when you shook his hand, eyes lighting up in recognition. “I read about you in the New York Times last month! You’re the Stanford student who made it to the semi-finals of Indian Wells and the French Open! Apparently, they were the first professional tournaments you ever played in.”

You tried to smile, feeling awkward at the sudden bout of attention as heads turned in your direction and whispers broke out across the room. “That’s me,” you confirmed humbly. “I didn’t realise the Times wrote an article about me.”

“You’re a hometown favourite, they gushed about you for nearly an entire page,” Jess added, looking impressed. “I love that dress, by the way, who made that?”

You glanced down at your dress, a strapless pale yellow gown with pink and green beads arranged to look like floral vines, and said, “Elie Saab, a few years ago.”

“Couture, no doubt,” Jess mumbled, nodding in approval. “Gorgeous.”

“Thank you.”

“How on earth did you manage to become a semifinalist at two tournaments in your last semester at Stanford?” Mr Zweig wondered. His voice was void of emotion, but the raise of his eyebrows and the way his body inched closer to you betrayed his genuine interest. 

“Well, Indian Wells took place during the first two weeks of my last semester so I got permission to miss those classes,” you explained. “The Coachella Valley is just over an hour from Stanford by plane, so it worked out. The French Open was a little harder because it started two weeks before the last finals week of my college career,” you admitted. Everyone murmured amongst themselves at the dramatic turn of events. You chuckled quietly. “I was just as concerned when I found out. Luckily, my professors graciously gave me access to the lecture materials I missed, and I studied whenever I could find the time during the tournament. When I lost the semi-finals, I got straight on a plane back to school and sat an exam later that day.” 

“She did really well on them all,” Patrick bragged, knowing you weren’t trying to make a big deal out of it. “One professor said it was the best final paper he ever read and submitted it for a nationwide contest. He practically begged her to pursue academia instead of tennis, but she wouldn’t have it.”

“That’s really very impressive,” Mrs Zweig complimented you. She had liked you at first glance based on your attire alone, but hearing how hard you worked only solidified her initial impression of you. “Congratulations on your success so far.”

“Thank you,” you acknowledged, returning Mrs Zweig’s smile.

Mr Zweig, while impressed, didn’t look so happy. “I have to applaud your work ethic and success, but it does make me wonder why Patrick cannot see the same positive results.” You swallowed harshly as the group went quiet. Patrick’s hand curled into a fist as he lowered it from your back, trying to stifle his angry glare. “After all, you did all of that while juggling your final year at one of the most prestigious colleges in the country. Patrick has no such obligations to make arrangements for. Surely you should be doing just as well, if not even better, than your girlfriend. Especially since this is your fourth year on tour with no wins of significance, not even a quarter-final–” Mr Zweig turned to you– “Was it four years at Stanford that taught you to execute your plans for your life?” 

The condescending tone in Mr Zweig’s tone made you open your mouth to protest, but Patrick beat you to it. “Three.”

Mr Zweig frowned. “Pardon?”

“Three years at Stanford. She graduated early,” Patrick explained. 

Mr Zweig’s mouth pursed, and, for a moment, he looked just like Patrick. “Yes, well. Perhaps it has more to do with Miss Y/L/N’s character and persistence than her educational background.”

It both warmed and hurt your heart that Patrick was always proud of you, uplifting you and your hard work even while being berated by his father. Even though his mother seemed to care for Patrick, she never stepped in to defend her son, and you were beginning to understand why your boyfriend didn’t want to come in the first place.

Being there made you realise how lucky you were to have someone on your side in your family. Growing up, your mother put an incredible amount of pressure on you and only ever pointed out your flaws and deficits. Your father, on the other hand, was gracious and encouraging, never failing to remind you that all that mattered was your happiness and well-being. Standing in Patrick’s childhood home and understanding how isolated he was his whole life gave you a new outlook on how Patrick approached relationships. 

Mrs Zweig noted the mounting tension between her husband and only son, placing a hand on Mr Zweig’s arm to capture his attention. “Dear, the Caldwells are waving us over. They’ve been on the fence about that merger because of the financial implications, we ought to–”

“–Yes, of course,” Mr Zweig agreed, rushing off with his wife.

Once they were gone, Patrick finally relaxed. You watched as his clenched fists slackened, the tension draining from his knuckles as he exhaled slowly. The rigid set of his shoulders eased, his chest rising and falling in a steadier rhythm as he consciously slowed his breathing. Patrick’s jaw, previously tight with suppressed anger, gradually relaxed, and a faint, calm expression returned to his face. You stepped forward to comfort him, a hand resting against his cheek as you sent him a mixture of a consoling smile and a wince, sympathising with your boyfriend.

“That was brutal,” Alex mentioned bluntly, ruining the moment. Patrick shut his eyes, kissed your cheek appreciatively, and turned to his cousin. “Man, am I glad I joined the family business. Anyway-” Alex smirked, taking out a silver flask from his pocket– “I’ve got the hard stuff if you need it tonight, Patty. I’ll see you guys later.”

“Nice meeting you,” you said politely as Patrick’s cousins excused themselves to greet some of the other guests. Turning to face your boyfriend, you gently took his hands and smiled sympathetically. “So, those were your parents…”

When Patrick spoke, his voice was low and strained, lacking its usual energy, “Charming, aren’t they?” His normally bright blue eyes had dulled, and the corners of his mouth were turned down, betraying his disappointment. You squeezed Patrick’s hands reassuringly as he sighed heavily. “Believe it or not, that was one of the most civil conversations I’ve ever had with my father.”

“I think I know what you mean,” you admitted. “Ever since my parents divorced a couple years ago, I’ve been able to avoid my mother for the most part. Once in a while, she reaches out and says she wants to catch up, so I meet with her.” Patrick rubbed his thumbs along the back of your hands, nodding for you to continue. “Every single time, she criticises and belittles me instead of trying to find out what’s going on in my life. Eventually, I stopped replying to her texts.”

“Parents, huh?”

“Parents,” you agreed. “Now–” grinning and changing the subject, you put your hands on Patrick’s biceps and kissed him– “Which of these tiny little tarts that I keep seeing on trays is the least disgusting?”

Your efforts were rewarded with rambunctious laughter, and it was nice to see Patrick smile again. “Stay away from anything green, they’re probably spinach or broccoli tarts,” he advised. You grimaced simultaneously. “The best ones are the mushroom tarts, and I know for a fact that my mom keeps backup trays in the kitchen because they’re so popular.” Patrick raised an eyebrow suggestively. 

“To the kitchen,” you proposed, laughing when Patrick peppered kisses across your face before tugging you out the door. 

You wondered if Mr and Mrs Zweig would rescind their approval of you if they could see you sitting on a countertop in their maid’s pantry, hiding with their son as you both ate an entire tray of mushroom tarts by yourselves. You had kicked your heels off, and Patrick had removed his tuxedo jacket and tie, unbuttoning several buttons on his shirt to be more comfortable. The kitchen staff seemed to know Patrick well, and they didn’t bat an eye at him hiding in the pantry, so you assumed this wasn’t his first time escaping his parents’ events. 

“How much time do you spend in here?” you wondered, glancing around the maid’s pantry with an amused grin. “Nobody seems surprised that this is your hiding spot of choice.”

“When I was younger, this was always where I went during parties,” Patrick admitted, passing you another mushroom tart and pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “I used to be too short to sit on the counter, so one of the maids would bring me a stepping stool.”

You laughed, picturing a young Patrick needing help to climb onto the counter to hide from his parents’ obnoxious guests. “That sounds just like something you’d do.”

“One time, Art came home with me for Christmas break, freshman year, and the two of us spent the entire night here while my parents entertained some insufferable family friends and their horrendously irritating dog,” Patrick recalled, shuddering at the memory. “I think it was the first time we got really drunk because we stole something disgusting from the alcohol cabinet.” He chuckled, a fond smile gracing his face. “Art threw up all night long, and I had to pretend he had food poisoning from the brussel sprouts. I think my parents were more concerned about him than they ever were about me when I got sick.”

Your heart dropped at Patrick’s last comment. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

He shrugged noncommittally, trying to appear like his words didn’t affect him. You knew from Patrick’s furrowed brows and pensive expression that his childhood memories still plagued him. 

“The second I realised I had any talent for tennis, I knew it had to be my way out,” Patrick said, placing his hands on your thighs and glancing down as he swallowed harshly. “Turns out talent only gets you so far, though.”

You paused, biting your cheek as you tried to decide whether to speak up or not. While you and Patrick didn’t constantly argue, you did have one disagreement that came up frequently, especially since the ATP and WTA seasons started at the beginning of the year. 

You thought Patrick needed a coach. 

Thanks to your exclusive Nike endorsement, you hired a great coach—recommended by your favourite coach at Stanford—and you had nutritionists and trainers whom you saw almost every day. Without the same funds, Patrick was playing professionally without a coach or team to support him. Even though he was talented and hard-working, it was almost impossible. Patrick was going up against players more experienced than him every tournament, and they all had huge teams at their disposal to help them win. The only person he ever had in his player’s box was you, and sometimes you couldn’t make it because of your own matches. 

On those days, Patrick had nobody cheering him on in his box. 

“You don’t have to get by just on talent,” you said carefully. “I could give you the money for–”

“–No, absolutely not,” Patrick interrupted before you could even get the words out. “I love you, and I know you’re just offering because you want me to succeed, but I have to do this on my own,” he insisted. “Once I start making enough money, I’ll get a coach, trainer, physical therapist, and whatever else you think is necessary. But I want to earn it myself.”

“You would be earning it yourself,” you disagreed with Patrick’s viewpoint. “I don’t have the kind of money to throw at trainers and coaches that they would work with just anyone. If I helped you hire a coach, they would only sign on because they want to be on your team–because you’re an incredible player who has so much potential.”

“I know you’re just trying to help, but I’m sure this is how I want to do it, pretty girl,” Patrick declared. “I love you, and I love how annoyingly persistent you are, but you know I can’t accept that. Besides, you know I’m not the disciplined, stick-to-a-schedule guy. That’s just not me.”

In all honesty, the main reason Patrick kept denying your offers was that he agreed with his father to some extent. It was true that Patrick had never gone to college, had a part-time job, or done anything that would have hindered him from excelling in the professional tennis world. He should have been doing much better in his fourth year on tour. It was difficult to see other American tennis players rise in the rankings while he dwindled at the bottom, occasionally doing so poorly in a tournament that he wasn’t ranked highly enough to participate in the next one. 

Admittedly, things worsened when Art stopped being his friend, and Patrick started ignoring your emails. But the two of you had been dating for almost a year. Having you in his life – actually getting support at his matches and not spending every day feeling lonely and discouraged – should have been the fuel and motivation Patrick needed to get his shit together and start climbing the rankings. He didn’t want to be one of those players who won the Junior tournaments and then faded into oblivion once he went pro.

Most importantly, Patrick only had one more year until Art graduated from Stanford and joined him on the ATP tour. 

“So, what’s it like being a Kennedy?” you joked, changing the subject and emphasising Patrick’s lavish upbringing. 

Patrick chuckled, brushing the crumbs from your dress and placing his hands on the counter on either side of your legs. His lips had curved into a soft, affectionate smile. The kind of smile that lit up his entire face and made his eyes sparkle with fondness. Patrick’s smile had a way of making you feel cherished, the tenderness in his eyes and the slight tilt of his head conveying his deep affection. You mirrored Patrick, putting your hands on his shoulders and tilting your head while you grinned. 

“It wasn’t too bad for the first few years. Luckily when my dad started getting really intense about following his footsteps, they sent me off to boarding school and I had some semblance of freedom,” Patrick admitted. “I met Art, figured out that I was fucking great at tennis, and appreciated the fact that my parents rarely called to ruin my day. Being away from this house was a blessing. It’s all just a little much. The cooks, the maids, the servers, the Francis Bacon painting…”

“The painting is amazing, but it doesn’t really feel like your parents,” you said, squinting as you tried to express your thoughts eloquently.

“It’s not so much that they actually like the painting, they just like telling people they have a Francis Bacon,” Patrick agreed, rolling his eyes. “The night we met, you said something about your mom having a grand piano that’s so precious and historical that she won’t let anyone play it,” he recalled. “It feels like everything in my house exists to be seen by other people–to make them jealous. Even me, growing up. Not so much these days, but I actually prefer it that way.”

You nodded. “It’s a really big house for three people,” you added, wondering how Patrick felt growing up as an only child with an entire floor between him and his parents. “It’s gorgeous, but it doesn’t really feel like anyone lives here.”

“I would never do that for our kids,” Patrick declared. He sounded so sure, so fed up with the house he grew up in, that it startled you. You had no idea that he thought about having kids, nonetheless having them with you. “I want our house to be smaller. Not so small that they don’t get a room to themselves, but something with one dining room and one living room. I always hated not knowing where my parents were because of how huge the house was. When our kids call for us, I want us to be able to hear them,” he explained. 

You could feel your face heating up, suddenly dizzy. It made you flustered to hear that Patrick had such a concrete plan for your future. Not in a bad way; you were happy that when he pictured his life in ten or fifteen years, you were a part of it. You felt a fluttering sensation in your stomach, the familiar feeling of butterflies making you giddy with anticipation of your future with Patrick. Your mind raced with thoughts of him, a constant barrage of images of Patrick cooking dinner with you and driving your kids to school. It made it hard to focus on anything else, and your boyfriend noticed your lack of attention on him. 

“I haven’t freaked you out, have I?” Patrick wondered. 

Your hands, already on his shoulders, pulled Patrick closer as you kissed him. Eyes shutting in bliss, your fingers pressed into the fabric of his button-up shirt as he dragged his hands from the countertop to the small of your back. Patrick whispered your name against your lips, his weight pressing into yours as you both tried to fill an uncontrollable ache. You yearned to be close to him, always yearned to be with him and feel him against you. Hearing him discuss your future, one you wanted just as much as Patrick did, ignited a flame of want that was more desperate than anything either of you had felt before.

“I’m going to marry the fuck out of you one day,” Patrick declared, all tongue and teeth as he kissed you. 

You laughed at his enthusiasm. “Sounds good to me.”

You weren’t sure how it was possible, but it had been almost a year since you started dating Patrick, and you were still in the honeymoon phase. Every day felt like a new adventure, and Patrick brought you so much joy and excitement that you never wanted to be without him. You had graduated less than a week ago and were temporarily living at your dad’s place – your childhood home, which he got in the divorce while your mother moved abroad – with Patrick. It didn’t make sense to get your own place when you would be travelling for the rest of the year, and it was nice to spend time with Patrick and your dad.

The two of them clicked instantly, and your heart warned as you watched their growing friendship. You were so pleased that Patrick finally had a positive male role model, someone who encouraged him, gave him tips to improve his tennis game without judgement and learned the recipes to his favourite meals so Patrick could have a taste of home.

For your whole life, you were grateful for your father. Now, Patrick got to see why. 

The initial spark of your relationship hadn’t dimmed but grew into a steady, glowing flame. When you first started dating, you were worried that everything was intense and explosive because you and Patrick waited for so long before getting together. Maybe it was the anticipation that made your first night together so great, and you didn’t know how to keep chasing that suspense. You were scared that the butterflies and racing heartbeats would go away when the novelty of your relationship wore off, but they were still going strong. 

Patrick just understood you.

He knew you and saw you, and he loved you. It was almost otherworldly, like he could peer into the essence of your being and recognise all your intricacies and quirks. Patrick always wanted you close, keeping a hand on the small of your back, your leg, or holding your hand to maintain contact with you. The two of you were connected in every sense of the word. 

Sometimes, you slipped back into the mask you created for yourself growing up – the one you used in tennis and to please your mother – but Patrick always saw beyond the surface, recognising your true self and making you feel accepted. He understood your silence and laughter, the moments of vulnerability you guarded so fiercely and the dreams you spoke of in hushed tones. You trusted him with your every thought and fear, and he soothed every wound and made them better. 

You fought, especially when you drew back because you were scared of how much you loved him, but Patrick always came back and made the first apology, even when it wasn’t his fault. You hated the word perfect and everything it entailed, but there was no other word to describe him. Patrick was perfect. He was fiery and passionate, and you needed him.

It was as if Patrick had a superhuman assurance that you belonged together. While you had loved Art and thought he could be the one you ended up with, Patrick waited and was never deterred. He always knew you would return to him, so he didn’t worry about it now that he was your boyfriend. Amid the chaos of your breakup with Art and the end of your friendship with Tashi, your mind always drifted back to Patrick, the one person who had always been there for you to talk to in your emails. The night in the hotel a year ago when you ran into Patrick again was like running back home. 

He was your guiding light, and reuniting with him was the only thing that made your life feel like it had purpose, love, and warmth again.

After kissing your lips three more times, Patrick pulled away. His cheeks and ears were flushed a deep pink, and his lips were slightly stained with your lipstick. You reached up to wipe the colour away as Patrick watched you carefully. 

“Would you really want to have kids with me? Me?” His voice was filled with awe and desperation, longing for a future with you that he truly believed in. “You can see us having a family?”

You nodded, your heart racing like it always did when Patrick was nearby. “You’re the only one I see it with,” you promised. 

𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐙-𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐓𝐎𝐍. 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 – 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟑𝟏, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗. 𝟎𝟑:𝟏𝟓𝐏𝐌.

“What if she hates me?” you asked, crossing your arms in front of your chest as you stared at the closed door of the Donaldson family suite. You were too worried about impressing Lily to think about how you had just yelled at the man beside you a couple nights ago. 

“She won’t.”

You gasped as your thoughts spiralled. “What if she thinks I’m boring? Like, what if she looks at me and thinks I’m the least cool person she’s ever seen?! I genuinely don’t think I could live with the shame.” Art let out a hearty laugh, the playful glint in his eyes betraying his amusement. “I’m not kidding, Arthur!” 

Art felt a little jump in his heartbeat when you called him by his full name, just as you used to affectionately do in college. “She’s six. If she thinks you’re uncool, she’ll probably forget about it in an hour,” he retorted. His pale blue eyes sparkled as he scanned your nervous expression. “Besides, Lily already loves you. She’s incredibly bored by anything to do with tennis, but she watches your matches sometimes.”

You frowned, nodding reluctantly. “Is it weird that I’m intimidated by a six-year-old?” you wondered. 

“Not at all. Six-year-olds are terrifying,” Art confirmed. “But Lily’s great and she’s going to love you. She already does, remember?”

“I have to point out that you’re incredibly biassed when you say your kid is great,” you interjected. “But I see your point.”

“Ready?” 

When you nodded, Art opened the door and let you in the suite first. “Y/N!” Tashi’s mother greeted you.

“Mrs Duncan,” you said, gasping at the sight of her. “It’s so good to see you! How are you?”

When she pulled you into a warm hug, you let her. Squeezing your eyes shut, you felt a second of bliss in the motherly love Mrs Duncan always provided you with. She had been like a second mother to you in your teenage years, and you were relieved to see that she was healthy and happily taking care of Lily. 

“Lily, there’s someone who wants to meet you,” Art declared when you and Mrs Duncan finished catching up.

You felt a fluttering sensation in your stomach, the familiar feeling of nervous butterflies. Mrs Duncan squeezed your hand and nodded encouragingly before excusing herself. Your heart pounded with nerves and excitement as you turned around and saw Art sitting on the sofa beside his daughter. Lily Donaldson, a small figure with curly brown hair that looked just like Tashi’s in childhood pictures, had an inquisitive expression and was the picture of your former best friend.

Your breath caught at the sight of her curious eyes. There was so much Tashi in her, and you felt like crying as you realised you never saw her grow up. 

You and Tashi never spoke sentimentally about much other than your future careers and goals growing up, but you always said you wanted to be like aunts to each other’s children.

“Hi Lily,” you greeted her, forcing a warm smile to mask the melancholic nostalgia in your voice. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. You look just like your mom.”

Lily’s brown eyes widened when she recognised you. “You’re Y/N,” she said, her voice high and clear as she grinned excitedly. Her voice was so sweet that your heart immediately softened at the sound of it. 

You laughed, kneeling down to her level in front of the sofa. “That’s me!”

“You’re the lady from the TV and the pictures,” Lily added.

You paused. “Pictures?”

Lily nodded enthusiastically, glancing up at her father for confirmation. “Mommy and Daddy have pictures of you at home. You have the same smile but your hair’s different,” she recalled.

Your eyes shot to Art in surprise. He avoided your gaze, cheeks turning pink as his daughter exposed him and Tashi for having pictures of you. A wave of relief washed over you at the thought that your former best friend and college boyfriend kept your memory alive in their house, regardless of how much time had passed. 

“I know she’s your favourite tennis player, but she’s also my friend,” Art introduced you, smiling encouragingly at Lily from his place beside her. “She’s the one who taught me to make all those bracelets we make together, remember?”

“That's right,” you agreed, smiling softly at Lily. “I used to know your parents a long time ago. I was your mommy’s best friend for five years. That’s a long time, right?”

Lily seemed to consider this. You held your breath as she looked at you. You weren’t sure what she was looking for, but you hoped she would like you. You had no idea why you needed a six-year-old’s approval, but it meant a lot to you. Her eyebrows pulled together, and nose scrunched, and your heart warmed at the familiar expression. In college, you had spent countless hours studying with Tashi, and she had an identical look of intense focus on her face that mirrored Lily’s.

Lily had obviously inherited her mother’s features and mannerisms.

“You don’t have any friends,” Lily accused her father, turning her head and frowning at him. You chuckled shortly, not having expected her response. 

Art frowned, scoffing. “Of course I have friends,” he replied, playfully offended. 

Lily giggled. “I’ve never seen them,” she disagreed. Art joined in with his daughter’s laughter, amused and pleased that she felt like she could be herself around you. 

As the initial nerves began to melt away, you found yourself sitting on the sofa with your ex-boyfriend’s daughter between the two of you, engrossed in conversation. Art sat on Lily’s other side, watching you interact with a contented smile. As he watched the two of you speak, his heart swelled with relief and joy. Art and Tashi always knew that you and Lily would get along, imagining moments like this where laughter and genuine connection bridged the gap between past and present. Seeing Lily’s eyes light up as she talked was a dream realised. The ease with which you both fell into conversation and how she nestled comfortably beside you on the sofa made Art realise just how much he had wanted this introduction to happen. 

“Do you like movies?” Lily questioned suddenly, her eyes wide with anticipation.

“I love movies,” you emphasised, matching her vivacious energy. “What’s your favourite movie?”

“Spiderverse,” she declared immediately. “I’ve watched it a hundred times!”

“Me too! I love the colours,” you said, smiling at how Lily seemed to light up at the mention of her favourite movie. “I like Spider-Ham best, he’s really funny.” Lily laughed in agreement, nearly bouncing in her seat with excitement. “Would you like to watch it together?” 

“Yes!” Lily nearly shouted. “Can we, Daddy?”

Art smiled and nodded. “Of course, sweetheart. Let’s all watch it together,” he agreed readily. 

As Art set up the film on the hotel TV, Lily leaned close to you. “Thank you for watching with me. Daddy’s always busy with tennis so I usually watch it with Mommy.”

Her sweet, cherubic smile caused your heart to swell with affection. You had felt yourself melting at the sight of Lily’s tiny hands clapping in glee, her laughter filling the room with happiness.

“Thank you for letting me join,” you replied, raising your hand for a high-five, which Lily happily obliged. “I’m usually too busy with tennis for movie nights too. I’m really happy to be here with you guys.”

“It’s good to have you here,” Art added. His tone was soft and fond as he admired the picture of you and Lily on the sofa together. 

Less than an hour into the movie, Lily’s head lolled onto your shoulder as she fell asleep. Chuckling quietly, you glanced sideways at Art, who grinned widely.

“I would definitely have kids if I could guarantee they’d be as adorable as her,” you declared, shaking your head in disbelief. “She’s such a sweet kid, Art. You and Tashi did a great job.”

“It’s easy with Lily,” Art waved off your compliment. “I know you think I’m biassed, but she’s the greatest kid in the world.”

“Definitely. She’s got a halo and fluffy wings,” you agreed.

It felt really good to talk to Art like this again. You had broken up over ten years ago but never managed to return to being friends, so this was nice. When you were together in college, it was easy to talk to Art about anything that was on your mind, and this was the closest thing you felt to that comfortable flow of conversation in years.

The decade between that moment and your break up had created a comfortable distance, allowing you both to speak more freely without the weight of past emotions. Art reached for the remote and turned down the volume, letting the movie play in the background as you chatted quietly.

“Did you ever think you were going to have kids with Patrick?” he wondered, putting his shoulder on the backrest and leaning his head onto his hand. “You definitely don’t have to answer that if it’s too personal.”

“It’s fine,” you assured him. “Of course, I thought I was going to have kids with Patrick. I thought about it all the time. Someone with his curly brown hair, or his eyes, or his smirk.” 

Art sucked in a breath. He wasn’t surprised to hear it, but it was a little painful nonetheless. Even though the two of you never talked about kids or marriage when you were together – aside from him and Tashi jokingly calling you Mrs Donaldson during your freshman year of college – Art always assumed you were the woman he would have a family with. 

“Really?” Art replied, trying to keep his tone conversational. “I never knew Patrick thought about that kind of stuff.”

“He thought about it a lot,” you insisted, smiling sadly. When you were together, Patrick would bring up the topic of your kids and home at least once a week, if not more. Regardless of the hardships in your lives and careers, his dream for your future together persisted. “He always said he wanted our family to be different from his. Smaller house, more people, more warmth, a rescue dog. I think it was almost therapeutic to imagine a future where he could raise happy kids.”

Art nodded, mumbling, “Fair enough.”

Throughout his friendship with Patrick, Art only met his parents a handful of times, and they were always much kinder to him than their own son. 

“The day I moved into my house, I looked around and went inside all the bedrooms, and I realised I bought the exact kind of house Patrick used to say he dreamed of raising kids in with me,” you revealed quietly. You had never confessed those words aloud to anyone, not even your father or Elora, your roommate from Stanford and one of your best friends to that day. “Then I got really drunk and tried to forget about it,” you added, chuckling lightly with Art. “But it’s one of those things I remember once in a while when I’m at home. I wasn’t even with him when I bought the house, but his ghost still haunts it.”

Art was surprised that hearing you talk about Patrick didn’t hurt his feelings. He had expected to feel jealous and insecure, but Art was oddly calm. The fact that you were willing to share the intricate details of your life with Patrick made Art feel like he had a chance to reconnect with you. He refused to live another ten years without having you in his life. 

What caught Art’s attention was how your eyes still sparkled with warmth and affection as you spoke about his former best friend. Regardless of how much pain Patrick put you through, especially the night of your breakup, it did very little to injure the memories of your happiness with him. It was clear that these moments of joy and laughter had a permanent place in your heart, untouched by the hurt that followed. 

Art admired your ability to cherish the good times alongside the bad ones, and he wondered if Patrick still had a chance with you. 

It was true that Patrick effectively ended your relationship by giving you the ultimatum to marry him, but you were the one who walked out in the end. Art knew with certainty that things would be different if you had agreed to Patrick’s proposal before he gave you the ultimatum. There was no question in his mind that you would be living in your house together, with kids of your own and the rescue dog you mentioned. It was a bittersweet notion. Art wanted you to be happy, but he wanted to be the guy you lived out this fantasy with.

“Are you sorry you rejected his proposal?” Art inquired. He would never have asked you such a personal question three days ago. Now, as an animated movie played in the background and his daughter lay asleep between the two of you, it felt like you could be open with each other again. 

“Sometimes,” you confessed, biting your lower lip contemplatively. “I really believe it was the right decision at the time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t regret it. If he had waited, say, six months or a year to ask me, I probably would have agreed. But the timing was off, and he was struggling with other shit, and I didn’t want him to see marrying me as the solution to his problems.” You turned your head and met Art’s gaze. “Are you sorry you proposed to Tashi?”

No matter how much Art supported you, it felt like you had to learn to navigate the world alone. You knew he was doing his best and loved him so much for constantly putting up with you, but Art-shaped love couldn’t fill the Tashi-shaped hole in your heart. It was irreplaceable, and since nothing could fill the void, it remained empty.

Staying in Art’s childhood bedroom over winter break had been fun for about a day until the both of you realised his room was a shrine to his friendship with Patrick, just as yours was a testament to your friendship with Tashi. Trophies, medals, pictures, and mementoes of their life together littered every corner of his room. This worsened Art’s insecurity that Patrick’s presence shadowed his relationship with you.

One day, when you came upstairs from crocheting with Art’s mom, you were surprised by the sudden emptiness of his walls and shelves. Any evidence of Patrick was scrubbed from his room and his life. 

The sudden end to Art and Patrick’s friendship – which you secretly called Patrickgate but would never say aloud to your boyfriend – was a lingering mystery you had yet to figure out. You weren’t sure if the end of their friendship was just an extension of Tashi’s breakup with Patrick or if something else happened. His visit to Stanford had been so much fun up until the accident, and you knew Art had looked forward to it for weeks, so you had no idea what happened to them.

“I think my parents like you more than me,” Art declared one evening, falling onto the sofa beside you. You were crocheting a blanket out of granny squares with his mom and bonding with his dad about your shared music taste. Everyone agreed that Art had terrible taste in music, so he rolled his eyes and watched his favourite people fondly. 

“Sweetheart, don’t say that,” his mother said kindly, counting her stitches. “We definitely like her more than you.” You laughed when Art whined, leaning on your shoulder and complaining. 

Truthfully, he was happy that you and his parents got along so well. A warm, glowing sensation spread through Art’s chest anytime he saw you interact with them. He smiled as his dad laughed heartily at one of your jokes and noticed a rare sparkle in his mother’s eyes as you exchanged stories about your childhood with her.

Art felt the tight knot of anxiety that had grown over the last quarter slowly begin to unravel. 

As you lay on his bed reading a novel his mom recommended, Art couldn’t help but wish your relationship was always like this. Sunlight streamed through his window, cast a gentle glow over his bedroom, and made you appear almost angelic. Curled up on his bed with your legs tucked beneath you, the corners of your lips curved into a content smile as you turned a page, eyes scanning the words.

Art stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and watched you silently. Your relaxed posture contrasted with the tension that usually lined your frame. The strain of the last three months seemed to fade away, and the emotional turbulence you had both weathered was absent. 

Art let out a quiet sigh. This tranquillity, this slice of peace, reminded him why he was trying so hard to make your relationship work.

“I think I need to steal you away from my parents for a night,” he decided, making you look up from your book. 

“Really?”

Humming, Art pushed off the doorway and approached the bed, saying, “I want you all to myself. Competing with my parents for my girlfriend’s time isn’t exactly the low point of my life but it does defeat the purpose of staying together for winter break.”

Grinning, you dropped your book onto the bed and fell into his arms. “I’d love to do something tonight,” you promised. 

Sitting across from each other in the dimly lit restaurant, you and Art found yourselves surrounded by a heavy silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it no longer held the ease of your earlier days together. Last year, when your relationship was fresh, you could sit in companionable silence for hours, feeling entirely at ease. Art’s presence used to be comforting as he quietly observed you. Now, you stared down at your plate, your mind swirling with doubt and uncertainty.

Your relationship with Art wasn’t working out how you hoped, and you were sure he felt the same. But he never voiced his concerns, thoughts, or feelings. Talking to Art was like trying to scale an impenetrable fortress, every word bouncing back without revealing a hint of what lay inside.

When you returned to Art’s house, you showered and got ready to sleep, climbing into his bed and waiting for him.

Cross-legged on top of his blankets, you stared at the now empty walls of his childhood bedroom. A hollow ache sat deep within your chest. Every poster, every photo, and every memory of his friendship with Patrick had been stripped away, leaving nothing but bare, cold surfaces. The once vibrant room now mirrored the emptiness you had noticed in your boyfriend in recent months.

You knew how much his bond with Patrick had filled his life, just as your friendship with Tashi filled yours, and without them, everything seemed unbearably vacant and bleak. Both of you were so consumed by your broken friendship with Tashi that neither of you gave him the space to process his loss of Patrick.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when Art entered his room, hair still wet from his shower. He paused when he saw the melancholic look on your face.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. You never hid parts of yourself from Art. The problem was that he never did the same with you. “Things haven’t been okay for a while now. With either of us.”

Despite the shock coursing through him at you pointing out your unspoken issues, Art tried to keep his expression neutral. His features betrayed only the slightest flicker of surprise. “School’s been busy and our schedules have been crazy, but we’re okay,” he tried to reassure you, closing his door behind him. His parents wouldn’t be coming home until later in the evening but Art wanted the assurance of privacy. “It’ll get better.”

Sitting beside you on the bed with his feet planted on the floor, Art met your eyes and smiled at you. In the past, all it took was the curve of his lips to give you butterflies. Just one glance would make your heart flutter uncontrollably. Now, you could see the sadness in his eyes, the weight of unspoken worries pulling him down. The butterflies weren’t gone, but their wings felt heavier now. You still loved him, but you didn’t want your relationship to become one of unfulfilled potential, lost to the demands of your separate lives and identical scars. 

You couldn’t help but return his smile. “The thing is, I don’t know how things can get better if we don’t talk about them,” you confessed, trying not to upset him. “You know I tell you everything, right?” 

Almost imperceptibly, Art’s eyes narrowed, already taking a defensive stance. “Of course I do,” he said.

“Do you feel like you can share things with me?” you wondered, trying to keep your voice light. You had observed Art putting your care and emotions above everything in his life, and you wanted him to know it was unnecessary. “Because I’m here for you. I feel like you hold everything in and I don’t want you to feel alone.” 

Art crossed his arms as he thought about it. He wore a contemplative look, lips pursed and gaze lingering thoughtfully on the wall behind you. “I don’t feel alone.” Pausing, you gave Art a chance to divulge more about his feelings, but he only looked at you, waiting for you to speak.

You tried not to let your disappointment or frustration show. After all, if Art felt that he needed to tread carefully around you, then you were partially at fault. He had been in charge of helping you hold it together emotionally for the last few months, and there was no space for him to get that same support from you. You both lost your best friends, but you were the only one who received help from your partner.

“Does that mean you don’t miss Patrick?” you asked, tilting your head curiously. “You haven’t talked about him in, like, nine months.”

Art’s brows furrowed deeply, casting a shadow over his increasingly narrowed eyes. “Why are you bringing up Patrick all of a sudden?” he queried, his voice taking on a defensive edge that you had anticipated. 

“Well–” you motioned around his room to indicate how empty it suddenly was– “You haven’t said a word about what happened and I can tell it’s affecting you. I’m worried. I don’t know why you stopped being friends because you never talk to me. He’s your best friend, and one day you just decided that you were done with him. I know how that feels, and I want to understand what happened.”

“Patrick and me not being friends is not the same as what Tashi did to you,” Art pointed out. His jaw clenched, signalling his rising frustration. “I never insulted him or his relationship, we just stopped being friends after the accident. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“If there was nothing to talk about, then you wouldn’t be so affected by me bringing it up,” you argued. “I’ve noticed how your face changes every time someone mentions him, and I think that talking about it might help.” Art said nothing. “Besides, he’s not at fault for what happened to Tashi. While I understand why she wants to draw a boundary between them after going through the most traumatic experience of her life, you’re supposed to be his best friend. He lost both his girlfriend and his best friend in one fell swoop for something he isn’t even responsible for.”

“It was just time, Y/n,” Art replied vaguely. His breathing became deliberate and even, each measured inhale and exhale designed to soothe his growing anger.

“Was it time, or was it convenient timing?” you challenged him.

The tension between you mounted as you grappled with Art’s emotional guardedness, yearning for him to break his silence. Even now, when confronted with your direct questions, he let nothing slip past his mask. You wondered if you had done this to him, if you had made him believe that any display of emotion would somehow set you off.

You questioned, “Was it really a natural ending to your friendship, or did you stop being friends because Tashi’s accident gave you an excuse to do so?”

Art sighed heavily, a telltale sign that he was nearing the point where he couldn’t hold it all in. “Why do you care?” he asked slowly and through gritted teeth. “You haven’t talked to him in months either.”

“Not for a lack of trying,” you retorted.

He froze in shock as your words sank in. Standing abruptly, Art took two steps from the bed and turned to face you. “You’ve been trying to talk to Patrick?” His voice wavered, rising a pitch higher than usual. A tremor of shock coloured his words, “Since when? How often?”

You uncrossed your legs and swung them over the side of the bed. “Twice a month since the accident,” you revealed. 

Clenching his fists at his sides, Art wondered, “Does he ever write back?” 

“Once. All he said was that he missed me and he wished us a happy anniversary.”

Art inhaled sharply, the sting of betrayal spreading through him. The realisation hit hard. He had assumed Patrick was out of his life and would no longer influence his relationship with you, and he was naive to have thought so.

“Fuck,” Art grumbled. “Why would you do that?”

“Because he’s my friend, and without you and Tashi I might be his only friend,” you reminded your boyfriend. “He has nobody on tour who he can rely on, he would never reach out to his parents, and he doesn’t deserve to be punished for Tashi’s accident.” You stood, searching Art’s standoffish blue eyes as you approached him, wondering when he would admit his real feelings. “Doesn’t that hurt you? Patrick has nobody.”

“How do you think Tashi feels about you talking to her ex after the accident?” Art questioned, throwing a hand out as if motioning to her. 

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably at the mention of your former best friend. “I don’t know, I haven’t exactly had the chance to ask her, Art,” you said sarcastically. “Why should I worry about what she would think? After everything she said to me, everything she said about our relationship and our inevitable fate?” Feeling cornered, you stepped to the window and looked at the empty street. “If you’re so curious about what Tashi thinks, you should just ask her. After all, the two of you are still friends, right?”

Art groaned, irritated that you brought up a past argument you had. “I already told you we aren’t friends! Sometimes we run into each other and we talk.”

Turning your head, you nodded. “Fine. But that doesn’t change the fact that you think talking to Tashi is okay, but me talking to Patrick is some sort of a crime.”

“Because Tashi isn’t in love with me, Y/N,” Art argued, raising his voice with flushed cheeks. “Don’t you see that Patrick’s just waiting around until we break up so he can swoop in and have you for himself?” 

“Where did you get that from?” The conversation you had started was escalating to a full-on fight. You felt a surge of heat spreading from your chest to your head, your racing heartbeat emphasising your growing anger and exasperation. “I know he flirts with me, I know he messes with you, but you like it! It makes you smile, and laugh, and you play into it because that’s just how Patrick is!”

“I know that!”

You began listing things off on your fingers, “He’s never told me he has feelings for me, he never tells me that we should break up, he doesn’t plant any ideas about you being a bad boyfriend in my head – or fears of infidelity, for that matter,” you added pointedly, reminding Art of the way he tried to make Patrick and Tashi insecure about their casual relationship. “He’s never done anything to indicate he’s trying to get together with me! He won’t even respond to my emails!”

“Good!” Art shouted, his face turning a deeper shade of red with anger as he approached you. “I don’t want you talking to him!”

“Why?!” You shouted back, losing your temper. Months of built-up frustration and disappointment were finally boiling over. “The second you stopped being friends he stopped answering my emails, does that sound like someone who’s trying to steal your girlfriend?” 

“You don’t know him like I do!” Art stared at you, arms falling limply at his sides. His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath, each inhale like a gasp. Your shoulders rose and fell rapidly, and the adrenaline coursing through you made it hard to slow your racing heart. “I can’t believe this,” he muttered.

“What?”

“You think you know Patrick because you exchanged emails? If you really think he didn’t do all of that because he’s in love with you then he’s totally played you. I know him. He’s relentless, and he’s never going to stop, Y/N. Haven’t you seen him play? He’s the master of the long game, the master of making a comeback, and the master of trick shots.”

You let out a deep, exasperated groan, your eyes rolling skyward in a dramatic display of frustration. “Why is it that we can’t have a single argument without it coming back to tennis? The person you are is not the same as the type of player you are on the court,” you pointed out. “You’re romantic and imaginative and nothing like the way you get when you play tennis. Why are all of Patrick’s qualities diminished to the way he plays a game?”

“Because everything’s a game to him,” Art insisted. “He goes through life like it’s a game and he wants to lose as little as possible.”

“But–”

“–And you,” Art interrupted. “You go through life like it’s a game too!”

“When have I ever treated any aspect of our lives like a game?” you exclaimed angrily.

“Weren’t you playing a game when you lied to Tashi about throwing every match you’ve played against each other for the last five years?” Art challenged you. 

The coldness in his eyes and how he spoke to you was so unlike him. The harshness of his voice sent a chill down your spine, making you feel like a stranger in your own relationship. It was as if the person standing before you was someone else entirely, leaving you reeling with confusion and hurt.

Head spinning, you stammered, “How do you even know about that?”

“Tashi told me. She was really upset about it, too. She was crying and I could barely hear a word she was saying because–”

“–You just said the two of you weren’t friends and that you didn’t speak to her? When did you have the time to have this heart-to-heart?”

Swallowing harshly, Art confessed, “The night of your fight.”

“Fucking hell, Art.” Incredulous, you burst into laughter, shaking your head in disbelief. “You went and talked to the woman who broke my heart the night it happened? What, you just went to her dorm to make sure I wasn’t lying to you about it?” you asked sarcastically, your eyes widening for comedic effect. “Since you seem to think I’m lying about everything, including the fact that I’ve been letting her win.”

Art scoffed. “Come on,” he replied in a harsh voice. “Do you really expect me to believe that you let her win every single game? Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because she wanted it and I didn’t,” you emphasised each word, enunciating as you glared at your boyfriend with tears in your eyes. “From the moment I met her I knew she wanted to be the best. I considered ignoring that and simply winning against her – God knows it would have made my mother happier – but I chose not to.” You wiped the tears from your cheeks harshly. “I let my mother berate me and refuse to let me have dessert and affection and whatever else normal teenagers get from their moms because I wanted my best friend to win. I wanted her to achieve her dream. I didn’t do it to have you, the person who is supposed to trust and support me most in the world, tell me that I lied about it,” you concluded, feeling utterly defeated that Art didn’t think you could beat Tashi. “What about all those times I beat her in training when the scores didn’t matter? Or the fact that I was ranked higher than her last year, even before her injury?”

“You had a great year last year,” Art allowed, averting his eyes when he saw how devastated you were. “But Tashi’s always been tougher than you.”

“Is that what she told you when you went to visit her?” you wondered. Art remained silent, and you inhaled sharply, hurt that he would believe Tashi over you. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this… Objectively, I’ve always been the better player.” Art nodded slowly. It was true; in terms of skill and precision, nobody had you beat, not even Tashi. “So if I’m stronger, faster, and more precise than Tashi, then there is no reason that she should have been beating me all these years. Except for the truth: I was letting her win.”

Art shifted uneasily, his gaze fixed on the floor, hesitating to disclose an opinion he feared might hurt your feelings further. “Everyone knows that tennis is more of a mental game than a physical game,” he began cautiously, his voice tinged with apprehension. “You have a lot of anxiety, and–”

You held up your hand, silencing him as you backed away from Art. “You know what, I’m done. I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that my own boyfriend doesn’t believe me, or the fact that you don’t believe in me.”

“Of course I believe in you,” Art disagreed.

“But not more than you believe in Tashi, right?” you retorted angrily. “Is that what this is really about? Do you want her? Were you disappointed Patrick won the match and got her number? Is that why you kept picking fights when they were together?”

Frowning, Art said, “Stop it.” 

“Is this your grand scheme? Date the best friend and then cosy up to the one you really want when the timing’s convenient for you?” 

“Well, it seems to be working for Patrick,” Art replied, just as venomous as you.

Sighing, you rubbed your forehead. “I don’t want to fight about Tashi and Patrick, I just want to understand what’s going on with you! You never tell me anything.”

“Because I feel like you’re on the verge of falling apart every time I see you!” Art exclaimed, voice edged with frustration. “The last thing I want to do is push you over the edge. We have so much going on and I feel like every time we do something together it ends with both of us being upset, and I hate it. Everything is about tennis, or Tashi, or school, or Patrick, and nothing is about us anymore!”

“I know nothing is about us anymore,” you agreed, your tone a mixture of sadness and defensiveness. “Why do you think I want you to open up? I know I haven’t been my usual sugar-coated self for the last few months, but you holding everything in doesn’t help us. I need more from you, I need you to not treat me like I’m made of glass.”

“Why am I not enough for you?” Art replied, stunning you.

Your chests heaved in unison, panting from the intensity of your argument. Your eyes locked in a charged silence. Art’s hands trembled slightly at his sides, adrenaline still coursing through him, making his heart pound against his ribcage as he met your gaze. You looked away, blinking back tears.

“You are enough for me,” you said quietly. “I don’t know how many more times I can tell you. I love you, of course, you’re enough.”

“Not like that,” he corrected you. Art sighed, his anger dissipating as he watched your growing sadness. “What did Tashi say about our relationship that’s so bad? She said we would get married and have kids and I would have a professional tennis career. You act like that’s the worst thing she could have said to you.” 

Your eyes widened in surprise as Art mentioned your argument with Tashi, your breath catching in your throat. Regardless of how impactful the end of your friendship with Tashi was, you didn’t like to speak about it. Even after all these months, Art only new bits and pieces of your argument. He knew Tashi said something about you having a family with him, and he knew it had upset you, but he didn’t understand the context. The sharp edge of your anger softened, replaced by a pang of guilt as you understood how deeply this detail had affected your boyfriend. 

Tentatively, you reached out and took one of Art’s hands. He let you, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. In a gentle voice, you told him, “I had no idea you thought that. What she said that day has nothing to do with you, trust me. She said it to hurt me because she knows that I’m terrified of turning out like my mother.”

When Art’s eyes opened, they reflected confusion. “She thinks marrying me will make you turn out like your mother?”

“Well, no, she thinks I’ll turn out like my mom if I don’t pursue a tennis career, regardless of who I marry,” you corrected him. “I wouldn’t have a life of my own. There would be no meaning, no dreams, no goals of my own, just me. And I would be vapid and destructive if I ever had kids, just like my mother was with me. It has nothing to do with you, she said those things to hurt me, to scare me.”

“A life with me scares you?”

“No, a life without purpose scares me. Now, more than ever, I feel like I have no purpose.” Your voice wavered when you spoke, barely above a whisper, as if afraid of being heard. “I thought Tashi was the person I was going to live life with, and now I have to rearrange my identity in a way that makes sense without her. She said those things because she knows my biggest fear is to hurt any potential partner or children the way my mom hurt me and my dad. I need more than that for myself.”

“You need more than me,” Art repeated, running his free hand through his hair and sighing. “That’s what I’m saying, I’m not enough for you. It can’t just be me. It has to be me and tennis, or me and law school. But not just me, or our relationship.”

“Is that wrong?” you wondered.

“I just mean– I would drop tennis for you in a heartbeat, Y/N. I would follow you to law school and go anywhere you need me to go with you because I love you. You’re it for me, you’re all I need. But you don’t feel that way about me.”

As your fingers slipped from Art’s grasp, the cold, empty space between your hands mirrored the silent, inevitable end of your relationship.

“I would never ask you to do any of those things. I would never ask you to drop tennis or tell you to do anything you don’t want to do. You have to figure that out for yourself, just like I do.” You could feel yourself getting emotional and sensed the familiar sting of oncoming tears. “You already know what you want. You’re going to go pro, and I will be there to support you in whatever way you want me to–” Art grinned. “But you need to let me figure out what’s right for me, too.” Rather than slipping from his face, Art’s smile froze there, unmoving as his eyes grew colder. “I love you, Art, but I can’t just be your girlfriend. I need to be my own person. I haven’t been my own person since– well, I don’t think I’ve ever really been my own person. I was my mother’s puppet and, apparently, Tashi’s lackey, and now I don’t know who the fuck I am.”

“I know who you are,” Art interjected. His blue-eyed gaze pleaded with you to agree, imploring you to set aside your differences and make peace.

You shook your head. “No, you don’t.”

“I love you, how can I love you and not know who you are?”

“Because the version of me you fell in love with isn’t the same without her best friend,” you explained. Wrapping your arms around yourself as if they would hold you together, your lips curved into a bittersweet smile. “I know that sounds stupid, but I’m different now.”

“I’ll wait,” Art assured you. “You can be her again, I’ll wait.”

You turned to face him, eyes red and swollen from the tears you had been fighting back. “I can’t ask you to do that. You can’t keep feeling like you have to walk on eggshells around me. I don’t know what I want anymore; the major building blocks of our lives are gone, probably for good,” you added, referencing your former friendships with Tashi and Patrick. “And all we do is fight about them.”

“Then we’ll stop fighting.”

“It’s not that easy, Art. Be honest with yourself. Have you been happy?” you wondered. “Truly happy? Tiptoeing around in case you hurt my feelings or say something that will send me spiralling?” Art opened his mouth to respond but stopped, the words caught in his throat. He looked away, knowing the truth was written all over his face. Your eyes filled with tears, glistening as they clung to your lower lashes, your breaths becoming shallow and rapid. “I know you, and I know you haven’t been happy.”

Voice cracking with emotion, Art said, “I just don’t want you to be sad anymore.” He clenched his jaw tightly to suppress the tears welling in his eyes.

“I know. I love you so much for everything you’ve done, but every time you try to heal my wounds from losing Tashi, it hurts our relationship. It’s like we’re being torn open. So please, even though it’s hard and even though you don’t want to, please tell me how you feel.” 

Art swallowed hard. Barely above a whisper, he confessed, “No, I haven’t been happy. We’ve been growing apart since the quarter started, and our shifted priorities have been driving us apart for months.”

“I agree.” You nodded, your expression calm even as a few tears rolled down your face. Soft and controlled, you said, “It’s not working. Right?”

“Right,” Art echoed, his lower lip quivering from holding back sobs. “I feel the gap widening every day and I hate it. It shouldn’t matter that I’m getting ready to go pro, and it shouldn’t matter that you’re still trying to figure out what you want.”

“But it does.”

“But it does,” he parroted.

You sighed heavily, shoulders slumping as you closed your eyes briefly. “I don’t know about you but I’m exhausted,” you declared, feeling drained by the weight of your argument.

Chuckling in disbelief, Art agreed, “I’m so tired.” When he met your eyes again, the fight had visibly drained out of him. “But I love you,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

With a wistful smile, you looked at him, your eyes revealing the quiet pain of loving someone you couldn’t fully have. “I love you too,” you replied gently, stepping closer to him. Tears escaped your eyes as you cupped Art’s face and carefully wiped his wet cheeks. “But if I’m not making you happy, then it’s not working.”

Art nodded. “And you need to figure out your own path and find what makes you happy, too,” he added.

You stood silently, the reality of your decision to break up sinking in. In the dimly lit room, you embraced for the last time, your bodies clinging as if reluctant to let go. Art’s arms wrapped around you, holding you close, while you buried her face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent you knew you would miss. Time seemed to slow as you stood intertwined, trying to convey how much love you still had for each other.

The moment you parted, your lips gravitated to his. You kissed him. Art nudged his nose against yours, lips, hips, and chest hard against yours. He gripped your waist, tugging you closer as your hands tangled into his hair. You could barely think about your breakup. Too busy kissing Art harder and deeper as you begged each other to say goodbye, to be together and love each other despite everything that happened. The passion and urgency of this moment filled your veins; every heartbeat was a drumbeat, echoing in your ears as you stole this moment with him.

Art Donaldson wasn’t your boyfriend anymore. The thought was almost unimaginable.

Nothing else mattered. Not the pain of mourning the loss of Art’s love or the hollow emptiness of losing another person who had once filled your days with laughter and happiness, the boy who had been the warmth in your coldest, loneliest moments. For now, the breakup wasn’t real yet. You existed outside of reality, broken up but not yet having separated your life together. You were still his, and he was still yours.

But that wouldn’t be the case for much longer.

Art’s strong body pressed against you, firm hands trailing up your waist and raising the hem of your t-shirt as he went. “I still care about you, despite everything,” he declared, his voice filled with longing and desperation. “I’m sorry. I do believe you, and I believe in you.”

You nodded, resting your forehead against his. “I know. I’m sorry too.”

Pressing kisses to his neck, you paused to pull Art’s t-shirt over his head. He exhaled shakily, hooded gaze intoxicated as he drank in the sight of you running your hands down the planes of his chest and tracing the contours of the muscles in his abdomen. His eyes worshipped you like a sacred idol, filled with awe and adoration. Art reached for your face, a thick air of anticipation growing between you as his lips ghosted yours. His lips left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down your neck and across your collarbones, almost mirroring the movement of your hands on his body. You shivered. Each feather-light touch of his mouth ignited a spark in you. 

When you reconnected your lips, Art’s arms snaked around your waist and pulled you flush against him. You sighed happily against his mouth, and the sound seemed to make Art realise what was happening. As if an enchantment had lifted, he broke the kiss, staggering back and covering his mouth.

“Fuck,” Art swore. 

He placed both hands on his burning cheeks. Art’s chest was just as flushed as his face, and his damp hair was a mess of unruly curls. Catching your breath, you looked at him, waiting to see what he would do next. Your head spun from the kiss you shared, and you were sure your lips looked just as red and raw as Art’s. Whenever you kissed him – or even just sat beside him – Art needed to be touching as much of you as possible. Your shoulders, hands, arms, thighs, and waist were rarely free around him. His hands always roamed freely, wanting more, more, more.

Art’s distance and the absence of his touch were a stark reminder of your breakup. 

Taking a deep breath, Art met your eyes, and the intensity of his gaze made your knees weak. No matter how desperate he felt, he was being cautious with you. After all, you had just broken up, and he wasn’t sure if break-up sex was the best idea. 

“I can’t– I need to go,” Art blurted, lowering his hands. His eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape from you, the only person he couldn’t stay away from. “I have to go before I– Otherwise, I’m going to–”

“Stay,” you pleaded. Your pulse thrummed beneath your skin like a racing river, each look from Art igniting sparks of nervous excitement.

He exchanged a meaningful look with you. “Is that a good idea?”

“I want to say goodbye,” you confessed, your voice wavering. “I want to feel what it’s like to be loved by you one last time.”

"Hi Y/n unnie! Bada unnie said to give you this." She handed me a jacket with a number '22' in it.

"What is she planning now?" I asked Tatter but she just shrugged her shoulders.

"Just tell her I said thank you." Tatter nodded and left the room.

"See? Consistent." Ling said after Audrey closed the door.

"I call it obsession. She copied some of my poses on my Instagram posts, when I post a story she will post the same thing, she will even copy my captions?!" I said angrily.

"Shouldn't you be feeling lucky? Everybody has their eyes on her but her eyes are set on you." Audrey said making me sigh. Kirsten comes in, looks like their done.

"How was it?" I asked.

"Yeah, we're doing Bada's." Kirsten said and looked at me with a teasing face.

"Stop that."

"You lose your bet." Kirsten said while chuckling.

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"Come on! Just one date?" Bada said while watching me practice with arms crossed.

"I told you, I'm busy throughout the week." I said and stopped dancing. I grabbed my water which is beside Bada and drank it.

"Aren't you mean enough towards me? Just one date and done." Bada said while staring at me.

"Alright then..." I said making Bada surprised that she straightened her back.

"On one condition..." I turned towards Bada and smirked.

"I will agree to be on a date with you if your choreography gets picked and you got selected as the main dancer." Bada smirked while shaking her head. She cupped my chin and her other hand on my waist. This woman knows my weaknesses.

"You underestimated me, babe." Bada said.

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"Is it already starting?" I said indicating the main dancer competition for the leaders.

"I think, yeah." Ling said.

"I'll follow you there." Ling nodded and went ahead. I was about to close the door when my eyes landed on the jacket that was given by Bada. I sighed, grabbed the jacket and put it on. The jacket even has a 'Lee' on it at the back above the '22'.

I went to the set and saw the leaders warming up. I saw Tatter pointing towards me with her eyes at Bada, Bada turned her head and smiled at me as I went down the stairs.

I sat beside Latrice and she smirked while analyzing the jacket.

"Nice jacket." I rolled my eyes and slapped her shoulders.

"It's a gift." I said.

"I know, I can tell from the surname at the back." Latrice chuckled at my flustered state. I covered my face and leaned down.

"Who's choreography has been chosen?" Shownu asked through the mic.

"It's mine, Bada." Bada's students cheered making me smile in admiration.

"As the leader, I wanted to show our physical strength and aura. The powerful side of us. I considered what I think is the most important, which is the dance you want to try. There's a move of lightning a lighter. I tried to put those kinds of things in the choreography." Bada said with a lot of confidence.

"And Kirsten, was there anything hard during the practice?" I looked at my leader in curiosity.

"Dance, again, is the universal language. There weren't any difficulties, I think." I clapped lightly, satisfied with her answer.

The showdown begins and as expected from the leaders, all of them are good. My eyes somehow always come back at Bada's figure, her body control screams ownership of her choreography. Part of me wants Kirsten to steal it but at the same time, it sucks when someone stole the choreo you worked hard for, right?

The time came where Kirsten and Bada. The judges chose Bada and she immediately turned towards me and smirked. Kirsten and Bada hugged and even kissed Kirsten's cheeks which surprised me. Some of the dancers glanced at me as they know that Bada is pursuing me.

"Alexa, play 'jealous' by Nick Jonas." I nudge Latrice's shoulders. Bada's members went to hug her to congratulate her. Me and the rest also went Kirsten and hugged her tightly.

"It's alright Leader, you still slayed." I winked at her and Kirsten chuckled.

"Yah! Y/n L/n!" I turned towards where the voice came from and saw that it's Bada.

"You still owe me a date!" All of the people in the room began to scream, including the judges. Bada's members and mine make us go forward to be close at each other. Bada opened her arms for me but I got a little hesitant. Emma pushes me instead, making me crash at Bada. Bada gives Emma a thumbs up while laughing.

"Why bother announcing it when you know I have no choice?" I looked up and our eyes met.