Better than.

“I should be better by now,” she said once.

Not sad, angry. Exhausted-angry. She scares me when she’s angry.

I asked, “Better than who?”

She stared at the Negroni like it owed her answers.

“Myself,” she said —like I was supposed to agree.

The problem is that when there’s no opponent, you become both the fighter and the punching bag. Every loss feels personal, and every pause feels like failure.

She couldn’t rest. Rest meant falling behind a version of her that didn’t even exist. She wasn’t afraid of losing; she was afraid of stopping.

“How’s the Negroni?” I asked.

She took a short, controlled sip.

“You can’t do better than this,” I said.

For a second, she looked ready to argue.

“I’m joking,” I added quickly — almost afraid she’d end up behind the bar trying to make a better one.

I’ve watched her compete with her past, her potential, her career, her body.

The damage isn’t loud, it’s quiet, looks like success. It sounds like motivation. It feels like never being enough, and the only thing that ever wins is pressure — because pressure works like a drug.

The more you survive it, the more you want.

“What do you want?” I asked when I noticed her staring at the girl across the bar. She didn’t answer right away. I wondered if even this had turned into something to beat.

And that’s when I realized  — if I took away her competition,

took away the goals, the races, the pressure, Who would she be when there was nothing to chase? Would she soften? Would she rest? Would she disappear?

Maybe the fight isn’t what’s breaking her; it’s the only thing holding her together.

I came back with a second Negroni in hand.

“You can’t do better than this Negroni,” I said.

“Stop competing.”

She laughed hard.

“You can’t compete with me,” I added.

“I want you to win too.”