I drop my bag, stretch my quads, and load up the bar. We lift in tandem, each in our own world but always aware of the other’s presence.
It’s like running parallel lanes in a pool, you never touch, but the wake from the guy next to you keeps you honest.
Fifteen minutes in, he grunts, “How’d you sleep?”
I don’t even try to lie. “Like shit.”
He cracks a smile, like he expected nothing less.
We go back to the reps. The silence is heavier this time, but not in a bad way. It’s almost companionable, the kind of quiet that doesn’t require filling.
Darius starts a new set, then, between reps, says, “You ever get that thing where you hear the shots in random noise?”
I know exactly what he means. “Car backfired yesterday. Almost threw up in the Rite Aid.”
He laughs, a real one, deep in his chest. “Fuck. I thought it was just me.”
I want to tell him he’s not alone, that none of us are, but the words jam up. Instead, I ask, “You eat yet?”
He shakes his head. “Can’t taste anything. Everything just tastes like ash.”
He freezes, maybe realizing the pun, and for a second he looks mortified. “Sorry. Didn’t mean…”
But I laugh. Loud and ugly. The sound bounces off the gym walls, and even the guy at the cable machine looks over.
I haven’t heard my own laugh in weeks, and I’m not sure I recognize it.
Darius grins, sheepish. “Didn’t mean it as a burn.”
I wipe tears from my eyes, still laughing. “It’s fine. You should see my inbox. All the trolls just call me ‘Ashtray’ now.”
He snorts. “People are creative when they’re assholes.”
We fall into a rhythm, trading jokes, trading old hockey stories, sometimes just working in silence. I tell him about my family, the daily check-ins, the way my sister tries to meme me out of depression.
He tells me about his dad, how he keeps sending links to TED Talks about “resilience,” as if a motivational video could plug the hole in your chest.
At one point, Darius leans in, voice low. “You miss Cap?”
I nod, the ache settling in my ribs. “He was the only one who remembered my name every practice. Never made it weird if I bombed a shift. Just told me to keep skating.”
Darius’s face softens, and for the first time, I see the exhaustion behind his eyes. “He said you were the best at getting up. Every hit, you just bounced.”
“Yeah, well, I’d rather be the guy who doesn’t get leveled in the first place.”
He shrugs. “That’s overrated.”
We finish the session in a quiet, not the old silence, but the new kind. The one where you know the other person is thinking the same thing, and it’s okay not to say it.
The clock hits eight. The last of the morning regulars shuffle out. The only sound is the clatter of plates as we rerack our bars.
At the door, Darius turns. “Same time tomorrow?”
It’s so casual, it hurts. Like he’s offering me a cigarette or a stick of gum, not a lifeline.
I nod, try to play it cool. “Yeah. Three days a week, or you’ll lose your edge.”
He smirks. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
