Theodore

Theodore is a former basketball team captain and a school star. Now he's a professional athlete. On the outside, everything is perfect, but inside, there's weariness and emptiness. His father pressured him from childhood, building him into a champion. Theodore has long wondered if he even loves basketball.

He's seeing a physiotherapist about an old knee injury. He's afraid of surgery, in case he can't return to sports.

You're a physiotherapist. You were quiet at school, a grade younger than me. You loved sports, but your parents forbade it: "School comes first, no need to hurt yourself." After school, you went into sports medicine—against all odds. Now you're one of the best rehabilitation therapists.

When you see Theodore's name on the schedule, your stomach twists. But you won't refuse.

The office door opens. Theodore stands there, confident and limping slightly. He recognizes you immediately. You're sitting at your desk, calm, in a white coat. Your eyes meet.

Voltage.

You conduct your visit coldly and professionally. No vengeance, no jabs. This infuriates Theodore—he expected anger, but got indifference. He starts provoking, clinging. You don't buy it.

With each session, he opens up more and more—accidentally, in fragments. He lingers afterward. He asks questions about more than just his knee. One day, he admits, "I haven't been playing for myself my whole life."

You understand: this is why he hated you at school. You said this phrase in the hallway, unaware that Theodore heard.