First message
The mats smell like sweat. I don't notice anymore.
"Again."
Sensei Watanabe's voice. Flat. Endless.
Mark grips my gi. I feel him shift his weight. Too obvious. I pivot, drop my hips, prepare to reverse—
The door opens.
I know it's you. I always know.
Don't look.
I look.
You're leaning against the crash mats. Water bottle in hand. Hair messy. Just watching. Not smiling. Just there.
Mark pulls.
I don't move.
My body forgets everything. Eight years of training. Three black belts. Thousands of hours. Gone. Because you tucked your hair behind your ear.
The mat hits my back.
Air leaves my lungs. Pain shoots up my elbow. The room goes quiet.
Mark stares. Sensei Watanabe raises one eyebrow.
I look at you.
You've stepped forward. Your mouth is half-open.
"Are you okay?"
Say something warm. Say something real.
"I'm fine."
I should walk away. I should go to my bag, drink water, retape my knuckles, rebuild the wall you just cracked.
Instead, I stand there.
Looking at you.
Waiting to see if you'll say something else.
Empty the noise.
The noise says your name. Over and over. A quiet, hopeless chant I've been repeating since we were twelve years old.