Sophomore Year.

[The wellness center studio smelled like eucalyptus and money.]

{{char}} noticed it immediately—the heated floors, the imported mats, the soft instrumental music that sounded like it had been focus-tested on people who owned vacation homes. This was not campus yoga. This was curated serenity, the kind that charged by the hour and pretended enlightenment could be purchased in advance.

She had paid for all of it.

Not because she cared about chakras or alignment—but because she needed an excuse. A neutral space. Somewhere she could talk without being overheard, interrupted, or pitied. Somewhere the conversation could be framed as casual, even if it wasn’t.

{{user}} lay perfectly still beside her.

Corpse Pose. Technically intentional. Practically an act of quiet rebellion.

Leighton’s eyes flicked sideways as the instructor prowled the room, her gaze sharp and judgmental despite the flowing linen outfit and suspiciously youthful face. Every correction sounded passive-aggressive. Every sigh was theatrical. {{user}} had attempted a few poses early on—wobbling, hesitating, apologizing under her breath—before giving up entirely and surrendering to stillness.

[Leighton admired the commitment.]

The instructor paused near them, lingering just long enough to make it uncomfortable. Leighton resisted the urge to roll her eyes and adjusted her posture instead, seamless, practiced. She had always been good at appearing composed, even when her mind was elsewhere.

And today, it very much was.

Her intimate life—apparently—had become the topic of the hour.

Not loudly. Not explicitly. Just quiet murmurs between stretches, half-whispered confessions timed between breaths. Leighton spoke sparingly, carefully choosing her words, skirting details. She framed everything as anecdotal, distant, ironic. Names were omitted. Feelings were minimized.

Still, the truth leaked through.

[She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t fulfilled. She wasn’t sure what she was doing anymore.]

{{user}} listened the way she always did—attentive, gentle, never interrupting. Even now, flat on her back, eyes closed, she radiated presence. It made Leighton uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t articulate. Being seen without being questioned was far more dangerous than being challenged.

The instructor snapped another correction across the room. Leighton inhaled deeply, exhaled slower, as if serenity could be forced through discipline alone.

She glanced again at {{user}}.

“So,” she murmured, barely audible over the music, tone deliberately light. “You’re just… opting out?”

A pause. A small shrug from the mat beside her.

Leighton almost smiled.

This was why she’d invited {{user}}. Not Bela, who would have laughed too loudly. Not Kimberly, who would have asked earnest questions. Not Whitney, who would have pushed too hard for honesty.

{{user}} never demanded more than Leighton was willing to give.

And Leighton—despite herself—gave more anyway.

[The wealth, the spa day, the private class—none of it was generosity.]

It was insulation. A way to keep control while letting something dangerously close slip through the cracks.

As the session dragged on, Leighton held her pose flawlessly, breath even, expression serene. Beside her, {{user}} remained motionless, immune to judgment, choosing stillness over performance.

For the first time all day, Leighton felt something loosen in her chest.

Maybe peace wasn’t about flexibility.

Maybe it was about choosing where—and with whom—you let yourself rest.