In the quietest moments, when the wind hums against my window and my breath is the only sound in the room, I am reminiscent of you. The reasons for this I cannot provide—just as I cannot explain the movement of a fallen leaf on a vast, open lake.

Six years ago, I was in my penultimate year of high school. Tennis season had just begun, and Coach had scheduled weekly lunchtime practices, with occasional Friday fixtures against rival schools.

That day was my very first memory of you. It’s blurred around the edges—so much time has passed, and what exactly you said is lost to me—but I still remember the sound of your voice, clear and vivid. Though two years my junior, you stood taller, brimming with a confidence that belied your age. You bounded up to me, your face lit with recognition, insisting we'd crossed paths the year before. Perhaps we had, but I couldn’t recall an inch of you.

From that day on, you tailed my shadow at every practice. As soon as I stepped onto the blue hard court, there you were, claiming your place as my doubles partner. Your constant chatter often tested my concentration, but your humour resonated with me, and we quickly found our rhythm. We weren’t half bad together, and I even found myself enjoying it.

We'd exchange high-fives after great shots, sometimes with our hands, other times with our rackets. Particularly impressive points even merited a pat on the back. I distinctly remember one time when we attempted to slap palms after a shot. I was wearing two violet and pink beaded bracelets, and we missed, smacking wrists instead. You winced, and we both burst into laughter.

These playful exchanges became more frequent, and I couldn't help but notice a shift in the air between us. Your words seemed to take on a more flirtatious tone, and you found every excuse to initiate contact, regardless of whether our points were wins or losses. You’d smile at me unexpectedly, try to reassure me when we were losing. Once, during an internal tournament, I sat beneath the sunshade, taking a break. Out of nowhere, you appeared, leaning against my chair, your head brushing against my legs. There was a faint tingling at the remnants of your touch and a calm itch in my throat. The heat on my skin intensified and the sounds of tennis balls being launched back and forth hummed low in the background. I don’t know why I let it happen or why I never said anything—maybe it flattered my ego. Maybe I was just like that.

At times, I wondered if I was deluding myself — misinterpreting your actions. But then, two teammates asked me if we were dating.

Doubt gnawed at me. Was this a fleeting fascination over an older girl? Or was this simply your way of interacting with everyone? I chose to see your words as an extension of your jokes, content with our friendship. Besides, I had a long-distance boyfriend—though my feelings for him waned with each passing day, our interactions feeling more like obligations than affection. My thoughts would drift, perhaps to you, your grin, your voice—my memory unsure. I didn’t know if I was searching for a way to end things with him or if I was simply looking for a reason to understand what was happening between us. Part of me worried he might hear rumours about us, but this fear subsided soon enough. We were nothing, after all. There wasn’t much more to say.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

As the season progressed, our interactions extended beyond practice. Coach, not the craftiest scheduler, often pitted us against the same few schools with teams that could match ours. These rare fixtures became the highlights of our season, punctuating our routine with bursts of excitement and nervous energy, or plain lethargy for the less enthused.

On away games, I'd sit on the bus, headphones in, bossa nova or samba drowning out the noise. Yet, there's a memory—perhaps real, perhaps fabricated—where we sit side by side, my playlist forgotten. I can almost feel the sun through the window, see the blur of concrete and glass as we sped towards our next match. Did we talk? Did we sit in comfortable silence? Knowing you, probably not. The details escape me, but the feeling lingers.

A year passed, and I entered my final year of high school. Tennis had never been your main sport, and your absences from practice grew ever more frequent. Sometimes, I’d arrive early, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, to recapture our easy banter. But you were never there. My disappointment accumulated with each missed session, though I grew accustomed to it eventually. I refused to examine why your absence affected me.

My biggest humiliation came when I confided in a mutual friend about what I thought was your interest in me. To this day, I am still unsure why I told him such a thing. When he reported to me that he’d asked you directly and you’d denied any romantic feelings, I lashed out at him for betraying my trust. But I wasn’t really angry—I was embarrassed. I had lost face. From that day on, I pulled the curtain on you. We were never the same after that.

The last fixture of the year arrived, and you resurfaced. It had been a short ride —our opponents’ school was nearby. We hadn’t spoken much that day; I was buried in matches, and so were you. It wasn’t until the end, as we were leaving, that your behaviour seemed oddly provocative. You asked me something suggestive, a probing question you had no business asking.

"So, have you ever..." Your eyebrows raised with that familiar grin.

I snapped. “That’s my private life. It’s none of your business. Go bother someone else.”  You apologised, and I brushed it off. I didn’t pay attention to your expression, your gaze. Maybe you were embarrassed; maybe you weren’t. With my racket slung across one shoulder and bags on the other, I walked out the gate and hopped into my parents’ car, not once looking back. In that moment, it dawned on me—you saw me as a conquest. You were exactly who I feared you might be.

That was the last time we spoke. I graduated quietly from high school and kept in touch with a handful of friends. You weren’t one of them.

Every now and then, curiosity gets the better of me. I’ll check your social media—always as barren as ever. For someone so loud and well-liked, I thought you’d post more. I wonder if you ever do the same, though I never feel right about it.

I’ll never send you a message. It would never feel right. Tennis and high school are the only threads that tie us together, and in this vast world, such ties are practically meaningless. You’re no longer the person I remember —of that, I’m sure. Unless some careless hand or twist of fate brings us together again, I doubt we’ll ever meet. We’re doomed to be nothing but floating thoughts in each other’s minds, navigating an ocean of forgotten possibilities.

It’s regretful. I think about you now more than I ever did back then. I vow to move on, to stop these pointless reveries. They do nothing but make me feel old and empty at the young age of twenty-three. But then, maybe that’s what growing up is—learning to live with the weight of memory.

Doubles partners—that’s all we ever were, and all we’ll ever be. And yet, in these quiet moments, when the wind whispers against my window, I wonder if it’s trying to tell me something about you.