We were sitting on the same benches.
Same court.
Same place where everything had ended.
But this time, there was no noise. No complaints. No arguments.
Just a deep, discreet silence.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Then twenty.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Some of them were still in their match uniforms, sweat-dried jerseys clinging to exhausted bodies. Others had changed, as if removing the uniform could erase the defeat.
Shivani was still staring at the scoreboard, her eyes fixed on the numbers as if refusing to believe them.
Akriti sat beside her, slowly removing her shoes. Not like someone who had lost a match—but like someone who had lost something greater. She untied the laces carefully, placing the shoes beside her as if she were setting down a burden she could no longer carry.
Shrishti kept rubbing her palms together, whispering under her breath, "That last serve… I should've taken it better."
Rishika leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring at the ground. Diya sat unusually quiet, her fingers tightly intertwined.
And I—
I was silent.
Not overthinking.
Not crying.
Just blank.
But beneath that blankness, regret was rising.
I was never like this.
I never underestimated opponents. I never ignored preparation—whether it was studies or competition. I always practiced. I always respected strength, whether the opponent was weak or powerful
How?
How could I undermine a coach?
A coach I knew was good.
Why didn't we practice?
Why did we joke about him?
did that age comment even matter?
Each question echoed in my mind like a hammer.
Finally—
Shrishti exhaled sharply.
"Fine. We lost. But what were we even thinking?" she said. "We're not professional players."
Diya nodded slowly. "We joined this for fun. For memories."
Rishika added bitterly, "Six months under him? That's not fun. That's punishment."
"We're not doing this," Shivani said firmly this time, surprising everyone.
Silence again.
Then I spoke.
"What do you think we can do?" My voice was calm, but my chest felt tight. "We have to survive this. We have to get through it."
Prapti shot me a straight look.
"What if we don't?"
I looked at her.
"What if we cancel it?" she continued. "Why can't we talk to the principal? He can't force us. We lost. So what? We don't even want this."
Akriti finally looked up from her shoes. "Maybe she's right."
Even Diya, who rarely spoke, whispered, "I don't think I can handle six months of this."
No one argued.
Not even me.
And somewhere inside… I agreed.
Maybe we could still step back.
Slowly, one by one, we stood up. Not brave. Not confident. Just searching for an exit.
Together, the seven of us walked toward the principal's cabin.
The principal listened quietly as we explained everything—our fear, the pressure, the realization that we weren't ready.
She didn't interrupt.
When we finished, she looked at us… then at the consent forms in her hand.
The very forms we had signed willingly.
"If you want to cancel," she said calmly, "you can."
Hope flickered.
"But remember," she continued, "the camp fees are already paid. We collected them from your parents. They are non-refundable."
The word hit like a wall.
"Not a single penny will be returned."
Shrishti's face drained of color.
"Contracts are signed. Parents are informed," the principal added firmly. "Commitment cannot be seasonal, girls."
This time, it wasn't fear.
It was helplessness.
We stepped out of the cabin in silence.
Rishika was the first to speak.
"Our parents will never agree to lose that money."
Diya looked down and whispered, "We can't tell them we quit after one loss."
Then Prapti said the word none of us wanted to hear.
"We're stuck."
Stuck.
The word felt heavier than defeat.
Because losing can be improved.
But being stuck?
That leaves no space to run.