Delete.
I close the document without saving and open a browser instead, scrolling aimlessly through social media I don't postto, articles I don't finish reading, anything that looks like productivity from a distance.
People come and go around me. I watch them all. I pretend to work.
I haven't written a single fucking word since I got home from Story Island.
When the tables start filling up around noon, I pack up my laptop, leave, and walk home.
Third outfit change. Athletic leggings, sports bra, oversized tee knotted at my hip.
Grab a second backpack already pre-loaded with gear. Shove a beef stick into my mouth, eat a second one on the drive. Guzzle some water.
The gym is six blocks away, but closer to the river. I've been coming every day since I moved in to the new apartment. The front desk staff know my name. The regulars nod when I walk past the free weights.
I smile back. Wave sometimes. Ask how their weekend was.
I'm outgoing here. Friendly, even.
I'm performingnormal girl who goes to the gym.
None of them know I'm just killing time.
I claim a treadmill, plug in my earbuds, and run. Again. Miles I don't need, burning energy I don't have. When my legs start shaking, I switch to the stair climber and punish myself for another thirty minutes.
I'm not training for anything.
I'm not working toward a goal.
I'm just… here.
I shower. Fourth outfit change. Strappy-back jumpsuit in lavender made of organic cotton because that kind of shit matters in the next place.
Today's yoga studio is across town.
This is where I meet men.
Soy boy feminists who've never seen a pair of handcuffs outside a joke shop. Men who say things like "I really respect your boundaries" and "consent is so important to me" with the earnest intensity of someone who's never had a dark thought in their entire life.
I've been on twelve dates since Caleb.
Twelve different men from twelve different yoga classes scattered across many different studios. Each studio has dozens of classes. I almost never run into the same guy twice unless I want to.
I don't want to.
One date, maybe two if he's boring enough to be safe.
Never a third.
Today's class is at 4 PM in a studio I've only been to twice before. I recognize no one, which is perfect. I unroll my mat in the back corner and sink into child's pose while the instructor dims the lights and starts the playlist—something with chimes and a woman's voice humming.
I'm surprisingly flexible these days.
All that running. All that gym time. All those hours spent anywhere but in my own head.
I flow through the poses on autopilot. Downward dog. Warrior two. Triangle. My body bends and stretches and holds, and I feel absolutely nothing.
After class, I eat a take-out salad in my car, then drive to the community center on the east side.
