It started with a message.
Not a text. Not a DM.
A folded piece of paper, tucked into the side pocket of my racket bag.
I found it after practice, when the gym had already emptied and the sky outside was darkening to violet.
Three words. Scribbled in neat, straight handwriting:
"Tomorrow. Same time?"
No name.
But I didn’t need one.
I smiled so wide, I was glad no one was around to see it.
The next afternoon, I arrived early—earlier than usual. The court was empty, lights buzzing softly, and my nerves buzzing even louder.
What if he didn’t show up?
What if I imagined everything?
What if this whole thing—whatever it was—meant more to me than it did to him?
But then the door creaked open.
And Zayen walked in.
Bag slung over his shoulder, hair slightly tousled from the breeze outside, a calm expression on his face.
He saw me.
And for the first time, he smiled.
Not a smirk. Not a twitch. A real, honest smile.
It wasn’t wide. But it was warm.
Like sunlight on skin after a storm.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I said softly.
“I wasn’t sure you’d say yes,” he replied.
We stood there for a second, the space between us almost humming. Not awkward. Just… electric.
Then, without another word, we took our places.
Rackets ready.
Heartbeats louder than footsteps.
That day, our rally was different.
It wasn’t about practice or precision. It was fun. We played like we were dancing—not counting points, just sharing rhythm. I laughed more times than I could count. And Zayen? He laughed too.
It was rare. Rough around the edges. But real.
“You’ve got a terrible backhand,” he teased, after I missed a return.
“Excuse you?” I grinned. “You trained me, remember?”
He shrugged. “Clearly, I’ve failed.”
It was the first time we joked like this.
Like friends.
Like something more.
After we finished, we collapsed near the edge of the court.
Zayen sat with his knees up, arms resting lazily, hair falling into his eyes.
“You’re different,” he said after a while.
I looked at him. “Different how?”
“You don’t look at me like I’m broken.”
The words struck something deep.
“I never thought you were.”
He didn’t reply. But the silence said he heard me.
Then he pulled something from his bag—a small black notebook.
He handed it to me.
“What’s this?”
“My thoughts. I write when I don’t want to talk.”
I hesitated, then opened the cover. Just one page had writing.
"She wasn’t afraid of me. And that changed everything."
My breath caught.
“You wrote this… about me?”
He nodded, slowly. “I think I’ve been waiting to write that sentence for a long time.”
We didn’t talk much after that. Just sat together.
Quiet. Close.
When we finally stood up to leave, he walked beside me toward the gate. The sun was almost gone, painting the sky with orange and blue.
“You’re walking with me?” I asked, surprised.
“I’ll turn back after the main road,” he said.
But he didn’t.
He walked with me the whole way. Past the gate. Past the bakery. All the way to my street.
When we reached the corner, I turned to him.
“Why’d you come this far?”
He shrugged. “Felt like it.”
And there it was again—that almost-smile.
That night, I stared at the notebook for hours.
I didn’t know what this was becoming.
But I knew it was no longer just rallies and glances.
It was trust.
And maybe...
The beginning of something beautiful.
End of Chapter 4
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