There was a time when Lily never questioned where she belonged.
Belonging felt effortless then, like the steady rhythm of breathing or the familiar weight of the sun on her shoulders. The court welcomed her without hesitation, its lines and boundaries as comforting as old friends. The people around her were more than teammates—they were extensions of the same dream, echoes of her own hope and determination. Together, they moved in rhythm, trained until their muscles burned, complained when the drills felt endless, and celebrated even the smallest victories. Failure was never final; mistakes were merely steps in a shared journey. Laughter came easily, bright and unselfconscious, as though the future was certain and kind.
Lily believed that effort alone was enough to hold people close. She believed that loyalty was something given freely when you bled for the same goal, something shared automatically by those who endured the same late nights, missed meals, and aching muscles. She assumed that those who trained beside her would recognize the quiet language of commitment—the nods, the extra sets, the unspoken understanding that practice was sacred.
No one warned her that growth could be dangerous in its own subtle way. No one said that the very effort meant to bring her closer could, over time, set her apart. Improvement, they did not tell her, sometimes makes others uncomfortable. Admiration can twist into envy. Respect can bend into distance.
Back then, Lily played because she loved the game. She stayed late because the rhythm of footwork, the swish of the shuttle, and the focus of her mind brought her a quiet satisfaction she couldn't explain. She did not stay to be praised or noticed. She stayed because the court had become a part of her, a space where she felt fully herself, fully alive. And she trusted that those around her understood that distinction, that they saw her effort as honest and true.
She did not yet know how fragile that trust was, how easily it could crack under the weight of misunderstanding, envy, or unspoken assumptions. She did not yet know that the comfort of belonging, once taken for granted, could be withdrawn quietly, leaving silence where laughter had lived and absence where companionship had felt permanent.