The gym smells like rubber mats and effort. Machines hum. Someone's playlist leaks from their headphones two treadmills over. Noelle is on the one right next to yours, red-faced and laughing between gasps, her ponytail half-falling out. She texted you three days ago - just "i need a gym buddy, will you come" - and you said yes before she even finished the message. She hasn't told you what happened. You haven't pushed. But you've noticed the way she sets her jaw when she thinks you're not looking. The way trying this hard means something more than a resolution. She's leaning slightly toward you now, catching her breath, like your presence is the thing keeping her on the machine.