And me, I’m just here, filling space, burning time, waiting for the next chance to get it right.
Or at least, to not fuck it up worse.
THE RUN
The way the world feels after a gym session is a species of euphoria I’ve never been able to explain to anyone, not even to myself, not even to Nia, not even to the therapist, and definitely not to Ash, who is the only person I’ve ever met that chases pain with as much hunger as I do.
There’s a stretch of time, maybe the forty-five seconds after you walk out of the locker room and before the cold air reasserts itself on your damp skin, when every muscle is saturated with warmth and your bones are humming like struck tuning forks.
In that window, everything feels possible, or at least less impossible than before.
The old Ballard gym is already packed, the regulars staking out their space on the racks, but we get the best bench, Ash’s weird, obsessive punctuality pays off, and we finish our lifts before the place goes fully feral.
We don’t talk, not really. We never do, not during the work.
But there’s a rhythm to it now, an ease, like we’re running a two-man relay where the baton is always sweat or sarcasm or the battered water bottle we both pretend not to notice is growing mold in the cap.
After the cool down, we layer up and take the sidewalk, shoes hitting the pavement in sync, every stride a rehearsal for something neither of us is ready to name.
The city is dead at this hour, just the night shift bus drivers and a few strung-out delivery guys huddled around convenience store coffee.
The sky’s got that Seattle static, low cloud cover reflecting the streetlights back at itself, making the whole block feel like the inside of a snow globe filled with garbage and hope.
I let Ash set the pace.
He’s not fast, but he’s relentless, the kind of runner who never stops, never even breaks stride to adjust his playlist or check his heart rate, just leans into the discomfort until it burns clean.
I follow, a half-step behind, because it’s easier to watch the way his calves cut the space or the way his hoodie rides up in the back, exposing a slice of lower spine that’s been a constant in my dreams for weeks.
We run in silence until we hit Capitol Hill.
The old coffee carts are shuttered, the street art wet and gleaming from the last hour’s drizzle.
Our breaths come out in visible clouds, merging in the air before drifting off into the void.
We pass the bakery, the smell of sugar and yeast flooding the block even though the doors won’t open for another hour.
There’s a cat perched on the window, watching us like it’s got our number. I think about making a joke, but I don’t.
The only sound is the slap of our sneakers and the city breathing around us.
It should be awkward, but it isn’t. Not until I veer off, mid-stride, toward the bookstore.
The storefront is barely unlocked, lights just flickering on, the owner flipping the “OPEN” sign in the glass.
I point with my chin, grunt, “Gimme a minute,” and Ash slows, stretching out his hamstrings against the street sign like he’s been waiting for me to peel off all along.
Inside, the shop smells like dust and printer ink, a coffin for dead trees and bad decisions.
It's one of those places that opens at six because the owner is an insomniac who'd rather shelve books than stare at his ceiling, I'd seen the hours painted on the glass a dozen times on morning runs.
He's an old guy, hair in a ponytail and headphones jammed in his ears, nodding to some private soundtrack.
He doesn't look up when I pass, just gives a vague thumbs-up and returns to alphabetizing the lit fic shelf.
I move straight to the counter, where there’s a bin marked CLEARANCE—ALL $2, a jumble of orphaned paperbacks and random magazines.
It takes less than a minute to find what I’m looking for, an old Penguin edition of “Labyrinths” by Borges, the cover warped, the spine cracked, but the pages all there.
