Six. Seven. Eight.
My quad shakes. The brace shifts slightly, and a sharp spike of pain shoots through the joint.
I stop. Drop the band. Lean back against the couch and close my eyes.
"You okay?" she asks.
"Yeah. Just taking a break."
I can feel her watching me. I don't open my eyes.
"You don't have to do all three sets at once," she says gently. "The schedule says—"
"I know what the schedule says."
Silence.
I open my eyes. She's looking at me now, laptop forgotten, hands folded in her lap.
"I'm fine," I say, softer this time. "Just... frustrated."
She nods. Doesn't say anything. Goes back to the laptop.
I pick up the band and start again.
The flat feels lower every day, like the ceiling’s on a slow descent.
I don't know if it's because I can't leave, or because there's too much of her here now.
Her clothes are draped over the chair in the bedroom. Her toiletries crowd the tiny bathroom shelf. Her laptop and notebooks take up half the table. There's a mug on the counter with her lipstick stain on the rim that's been there for three days.
It's not that I mind. I don't. I want her here.
But I can feel the walls pressing in. The couch where I sleep because the bed is too hard to get in and out of. The crutches that clatter every time I stand. The knee that throbs no matter what position I sit in.
I used to come home to this flat and feel like I'd won something. Like I'd carved out a piece of the world that was mine.
Now it just feels like a box I can't get out of.
I finish the third set of extensions and move on to the next exercise. Hamstring curls. Another ten reps. Another three sets.
Élise gets up from the table, refills her coffee, and leans against the counter, watching me.
"You're doing good," she says.
"I'm doing the bare minimum."
"It's only been a week."
"Five weeks until Finals."
"Nico."
"What?"
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Shakes her head and turns back to the counter.
I know what she wants to say. That I'm pushing too hard. That I should give myself time. That one race isn't worth risking my knee.
