Morning came too soon.
My muscles still hummed from the night before, but I went to class anyway, because moving felt easier than thinking. The pen trembled between my fingers, ink dragging a crooked scar across the margin. Around me, the classroom breathed in quiet rhythm, mats unrolling, elastic bands snapping, the instructor’s voice counting reps. Someone’s eucalyptus balm sliced through the air, too clean, too calm.
I wasn’t really here.
Not with scapular depressions or pelvic neutrals. Not with the wall chart of muscles smiling down like it held answers I didn’t need.
The smell of him outlasted the water—clean turned bitter against my skin.
I was somewhere else.
With Megan.
With Ryan.
With the version of me I hate.
The pen clicked once, twice, sharp as a heartbeat stutter. Th
