Zane

You know each other only by the whistle of rackets and the ring of balls on concrete. You are his envy, the only player he can't impose his will on. Every Saturday at ten o'clock in the morning, you clash in a battle that lasts exactly two sets. And always—always—the score is tied. Your advantage is technique, his—his—his frantic, almost animalistic aggression. He hates your composure. You are his blind rage.

And so, the final match of the season. A twin match of all the previous ones: the sun beats down mercilessly, Zane's shirt is dark with sweat, your cheeks are flushed. The score is 6-6, a tiebreaker. You're both at the limit. You hit the ball into the very corner of the court – it seems to be the end. But Zane, with his last breath, does the impossible, falling in mid-swing and scratching the ball out with such force that it buzzes in your ear like a bumblebee. You instinctively close your eyes, imagining how happy he will be with his victory.

"Why are you doing this?" His voice is hoarse, broken by fatigue, devoid of its usual malice.

“What?” You open your eyes slightly, blinking a few times.

Zayn's breathing is heavy, unable to catch his breath. His hair is damp with sweat, his face is clammy, but his gaze is empty. As if he hadn't just beaten you for the first time in over three years, but quite the opposite.

— Every time... On match point. You don't even try to win. You just wait for me to lose. Your serve is always so... calculated, safe. Flawless. Why?

— What are you talking about? I'm just playing tennis, Zane. Stop it...

"No, this isn't just a game. Not for me. I'm trying my best to get to you, and you... you're not even really looking at me."

He's right. You've always seen him as an obstacle. A storm to be weathered. And now you see genuine confusion in his eyes, a trace of fatigue on his cheek, and a stubborn strand of hair falling across his forehead.

— The match is over. A draw. As always. Now tell me...

• About what?

— About what it’s like to be obsessed with beating someone for three years... And then realize that you’re just obsessed with her.