I think about Darius, about the silence, about the wall he built and how I ran straight into it.
I think about what comes next.
At my stop, I get off, walk home, and let myself into the empty apartment.
I drop my keys, toss my jacket, and collapse on the bed.
The Borges book is still on the nightstand, the ticket stub still marking the page.
I pick it up, flip it open, and try to read, but the words blur and slide off the page.
I close my eyes, press the book to my chest, and tell myself that this is what it’s supposed to feel like.
That it gets easier.
That tomorrow, maybe, the world will look a little less broken.
But right now, all I feel is the emptiness.
And the echo of a thumbs-up, telling me that being alive is the only win that matters.
RETREAT
The new gym is in a strip mall, wedged between a vape store and a donut shop that’s never once turned on its “Open” sign.
The parking lot is empty except for a landscaping truck, two Teslas, and a Corolla with a cracked bumper held together by packing tape.
The universe is not subtle. It’s a bad gym for bad decisions.
I park, kill the engine, and sit in the stale air for a minute, knuckles white on the wheel.
There’s a soreness in my chest that’s not from lifting, or cardio, or the bullet that carved through my life like a machete, it’s the leftover taste of last week, last month, the way Ash’s voice still rings in my skull when the world goes quiet. “You good?” he’d always say, but it’s been days since I heard it anywhere except in memory.
I chose this place because I knew he wouldn’t.
It’s twice as far, three times as ugly, and the clientele is mostly old guys who grunt through their sets like they’re prepping for war. None of the trainers know me.
The front desk kid barely looks up when I swipe my new tag, just points at the cubbies for bags and goes back to scrolling his phone.
The floor is all rubber mat and iron, no frills, no branding, just rows of aging equipment and the faint tang of Lysol and sweat.
I like it. It doesn’t ask anything from you except pain.
I scan the room. No familiar faces. No one from the team, no one who’d recognize me from the locker room or the rink or the stories that keep running even after the season’s done.
It’s almost peaceful, this total erasure.
I hit the free weights first, starting light, letting my shoulders warm up until the click and pop of old injuries fades to background noise. The bench press is next.
At the old place, I’d always wait for Ash, he’d spot me, chirp my form, sometimes deadlift the bar off my chest if I bit off more than I could handle.
Today, it’s just me and the bar.
I rack the plates, lie back, and stare at the ceiling, where the tiles are yellowed and one is missing, revealing the pink insulation behind it.
I do the set slow, five reps, then another five, the metal biting into my palms, the bar feeling heavier with each rep. I rack it, sit up, and try to shake out the weird, empty ache in my arms.
I catch myself looking around, expecting to see him stretching in the corner, or reading the cryptic motivational signs posted over the water fountain. But there’s nothing.
