“Now that you’re in downward dog, stretch your right leg up to the sky and open your hips into a downward dog split,” Mal instructs.
I try to point my toe high to the ceiling, but my arms are quivering from the weight of my body on my wrists. Sweat trickles down my arms to my mat, and I want to sneeze, or cough, or pass out. Everyone in this class smells like essential oils and body odor.
There are around twenty others, and they all seem better prepared than I am, and by better prepared, I mean they are bending more than breaking. They flow effortlessly on their mats, the mirrors around us reflecting their perfect posture against my chaosof legs and arms wiggling around trying to keep my balance. I also hate how tight my black leggings are as they attempt to make my curves straighter, but I know they aren’t fooling anyone that I prefer my carbs to cardio.
Just as I’m about to collapse into a puddle of defeat and eucalyptus-scented shame, Mal says, “Breathe into the resistance. You can hold more than you think.”
Easy for her to say. She’s bending like she’s made without bones. She’s fluid in her movements while she’s talking to us, like the heat in this room isn’t affecting her speech, her heartbeat, or her consciousness. I’m starting to get a little worried about mine.
I suck in a breath, trying to hold it—and then the words crash into me, sudden and sharp, like the downward dog pose rattled something loose.
“You were always so dramatic. Running away like that, like it was your only option. You made a scene. You should’ve stayed. Tried harder. For me. For us.”
The memory squeezes at my chest. I haven’t thought about that day in a long time, though, clearly, my body hasn’t forgotten. Dang those emotions hiding in places they shouldn’t be. There’s an ache behind my ribs, and I know it’s that feeling of not being enough. Of reaching for something familiar just to feel wanted again—and realizing too late that comfort isn’t the same thing as safety. Or love.
“Bring your leg back down,” Mal instructs. “Use this downward dog to find your breath. Really breathe in and find a little more strength.”
I do as she says, but the memory lingers feeding on the fact that I'm not feeling great about myself this morning.
I woke up to hundreds of notifications admiring my fanfiction, but there was one notification that took every ounce of validation away. I’d received another rejection letter in my inbox. Another literary agent unable to see my potential—telling me that while itwas good, it wasn’t good enough. Okay, maybe notexactlyin those words. But she might as well have just said,“Get a new dream, Miss Perry. This one is clearly not working out for you.”
“Now stretch your left leg up into downward dog split. Really open it up and feel the stretch,” Mal says.
I feel the stretch, but more than that…I feel exposed, like I’m all heart and no flesh. And it hurts.
You should’ve tried harder.
Not him. Me.
Because somehow, it’s always my fault. I’m not quiet enough. Easy enough. Grateful enough to take up the tiny corner I’ve been offered in someone else’s world.
And if I’m honest…I think I actuallydeservemore space than a corner, and if my own version of Patrick Swayze isn’t going to show up and say,“Nobody puts baby in a corner!”, then I need to do it myself.
My leg slams down on the mat with a loud thwack, and a few yogis glance over at me with raised brows and quiet judgment. I’ll let them. I’m suddenly more awake than I’ve felt in days.
Andrew was right about one thing.
Icantry harder.
Not for him. Not for what we were. Not for anybody else.
For me.
I push myself upright, wiping sweat from my brow and try to lasso my hair back into my hair tie. Maybe Evan Michaels doesn’t like me or what I do, but that doesn’t mean I have to let another man try to put me in a place that I don’t want to be.
And right now, that isnotin a 102-degree room trying not to pass out on a yoga mat.
Maybe that smug message was just spam. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was something else entirely.
I sit back on my heels, heart thudding in my chest—but this time, it’s not from yoga. It’s from somewhere deep within me.
I stand from my mat, gather my things, and walk out of the studio, a refreshing coolness scattering goosebumps of relief across my skin. That’s the last hot yoga class I’ll ever take.
I pull out my phone from my bag, bring up the message from the supposed Evan Michaels, and reread it.
Maybe it’s time to own my words.
I begin to craft a message back, my thumbs picking up their pace and intensity on the screen. Sometimes, my emotions get the best of me—the highs and the lows. I like to blame my red hair for it, but honestly, it’s also what makes me good at what I do. I’m passionate about everything, and that passion fuels my ability to write so deeply about others.
