I grin so hard it hurts my face. Forced exercise is where we began…it’s where we are comfortable.
I reply before I have time to question it.
You
I will absolutely be there. Let’s get the band back together. You, me, and whoever else can be bribed with rainbow wristbands and post-run milkshakes from Benny’s.
Within seconds, Eden’s typing bubbles bounce up and down.
Eden
I’m bringing the world’s ugliest sneakers, don’t judge. It’s Bella’s fault! Also, what’s our team name? Runner puns required!
If there’s one thing my brain is good at, it’s sorting chaos into categories. But rather than go full Type A, I let myself enjoy the playful volley. I do an internal squeal when Eden adds me to the group text chain. Eden, me, Becca, Bella, Jenna and even Pia.
You
Team name ideas: Sweatual Healing? Toe-riffic? Can’t Even Run Straight? Open to suggestions.
I giggle to myself as I watch the others type their responses. Bella chimes in immediately with Runner-Up Gays. Then Becca: The Bi-athloners. Eden’s is my favorite: Don’t Stop Retrievin’. She’s such a nerd!
The event’s not for three weeks, but already there’s a pre-run pasta dinner scheduled at my place. I’m more than happy to host. I think I owe them all a few home-cooked meals.
I text Eden privately to say thanks for the invite. It means a lot. She replies with a winky emoji and a rock on hand sign.
My chest grows warm, a weird combination of pride and nostalgia. I file it away for later, along with a few moreoutlandish team names. Les-bionic Sprinters is a dark horse contender.
The afternoon is one long, caffeine-fueled productivity session. I watch YouTube videos, draft a first-pass business plan, and buy a cheesy motivational poster that says, “Progress Over Perfection.”
Eden will find it funny.
Mom brings by lemon bars and pretends not to hover. I let her, just this once. It’s nice to have someone invested in the idea as much as I am.
At dusk, I trade work mode for leggings and a playlist. I run the trail up to the lookout, keeping an easy pace and checking in with myself at every turn. No panic attack. No spiraling. Just a little soreness in my calves and a sense ofI did it, at least for today.
I imagine a future where this isn’t remarkable, where I can tell Dr. Chen about my “boring” week and mean it. Where I wake up to birdsong, eat eggs with my mom, plan impossible things with people I love, and don’t always feel the shadow waiting to yank the rug out.
When I get home, my phone is waiting with one more message. It’s from Becca. I can’t describe how good it feels to see her and the rest of my friends’ names popping up on my phone screen again.
Becca
Okay, but like…are we doing coordinated outfits? And don’t say no because you KNOW it will be fucking epic!
I send back a video of me in the blue henley I’m wearing, flexing my moderate guns.
You
Training starts now. See you at the finish line.
She responds with a row of rainbow hearts and a single word: Legend!
I laugh and toss the phone aside, then stand for a long time at the window, watching the pool light dance across the ceiling. It’s beautiful and ordinary and enough.
The next week passes on a low, happy hum. I plug away at research, surprising myself with the rabbit holes I’m willing to go down about small business strategy and insurance options. I print out a blank calendar and start mapping out goals. Mom gets excited and starts mailing me inspirational TED Talk links, which I ignore, but it’s sweet.Every day I run, ticking off training for the charity event. No one expects us to win. That’s not the point.
The group text thread is my new lifeline. It’s all memes and strategic shitposts, but under the jokes there’s this thrum of support I haven’t felt since before everything went sideways. Even Pia, who I honestly thought would murder me the second she laid eyes on me again, offers words of support and acceptance.
Eden is captain by default, even though she claims not to believe in hierarchies. She sends out training playlists and motivational GIFs with increasing frequency. I have to admit Eden’s confidence is catching.
