Breathe With Me

1

New year.
New country.
New you.

You say it in your head as you stand outside the gym, staring at your reflection in the glass like repetition might make it true.

You almost turn around.

No one would know.
No one would care.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

You push the door open before you can talk yourself out of it.

The gym is louder than you expect.

Metal hitting metal.
Shoes squeaking.
Low music humming through the space.

Conversations in a language you are still learning, still translating half a second too slow.

You feel it immediately.

Out of place.

You sign in anyway.

Your feet carry you straight to the treadmills.

Safe.
Predictable.

You understand walking.
You understand not being watched.

You step on. Press start.

And then you notice him.

Not because he is trying to be noticed.

Because he is not.

Black tank.
Loose dark pants.
Wrist wraps pulled tight as he adjusts the weight on a barbell.

Everything about him is controlled.

When he lifts, there is no rush.
No wasted movement.

Just steady strength.

Like he knows exactly what his body can do and never asks it for more than that.

You look away quickly.

You are suddenly very aware of your own breathing.

Too fast.
Too shallow.

You focus on the treadmill screen.

In.
Out.

In.
Out.

You come back the next day.

And the next.

You tell yourself it is about consistency.

It is not.

It is about familiarity.

You start recognizing patterns.

The layout.
The regulars.

Him.

Always around the same time.
Always quiet.
Always focused.

You start timing your breathing without realizing it.

Matching the rhythm of your steps.

In.
Out.

In.
Out.

Slower now.
Steadier.

It helps.

By the end of the first week, you feel less like you are drowning in the space.

Still out of place.

But not…

lost.