The sound of the tennis ball hitting the wall reverberated through the private court, filling the space with rhythmic echoes. Each impact carried the force of Marcus's precise strokes, his racket slicing through the air with controlled power.
With each heavy breath, he pushed himself to the limit. Sweat poured from his body, drenching his clothes. Despite the physical exertion, Marcus was undeterred. He couldn't stop, determined to forget even for a little while.
[This is wrong, Marcus.]
His movements were faster and his aggressiveness created a louder noise with each swing of his racket.
[You pity me and want to prove that I can still find love or be loved.]
He hissed, grunting as he hit the ball once more.
[You have a good heart, but you don't love me.]
