Morning always arrives quietly at the camp. Too quietly. That morning, I knew something was wrong the moment I pushed open the door to the medical wing and felt the stillness press against my chest. The cot by the window was empty. The IV stand stood useless beside it, tubing coiled neatly like it had never been touched. The blanket was folded—not tossed aside, not rumpled in panic. Folded. Carefully.
Andrew was gone.
For a moment, I just stood there, my fingers still wrapped around the door handle. My mind ran through possibilities at a speed I wasn't proud of. Maybe he'd gone to the restroom. Maybe he'd been called for an early check-up. Maybe—
No.
I knew better.
Men like Andrew didn't disappear accidentally. They left because they had already decided.
I exhaled sharply, grabbing my coat and phone before locking the wing behind me. The camp was already awake now—athletes stretching, coaches shouting instructions, the sharp crack of a Sepak Takraw ball slicing through the air. Life moved on, indifferent to the knot tightening in my chest.
I stopped the first staff member I saw, a young logistics assistant balancing a clipboard.
"Excuse me," I said, keeping my voice professional. "Andrew Parker—do you know where he is?"
He blinked. "Oh. Him? He was here earlier. Training ground C. But I heard he left the court."
Left.
"Left where?" I asked.
The assistant shrugged. "Equipment storage zone. Near the old indoor court."
I thanked him and turned away before he could say anything else.
The walk there felt longer than it should have. Each step echoed with irritation, worry, and something else I didn't want to name. I wasn't his doctor right now. I wasn't responsible for him anymore. And yet, my feet kept moving faster, my grip tightening around my phone.
When I reached the indoor court, I didn't step inside immediately.
Instead, I slowed.
The space was half-lit, shadows stretching lazily across the polished floor. And there—near the far wall—was Andrew.
He stood alone, gym bag at his feet, dressed in training clothes but without the focus he usually carried like armor. His posture was rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead, as if he were memorising the place before erasing it from his life.
I stayed hidden behind the wall for a moment.
Watching him felt intrusive. Like reading someone's goodbye letter without permission.
He looked… resolved.
And that scared me more than any injury I had treated.
I took a step forward.
And then—
Crash.
My shoulder collided with something solid—probably a stray equipment trolley I hadn't noticed. The impact threw me off balance, my foot slipping as gravity betrayed me.
I was already falling when a hand caught my arm.
Strong. Immediate.
Andrew.
The world tilted, slowed. His grip tightened around my waist, pulling me back before I could hit the floor. My hands instinctively clutched his shirt, my face barely inches from his chest.
For a second, neither of us moved.
I could feel his breathing. Steady. Controlled. Too close.
His voice broke the moment.
"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly.
Not angry. Not surprised.
Just… guarded.
I blinked, my thoughts snapping back into place. "I was—" I cleared my throat, pulling myself upright but not stepping away completely. "I was looking for you."
He released me slowly, like he was afraid of something breaking if he moved too fast.
"Why?" he asked.
I crossed my arms, grounding myself. "You disappeared. From the medical wing. From the bed you weren't cleared to leave."
His jaw tightened.
"Why did you come here?" he repeated.
I met his eyes. "Should I report you to your team?"
There it was.
The challenge. The line drawn clean and sharp.
Andrew exhaled, a quiet, tired sound. "I already reported myself."
That stopped me.
"I'm done," he continued. "I won't be playing. I'm leaving today."
"…Leaving?" I echoed. "Leaving the camp?"
"Leaving the country," he said. "I'm going back to the USA."
The words hit harder than I expected.
"What?" I stared at him. "Why?"
For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then he stepped closer.
Too close.
He leaned in until his face was just inches from mine, his voice low and deliberate.
"None of your business."
The words should have offended me.
They didn't.
Instead, something in his tone—final, wounded, defensive—made my chest ache.
I smiled.
Softly.
"Then let's get connected, Andrew."
He frowned. "Why?"
I didn't answer.
Instead, I unlocked my phone and held it out to him. "Write your number."
He hesitated.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
I stepped sideways, blocking his path as he reached for his bag. He sighed. A long, resigned sigh.
"…You're persistent," he muttered.
"So I've been told."
He took the phone from my hand, typed his number in silence, and handed it back without meeting my eyes.
"Happy?" he asked.
"For now," I said.
He picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, already halfway gone. I watched him take a few steps before calling out, "See you in the USA."
He paused. Didn't turn back. Just lifted a hand slightly in acknowledgment before walking away. I stood there long after he disappeared, staring at the empty space he left behind. Something told me this wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.