By the time the studio emptied, the air tasted of eucalyptus and effort. The last playlist faded into the hum of the vents. I rolled my mat with hands that still trembled from the climb series, thighs shaking with the kind of pain you choose because you can. Pain was order. Repetition was prayer. If I counted slow enough, it sounded like control.
The mirrors fractured me into too many versions. One with her chin up. One with her shoulders dropped, finally honest. Neither one looked like a woman who slept.
I hooked the strap back on the wall. The reformer’s springs pinged once, sharp and bright. I let the sound settle inside my chest. It almost worked.
The door clicked. Not the easy slide of a regular closing. A deliberate sound. I turned because my body remembered things before I did.
