Page 104 of Pets in Space 10

On our way to the various transport options, I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering exhaustion from the Kojiki session, not to mention the low-level dread that Kenji’s “whispers” have planted.

As I pass through the revolving doors, I catch snippets of a conversation between two executives, their voices hushed but urgent.

“...restructuring is inevitable...”

“...personnel reductions...”

“...prioritizing core missions...”

My stomach clenches. It’s like listening to a weather report predicting a typhoon, knowing your house is right in its path. I try to tell myself it’s just speculation, the usual office gossip amplified by anxiety. But the knot in my chest tightens with each overheard phrase.

At the transport hub, I find a relatively empty shuttle headed to the medical center and slide into a seat near the back. Raimei, ever the opportunist, curls up on the seat beside me, his head resting on my thigh.

“Such a hard life,” I murmur, stroking his soft fur. He sighs, his eyes closing. “Naps, snacks, existential conversations… it’s exhausting.”

I try to follow his example, closing my eyes and focusing on the gentle rhythm of his breathing. Calm. Peace. Acceptance. All the things I preach. All the things I’m failing to embody.

Instead, my mind drifts back to Kenji’s question about my date.

Why did dating even matter when my whole world was on the verge of collapsing?

It’s not like I’m looking for a relationship.

Between work, physical therapy, and the looming threat of unemployment, I don’t have time to breathe, let alone swipe through dating apps and respond to matchmaking services.

And yet…

Maybe a distraction wouldn’t be the worst thing. A way to escape the constant worry, to feel something other than the throbbing in my knee and the knot in my stomach.

Yes... Yes. Maybe a distraction is exactly what I need. Something, or someone, to take my mind off the endless cycle of work-therapy-worry. A warm body, a shared meal, a conversation that doesn’t revolve around budget cuts or ligament damage.

It’s not like I’m opposed to the idea of a relationship.

I’ve seen my sisters find happiness with their partners, and they all appear to be happy.

Despite my current cynicism, a tiny part of me still holds onto that hope.

That maybe, somewhere out there, is a guy who appreciates a lady who’s a little sarcastic and witty, has a deep love for soccer, and a fluffy, opinionated dog.

The problem is, finding him seems to be a feat only available to the keenest, prettiest, most successful among us.

My dating history is a series of near misses, awkward encounters, and outright disasters.

There was the engineer who spent the entire date talking about his ex, the astrophysicist who tried to explain the intricacies of wormhole theory over dinner (boring, sorry), and, of course, the infamous yoga instructor who ghosted me after one perfect date.

I frown at the memory. Rhys. Tall, with kind eyes and a smile that could melt glaciers. We’d met at a mutual friend’s party, spent hours talking about everything and nothing, and ended the night with a kiss that left me breathless. And then… silence. Complete and utter radio silence.

I’d analyzed every text, every interaction, trying to figure out what I’d done wrong. Was it my breath? My choice of wine? My enthusiastic discussion of the offside rule? Eventually, I’d chalked it up to the mysteries of the dating universe and moved on.

Or, at least, I’d tried to. (Case in point, me thinking about this again.)

Maybe I should throw myself back into the chaotic, unpredictable world of dating. Send witty messages and endure the inevitable awkward small talk.

What do I have to lose, besides my sanity and a few precious hours of sleep?

Nothing, really.

At least it would be a change of pace. A different kind of stress. A distraction from the looming specter of unemployment and the constant reminder of my physical limitations.

“I think I need a distraction,” I say aloud and realize I’ve been talking to myself in my head the entire bus ride. We’re almost there.

“Distraction?” Raimei asks, lifting his head. “As in, a distraction from your very real, very pressing problems? Because that sounds like a fantastic idea. Let’s add another layer of potential disappointment to the already overflowing plate of your life.”

“Ouch. Yes. That.”

The doors open at the medical center, and we rise from our seats as the bus lowers to the ground. Thank goodness because my knee is unhappy, and I’m about to make it hella angry at physical therapy.

And, as usual, physical therapy is the absolute worst.

The sterile white walls of the clinic seem to amplify the cheerful, overly enthusiastic pronouncements of my physical therapist, a woman named Hana who looks like she could run a marathon before breakfast.

“All right, Rosa. Let’s see that range of motion!” Hana chirps, clapping her hands together. She adjusts the resistance band around my ankle, a bright pink torture device I keep trying to throw in the trash.

I know. I’m a pain sometimes.

I glare at it. “Can we just… skip this part? Maybe do some light stretching? Gentle massage?”

Hana raises an eyebrow. “And miss out on all the fun? We need to strengthen those muscles, remember? No pain, no gain.”

“I’m pretty sure ‘no pain, no gain’ is an outdated and potentially harmful philosophy,” I mutter, but I begin the exercise anyway, a series of leg lifts that send shooting pains through my knee.

“Think of it as character building,” Hana says, adjusting the timer. “Each rep is a step closer to getting back on the field.”

“Or a step closer to needing a full knee replacement,” I grumble, earning a chuckle from Hana.

“Nah.” She waves my rebuke away. “I’ve seen worse heal without surgery. You’ll be fine.”

We move through the exercises, a choreographed dance of pain and perseverance. Hana pushes. I resist. Raimei watches from his perch on a nearby chair, offering occasional commentary.

“You call that a leg lift?” he asks, his nose twitching. “My grandmother could lift higher.”

“You didn’t know your grandmother, thank you very much,” I say through gritted teeth.

Between sets, as I’m icing my knee, I blurt out, “I’m thinking of getting back into dating.”

Hana pauses, a compression wrap in her hand. “Oh? That’s… a change of pace. Feeling lonely?”

“Not lonely, exactly. More like… I need a distraction. From work, from… this.” I gesture to my knee. “Something to take my mind off things.”

“Hmmm.” Hana applies the wrap with practiced efficiency. “Just be careful, okay? Don’t rush into anything. And make sure whoever you date is supportive.” She pauses for a moment. “Of your recovery.”

“Supportive,” I echo, the word foreign and intimidating. “Yeah. That would be nice.” I point at her. “Where do I find one of those?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” She laughs as she finishes up her work. “I’ve been single since my divorce, and I’m staying that way.”

My instinct is to be a therapist at this moment, find out why she prefers the single life, figure out what went wrong. But it’s not my place. She and I have a mostly business relationship. I really should be having this conversation with my sisters, Winta or Demi.

“But maybe…” Hana’s tone shifts from teasing to thoughtful. “Maybe a change of perspective is what you need. Not just a distraction, but something that helps you heal, both physically and mentally.”

I look at her, curious. “Like what? More motivational posters? A subscription to ‘Inspirational Quotes Daily’?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “No. How about yoga?”

Yoga? My immediate reaction is a mental image of myself, stiff and inflexible, attempting to contort into some impossible pose while surrounded by lithe, bendy people. It’s not a pretty picture.

“Yoga?” I ask. My skepticism is hard to hide. “I’m not sure that’s my thing. I’m more of a ‘run-until-you-drop’ kind of person.”

“I get it, but hear me out. It’s not just about stretching.

It’s about connecting with your body, understanding its limitations, and working with them, not against them.

It’s about mindfulness, strength in stillness.

” She pauses, her eyes meeting mine with a surprising sincerity.

“It’s helped me a lot, especially after the divorce.

I center myself,” she says, lifting her chin. “Find peace in the chaos.”

I could use some peace.

“Balance and Breath is my usual place. It’s just a few blocks south from the I.A. They have several instructors, so you should be able to find someone you like there.”

“I don’t know.” My skepticism is warring with a sudden, inexplicable curiosity. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for the whole ‘om’ thing.”

“Give it a try,” Hana insists, her voice firm but gentle.

“One class. What do you have to lose?” She pulls out her tablet and taps a few times.

“I’m sending you the studio’s info. They have a beginner’s class later this week.

Think of it as an extension of your physical therapy.

A way to build strength and flexibility.

They’ll both benefit you and your game.”

I don’t know. Yoga seems so foreign, so un-Rosa-like. But there’s something in Hana’s voice, a genuine belief in the power of this practice, that makes me hesitate.

“Okay.” I shrug. “I’ll… think about it.”

“Don’t just think about it.” A knowing smile plays on her lips. “Do it. For your knee, for your mind, for your sanity.” She laughs, throwing her head back. “And who knows, maybe you’ll even find that supportive guy you’re looking for along the way.”

I shake my head. “I doubt it. But, fine, I’ll give it a shot.”

And damn, just like that, I’ve committed myself to it. Sigh. I really should learn to keep my thoughts to myself.