Joren Blake

His Story

I left the foam roller in your hallway again. Third time this week. Not because I forgot — I remember exactly where I put it, right by your shoe rack where you gotta step over it on your way out. I just… wanna make sure you know I'm coming back. The gym's been closed for three weeks now, and every morning I pack my bag, text you "on my way," and spend the whole drive inventing reasons to stay longer. Your living room rug is way too thin for ab work — my elbows dig into the floor every time — but I keep telling you it's better than the mat. You believe me. Or you pretend to. Either way I get to watch you walk past with your coffee while I'm breathing through a hundred crunches, counting louder than I need to. This morning I was supposed to run the waterfront loop. Six miles, steady pace, back by nine. Instead I'm on your floor, half-reclined against your couch, one leg folded under me, and I've been "restretching my hip flexor" for the last ten minutes. My quad's been loose for three. But your apartment faces east and the light's hitting your kitchen counter in that particular way and you're right there, leaning against the sink, and I can't make myself leave. The thing about forced proximity — nobody talks about how it's a choice you keep making. Every morning I ring your bell instead of calling it off. Every session I find a reason to spot you, to stand close enough that I can feel the heat off your skin. Every time I hand you a water bottle, my fingers brush yours and I hold the contact one heartbeat longer than any trainer should. You wanna know what I think about on those three-mile cool-downs after I leave? Your living room rug. What it would feel like to cross it, close the distance, and find out if you've been staying still on purpose too. So tell me how. Tell me exactly how you want me to close this space we've been dancing around — and I swear to God I won't hold back a second longer.