____________________________________
4. Nature always sides with the hidden flaw.
5. If everything seems to be going well, you have obviously overlooked something.
— Murphy's Laws.
____________________________________
"It's always something, to know you've done the most you could. But don't leave off hoping, or it's of no use doing anything. Hope, hope to the last."
— Charles Dickens
____________________________________
MiMie's Perspective Cont'd :
______________
4th set Begins.
I walked back toward the baseline. The racket felt heavier now. So did my arms. So did my legs.
The chants continued behind me.
The insults. The cheers. The whistles.
Everything blended into one enormous wall of sound.
I closed my fingers around the grip. Tighter.
The leather creaked beneath my hand.
Across the net, Afreen stood perfectly still. Waiting. Watching. Smiling.
The fourth set was about to begin.
I drew one slow breath. Then another. My resolve had cracked.
Not broken. Just… Bruised.
Deep inside my chest… A tiny flame still refused to die. I lifted the ball into my hand.
No matter what happens…
"I have to win this fourth set."
________________
THE FOURTH SET
The fourth set begins, with me serving the ball.
The tennis ball rested in my trembling fingertips. It felt impossibly light.
Yet my arm struggled to lift it.
Every muscle in my body screamed the same command.
Give up.
My calves burned with every tiny adjustment of my stance. My shoulders felt weighed down by invisible chains. Sweat rolled from my temples, slid along my jawline, and dripped silently onto the emerald grass beneath my shoes. My breathing came in deep, uneven pulls, each inhale scraping against exhausted lungs, each exhale carrying away another fragment of the strength I had left.
My fingers tightened around the racket until my knuckles whitened.
No… Not yet.
My body wanted surrender. My heart refused.
Images flashed through my mind—not as memories I deliberately summoned, but as wounds reopening one after another.
I remembered the way I used to hesitate.
My instructor's voice still echoing through her mind.
"Mentally… you hesitate."
"Only you can push yourself there."
"Mindset decides who walks off victorious."
The words refused to disappear.
They echoed louder than the stadium.
Then came another memory.
Safeeyah. Imran. Umaymah.
The rest of ARC.
The laughter. The whispers. The betrayal.
Their faces blurred together until they became one overwhelming feeling.
I remembered how alone I felt.
For weeks.
Stopped going to school. Stayed home.
Cried.
The silence of my bedroom. The unopened curtains.
The untouched schoolbag sitting in the corner.
Days blending into nights.
Not a single friend I had.
No Tahir. No Malik.
Nobody.
The loneliness wrapped around those memories so tightly that even now, standing beneath the roaring stadium, I could almost feel that suffocating silence pressing against my chest again.
Then…
Something changed. I can feel it.
Not around me. Inside me.
A spark. Tiny.
Almost invisible.
It ignited somewhere deep beneath the ache in my chest. Then another. Then another. Until they surged together.
A new surge in power from my heart sparked out, surging through my blood.
I actually felt it.
Like warmth spreading through frozen veins.
Like every exhausted muscle received one final desperate command.
Move.
My limbs became faster as I serve.
The fatigue was still there. It hadn't disappeared.
It still clung stubbornly to every movement.
Every breath. Every heartbeat.
But my endurance grew stronger. My will to persevere surged tenfold.
I shot back even harder to score. The ball exploded off her strings.
Afreen reacted—Too late.
The ball kissed the baseline. Clean.
"15 — 0!"
For the first time in several minutes…
The C.A.A section found its voice again.
Cheers burst from the stands.
Hands shot into the air.
Hope, nearly extinguished moments earlier, flickered back to life.
Even Afreen saw the resolve in my eyes.
Slowly… For a moment…
The smirk on Afreen face disappeared. Only briefly.
Barely a heartbeat.
But I saw it.
The corner of Afreen's lips flattened.
Her eyebrows lowered almost imperceptibly. Not fear. Not concern. Disappointment.
Because she thought I will have given up by now.
Her curiosity about my limit is beginning to turn into frustration.
She wanted me to give up. Wanted me to break.
Wanted to witness the exact moment ny spirit collapsed beneath the pressure.
Instead…
I was still standing. Still fighting. Still refusing.
Breathing heavily as I am about to serve again. My chest expanded painfully.
Every inhale stretched muscles that begged for rest.
Sweat dripped from the tip of my chin onto the court. My legs trembled.
I steadied myself. Then served.
A trick shot with so much power.
The ball curved viciously through the air.
Afreen lunged. Returned it with tenfold.
The crack of racket against ball echoed sharply.
The rally lasted longer. Back. Forth.
Again. Again. Again.
Neither of us yielded even a single inch of court.
Grass flew beneath desperate footwork.
Shoes carved fresh scars into the pristine lawn.
Both of us shouted with every strike.
"HYAA!"
"HAA!"
"HYAA!"
The spectators and fans just watched. Without realizing it… The stand's noise faded.
No chants. No whistles. No insults.
Only the rhythmic violence of tennis.
Only the sound of the ball being hit by the rackets.
Only the yell of the Queens on the court being heard echoing through people's ears.
Each impact cracked through the stadium like thunder.
For a moment…
Everyone is just enjoying the raw sportsmanship of the game.
Then—
Afreen found the opening. One perfectly timed return.
I stretched. Too far. Too late.
Afreen won the rally.
"15 — 15."
I bent forward, planting both hands against my knees.
My lungs desperately searched for air.
Sweat dripped continuously from my face.
My ponytail clung damply against the back of my neck.
I straightened again. Forced myself upright.
I was ready to serve again.
Afreen's fatigue started to show as she slowed down a bit.
Even people from stands can see.
Her breathing had grown noticeably deeper.
A faint sheen of sweat covered her forehead.
Her shoulders rose and fell more heavily than before.
One foot dragged just slightly across the grass before resetting.
But then… She smirked. Stopped. Closed her eyes. Breathed.
A long… Measured… Controlled breath.
Then—
To people's shock…
Afreen swapped the racket to her left hand.
The movement was so casual… So effortless… That for several seconds…
Nobody reacted.
Then—The stand rised up. Every spectator raised up.
The entire stadium erupted into confused murmurs.
"Is she left handed?"
"Is she tired?"
"Is she given up?"
"Oh no. She is about to lose to MiMie isn't she?"
The questions spread like wildfire.
Confusion rippled across every section.
I blinked.
My heartbeat slowed.
Confidently I thought Afreen is also Fatigue, so it's my chance now to steal the 4th set.
____________________
For the first time… The impossible suddenly felt possible.
But amongst the crowd. Sitting next to Saleem.
Isham stood up.
So abruptly that her chair scraped loudly against the concrete.
Her breathing hitched. Her eyes widened.
Her hands instinctively clutched the folder resting on her lap.
Panicking.
Remembering something from her information pile.
From her research on Afreen.
Isham realized she made a mistake for the first time in her research.
She overlooked one information that she doubted.
Because the source was an old interview from a pundit in another state.
Who asked Afreen, if she is left handed.
She hesitated before answering no.
The memory replayed inside Isham's head. Frame by frame.
Afreen's smile. The tiny pause.
Then—Her eyes.
Isham remembered how Afreen's eyes moved to the top right corner.
She is lying. Creatively and imaginatively lying to hold back information on herself.
At that time it doesn't even make sense to Isham. That's why she overlooked it.
And she overlooked it because Afreen was always seen writing and playing sports with right hand or while playing football, the dominant foot is the right one.
Isham's eyes widened. Shock in her mind.
The realization is real.
She murmured—
"Afreen…. Is…. Ambidextrous…"
The words barely escaped her lips.
Yet they felt loud enough to shake the world.
As Isham is realizing it in real time.
I on the court was finding out.
I served an overhead shot.
Only Afreen to heavily return the serve so heavily with her left hand that its tenfold much powerful than her right-handed returns from earlier sets.
The sound alone stunned me.
The impact exploded off the strings.
It wasn't simply stronger. It was cleaner. Sharper. More violent.
The ball screamed through the air.
I struggled to return the shot.
The force rattled my wrist painfully.
Only Afreen to smack it back left handedly with more power. Again. Again. Again.
The rally lasted upto 11 times.
Each exchange faster than the last. Each impact heavier.
Each return pushing me farther toward collapse.
Then—Afreen faked a high smack.
Her shoulders lifted. Her entire posture screamed power.
I committed.
Only to make a low slicing cut that spun fiercely towards my side of the court.
Catching me off guard.
As I was already diagonally far away.
I lunged. My racket reached.
Too late.
Afreen won again.
"15 — 30."
I stood frozen for a second. Not because I couldn't move.
Because my mind refused to.
Because, for the first time since stepping onto the court, my mind had gone completely silent.
Everything I believed only moments ago began collapsing silently beneath the weight of one undeniable truth.
"Afreen is a monster that can't be defeated. "
As the realization slowly settled into my head. I stood there, with racket hung loosely in my hand.
My fingers, slick with sweat, tightened around the grip almost instinctively, knuckles paling beneath the strain before relaxing again. My chest rose in one slow, shaky breath, then another, each inhale feeling as though the air itself had thickened.
The cheers. The chants. The whistles.
Everything around me seemed to stretch farther away, muffled beneath the violent pounding of my own heartbeat.
Now more realizations are making a way through my mind.
Not suddenly. Not violently.
It crept through the cracks in my confidence with terrifying patience, each tiny realization connecting to the next until they formed something impossible to ignore.
A realization that I am just lying to herself.
My resolve has completely disappeared.
The determination that had burned so fiercely only moments earlier now flickered like a candle caught in a relentless wind.
In my mind I feel like Afreen has already defeated me.
My lips parted ever so slightly. A shallow breath escaped. My eyes never left Afreen.
Standing there with the racket resting effortlessly in her left hand… Calm. Relaxed. Almost amused.
My stomach tightened painfully.
______________
A flashback.
I remembered.
The puzzle game. On the rooftop.
Three and a half years ago.
Between me and Afreen. So vividly. All the details.
The memory arrived with startling clarity.
The rough concrete beneath them.
The warm afternoon sunlight stretching long shadows across the rooftop.
The colorful puzzle board balanced between the two of us.
The faint breeze tugging at loose strands of hair.
I could almost smell the heated concrete again.
Almost hear the distant sounds of traffic below.
Tahir…
A few feet away. Hands buried inside his pockets.
Expression unreadable as always. Watching. Not interfering. Just observing.
Malik…
Sitting beside them. Already defeated.
Slumped against the low wall with an exaggerated sigh after losing his turn.
Afreen… About to roll the dice.
I remembered a detail. A tiny detail.
One so insignificant that my younger self had dismissed it without a second thought.
Afreen holding the dice sometimes with left hand…
…and sometimes with the right hand.
My eyes widened. Just barely. The memory refused to let go.
I remembered smiling wickedly. Remembered thinking Afreen was simply fidgeting.
Nothing more. Nothing important. How could something so ordinary…
Become something so devastating now?
I overlooked a detail that could have helped me prepare properly against the Monster I am facing.
"The enemy that can't be defeated."
My throat tightened. Not from exhaustion. From regret.
A quiet, suffocating regret that settled heavily against my ribs.
The kind that only arrives after realizing the answer had always been in front of you.
_____________________
All hope is lost in I eyes as I am about to serve again.
Even the determination reflected there moments ago had dimmed.
My shoulders, once squared with stubborn resolve, sagged almost imperceptibly beneath the invisible weight pressing down on them.
The muscles in my forearm trembled. Not violently. Just enough for the vibration to travel through the racket.
I swallowed. My mouth had gone dry. The tennis ball rested inside my palm. Small. Weightless. Yet somehow impossibly heavy.
I looked down at it for a brief moment. Then closed my fingers around it.
I served the ball high. Unenthusiastically.
The motion lacked the conviction that had carried me through the earlier rallies.
My arm followed through more from habit than confidence.
The ball climbed into the afternoon sky.
Spinning. Higher. Higher. For an instant…
Time itself seemed to slowed down.
Every pair of eyes in the stadium followed the yellow ball as it drifted toward Afreen.
No chants. No cheers. No whistles.
Only silence.
The kind of silence that existed only between one heartbeat…
…and the next.
But something happened…
Almost miraculously.
As the ball spin towards Afreen…
_______________
Wing C, Seat 79.
The ball left my racket without conviction.
It rose into the afternoon sky, spinning lazily, almost beautifully against the pale blue above the stadium.
There was no confidence behind it. No deception. No precision. Only exhaustion.
Only surrender disguised as another serve.
My fingers loosened around the grip.
So this is it…
The cheers… The boos… The pain…
It all ends here.
Across the net, Afreen watched the ball approach.
She didn't move immediately.
Instead—She smiled. That same smile. Confident. Victorious. Satisfied.
Like someone standing at the finish line before everyone else had even begun running.
Her left hand tightened around the racket. Her shoulders rotated. Her feet planted perfectly.
The swing began.
Power gathered through her entire body. The crowd leaned forward in anticipation.
Everyone knew what was coming. One devastating return. One final point. One shattered dream.
Then—Something happened.
It was so subtle… So impossibly small…
That almost nobody noticed.
Almost.
Afreen's eyes—Moved.
Not toward the ball. Not toward me. Past me. Past the court.
Toward the stands.
Just for the smallest fraction of a second. Her pupils shifted. Her expression changed. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else.
But enough for me.
Enough for someone who had spent the last hour studying every tiny movement she made.
Confusion. A flicker. Gone almost immediately.
Her swing continued. But… It wasn't clean.
The timing—Was late.
The contact—Wasn't centered.
The ball struck the strings with an ugly, hollow sound.
THWACK—
Not the crisp explosion that had terrorized me throughout the match.
Something was wrong.
The return sailed high. Much higher than intended.
The spin was unstable. The trajectory floated. The ball climbed…
Higher… Higher…
Until—It sailed beyond the baseline.
Out.
For a heartbeat… Nobody reacted.
Not me.
Not Afreen.
Not the umpire.
Not even the crowd.
It was as though the entire stadium had forgotten how to breathe.
Then the umpire's voice finally cut through the silence.
"Out."
His eyes shifted toward me.
"Point… C.A.A."
"30 — 30"
The words echoed strangely inside my head.
Point… C.A.A…
I blinked. Did…
"Did she just… Miss?"
Afreen remained exactly where she was. Her racket lowered slowly.
Very…
Very slowly.
She stared at the empty patch of grass where the ball should have landed.
Her brows drew together almost imperceptibly. No frustration. No anger. No visible embarrassment.
Only…
Calculation.
She replayed the motion inside her head. Again. Again. Again.
As if trying to understand something that refused to make sense.
That… Shouldn't have happened.
I knew it.
She knew it.
The point wasn't mine because I hadn't earned it.
Something… Interrupted her.
The murmurs spread across the stadium like ripples through still water.
"What happened?"
"Did she mistime it?"
"No…"
"I've never seen Afreen miss something like that."
"Was it the sun?"
"Was it fatigue?"
"Did her grip slip?"
"I don't think so…"
Even the A.R.C supporters looked at one another, uncertain.
The confidence in their chants hesitated for the first time all afternoon.
My own heartbeat quickened.
No… That wasn't fatigue. That wasn't pressure.
Afreen doesn't make mistakes like that.
She lifted her head. Slowly. Methodically.
Scanning the stands once again.
Searching.
Looking for…
Someone.
Her eyes swept across rows of students…
Past banners… Past waving hands… Past cheering faces…
Until—
They stopped.
"Wing C."
For only an instant. Then they moved away again.
My own gaze followed instinctively.
"Wing C…?"
"What… Are you looking at?"
The answer never came.
Because before I could think any further—
Afreen smiled. It returned so naturally that, for a terrifying moment, I questioned whether the mistake had happened at all.
She rolled her shoulders once. Rotated her wrist. Adjusted her grip on the racket.
Then looked directly at me.
The smile reached her lips. Not her eyes.
"…Interesting," she murmured quietly.
Quietly enough that only I could hear. Something inside my chest tightened.
That wasn't the smile of someone who had just lost control.
That was the smile of someone…
Who had just discovered something.
________________
I serve again.
The tennis ball left my fingertips with the last bit of strength I could force through my exhausted arm.
Every muscle protested. My shoulder burned. My wrist throbbed.
The moment the ball crossed the net, Afreen moved. There was no hesitation. No wasted motion.
Her entire body unfolded with terrifying precision. One step.
A pivot.
Then—Her racket exploded forward.
The sound alone made my stomach tighten.
CRACK!
This time her return is brutal.
The force nearly tears the racket from my hands.
The vibration ripped through my palm, shot into my wrist, climbed my forearm and crashed against my shoulder like an electric shock.
My fingers almost opened.
For one horrifying instant, I genuinely thought the racket would fly away.
My teeth clenched so hard my jaw hurt.
I barely manage to send it back. The return wasn't graceful. It wasn't elegant. It was survival.
Afreen rushes forward. She wasn't running anymore. She was hunting.
Her shoes dug violently into the grass as she accelerated, her ponytail whipping behind her, eyes locked onto the descending ball with frightening intensity.
She reached it effortlessly. Then smashed it again. Her entire body rotated through the strike. Every ounce of momentum poured into the racket. The impact echoed across the stadium.
"Hyyyyyaaaa!" I yell, pouring everything I have into the return.
The cry tore itself from somewhere deep inside my chest. Not confidence. Not fear. Defiance. My shoulders twisted violently. My knees buckled under the strain. My exhausted body screamed at me to stop.
I refused.
The racket met the ball. Barely. The strings shuddered violently beneath the impact.
The ball arcs high. Too high.
The moment it left my racket… My heart sank. Too much lift. Too little control.
A mistake.
I could already picture the overhead smash waiting for me.
Afreen lifts her head.
Her eyes track its descent with unwavering precision. Every previous rally had taught me exactly what came next.
She'd position herself. Rotate. Jump.
End the point.
Preparing the perfect counter—
And then—She doesn't move.
Not one step. Not even half a step. She simply stands there. Completely still.
Her eyes remained fixed upward, following the spinning yellow ball. Her grip on the racket tightened.
Then loosened.
Her lips parted almost imperceptibly. Something strange crossed her face.
Confusion.
A flicker so brief that most people would have missed it again.
The ball continued falling. Lower. Lower. Closer.
Still—She didn't move.
Time itself seemed to hesitate.
Every spectator leaned forward instinctively.
Someone gasped. Another shouted.
No one understood what they were seeing.
The ball lands a few feet away from her.
THUD!
It bounced once. Twice. Rolled gently across the grass.
Only then does she turn and look at it.
Slowly.
Almost mechanically. Like someone awakening from a dream. Her brows knitted together.
The confident smile that had followed her since the opening serve was gone.
Her breathing remained steady…
Yet something inside her expression had fractured.
She stared at the tennis ball with an intensity that didn't belong to someone who had merely lost a point.
She looked… Bewildered.
As if she herself couldn't explain why she hadn't moved.
Shock ripples across the court. The silence arrived first.
A stunned… Almost sacred silence.
Then murmurs.
Confused whispers spread through every section of the stadium.
Students exchanged bewildered looks.
Some stood. Others pointed toward the court.
Even the umpire blinked twice before announcing the score. No one understood.
No one.
This isn't chance. This isn't luck.
My pulse hammered inside my ears. My breathing refused to slow.
Somewhere deep inside…
An instinct whispered that this wasn't normal.
Someone in the shadows is interfering.
Someone is actively dismantling her rhythm.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Almost invisibly. Tiny fractures. Perfectly timed.
Each one barely noticeable on its own…
Yet devastating when they accumulated.
And somehow—
It's working.
I won another point.
"40 — 30."
The announcement echoed across the stadium.
For a brief heartbeat… Everything around me disappeared.
The chants. The wind.
The burning in my legs. The ache in my lungs.
Everything.
Only the scoreboard remained. Only those two numbers.
One more point. One more.
I swallowed hard. My throat felt impossibly dry. My chest rose and fell violently as I tried to steady my breathing.
Sweat dripped continuously from my chin onto the grass below. My hands trembled around the racket. Not from fear. From exhaustion. From disbelief.
Across the net…
Afreen still hadn't looked at me.
She stood motionless, her gaze lingering on the patch of grass where the ball had landed, her fingers flexing once around the handle of her racket as though silently testing whether it still belonged in her hand.
For the first time since the match began…
She looked uncertain.
And that frightened me almost as much as it encouraged me.
One more point…
One more point and I win the set.
________________________
One More Point.
I serve again.
My fingers tighten around the grip until my knuckles pale beneath the strain. Sweat trickles down my temples, stinging my eyes, but I don't wipe it away. My breathing comes in deep, uneven pulls, every inhale scraping through lungs that already feel overworked.
The ball rests against my fingertips.
For a brief moment… Everything else disappears. The chants. The booing. The stadium.
Only the ball remains. I toss it upward.
It climbs, spinning lazily against the endless blue.
My body follows. My legs burn. My shoulder protests. My spine twists.
Every muscle screams as I launch myself upward.
"HYYAAAH!"
The racket collides with the ball.
CRACK!
It rockets toward Afreen. She meets it immediately.
"HYAAAI!"
The return whistles back. I slide across the grass. My shoes tear through the turf.
Return.
Afreen answers. Again. Again.
Back and forth.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
Every exchange grows heavier.
Every impact travels from my racket into my wrists, through my elbows, rattling my shoulders.
Neither of us gives an inch.
The spectators have stopped chanting. Stopped talking. Stopped breathing.
Only the sharp crack of tennis balls echoes around the stadium.
Only our footsteps. Only our yells.
The tenth exchange comes.
I force my aching legs to move. One last burst. One last gamble.
I plant my foot so hard that the grass gives beneath it.
My entire body leans forward until I'm almost horizontal.
For a split second…
…it feels impossible that I won't simply collapse.
Then—I swing.
Everything I have left pours into that single motion. The racket slices upward. The ball launches skyward. Higher than before.
Higher than any shot I've hit today.
It climbs… and climbs… and climbs…
until it seems to disappear into the afternoon sky.
Afreen watches it. Completely composed. She adjusts her footing. Raises her racket. Bends her knees.
Ready. She has it.
Then—Her eyes shift.
Wing C.
Just for a second. Just one second. Her gaze returns upward. Too late. She jumps. Her timing is off.
Not by much.
Barely enough for anyone else to notice. But enough.
The edge—Only the very tip—of her racket grazes the ball.
Tick.
Instead of exploding forward… the ball spins almost backward. Floating awkwardly.
Weightless.
Like it has forgotten which direction gravity belongs to.
It rises a little…
then begins to fall. Straight down.
Onto her side of the court.
THUD.
Silence. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. The entire stadium stares.
My racket slowly lowers. My mouth parts.
"…I won?"
The realization reaches me several heartbeats later.
"I…
won again.
The fourth set."
The umpire's voice slices through the silence.
"Game… C.A.A."
For one impossible moment… the world refuses to react.
Then—The C.A.A section erupts.
An explosion of sound crashes over the court. Students leap from their seats. Flags wave wildly. Drums pound.
Voices overlap until individual words disappear into pure celebration.
"COME ON, MIMIE!"
"LET'S GO!"
"ONE MORE SET!"
"YOU CAN DO IT!"
Isham is already on her feet. Both fists raised high above her head.
She laughs in disbelief, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as days of preparation suddenly seem worthwhile again.
Beside her, Saleem nearly loses his balance climbing onto the front barrier, shouting himself hoarse.
Aysha jumps so hard her orange soda nearly spills from the cup in her hand.
She doesn't even notice. She throws both hands into the air.
"I KNEW IT!"
Around them, every C.A.A student who had looked defeated only minutes ago now chants with renewed life.
Hope. Real hope.
Not imagined. Not forced.
Hope.
Across the stadium…
the A.R.C section falls into restless confusion. Some students exchange uncertain looks. Others insist she must simply be exhausted.
"She's tired!"
"That's all it is!"
"She switched hands!"
"She's just conserving energy!"
Others remain frozen. Unable to explain what they just witnessed.
Because… that wasn't normal.
Even I… still don't understand it. I stared across the net. My chest rises and falls violently. Sweat drips from my chin onto the grass. Every muscle in my body trembles.
My fingers ache from gripping the racket so tightly.
But none of that matters.
I survived. I'm still here.
One more set. One final chance.
Whatever is happening… I don't understand it. But I don't care anymore. I've made it this far. I have to keep pushing forward.
Even if my body gives out. Even if every step hurts. Even if I collapse after the final point.
_________________
Across campus…
inside the C.A.A clinic…
Mustyy springs halfway out of his hospital bed.
"YES!"
The sudden movement sends pain through the cast on his arm.
He winces. Doesn't care.
His uninjured hand grips the television remote so tightly his fingers shake.
His eyes never leave the Elite TV broadcast.
A grin spreads across his face.
"Come on, MiMie…"
His voice is barely above a whisper.
"You did it…"
"I knew you could…"
"You can still win…"
His eyes shine.
"Keep fighting…"
"You are the real deal…"
"Come on, MiMie…"
"Don't give up…"
_______________
Back on the court…
I tighten my grip around my racket once more. The leather creaks faintly beneath my fingers. I lifted my eyes. Towards her.
Afreen.
She hasn't spoken. She hasn't complained. She hasn't questioned the calls.
She simply walks toward her bench with slow, measured steps.
She picks up a bottle of water. Unscrews the cap. Raises it to her lips.
Takes a long drink.
Water trickles down the side of the bottle, running across her wrist before disappearing beneath her sleeve.
Then…
without hurry… without urgency… she turns her head.
Toward Wing C.
Toward the stands. Toward the same place her eyes have drifted to again… and again… and again.
A slow… almost amused… smirk curls across her lips. Not frustrated. Not worried.
As though… she knows something.
As though… the match isn't over at all.