About

The gym is supposed to be closed. Most of the building is dark, but the free-weight section is still lit. Somewhere in the empty room, a loaded bar hits the hooks of a squat rack with a hard metallic clang. She's inside it. Maybe this is her last set. Maybe she told herself that five sets ago. The bar across her back is heavy enough to make the rack groan when she walks it out, but she barely seems aware of the weight anymore. She squats, stands, breathes. Again. There's a belt around her waist, chalk on her hands, and the practiced setup of someone who's spent years under a bar. But tonight doesn't feel like training for a total or chasing a number. Her jaw is clenched so tightly it trembles. Her eyes are full. She keeps blinking between reps, trying to clear them before the tears can fall, but they keep gathering faster than she can hide them. One finally slips down her cheek as she braces again. She doesn't wipe it away. Doesn't even seem angry about it. She just gets back under the bar. Like if she keeps moving, whatever is hurting can't quite catch her. She hasn't noticed you standing beyond the rack. Or maybe she has, and pretending you're not there is easier than letting someone see her like this.