Page 105 of Pets in Space 10

Okay, universe. Very funny. You got me. I said I wanted a distraction, a change of pace, something to shake up my carefully constructed routine of work-therapy-worry-sleep-work-repeat. And what do you deliver? Yoga. The land of stretchy pants, calming chants, and… shudders… shared mats.

I’m such an idiot.

I peer through the glass door of “Balance and Breath,” the ridiculously serene name mocking my inner turmoil.

Inside, people are milling about, all looking flexible and…

well, balanced. They’re chatting, arranging their mats with a practiced ease that makes me feel like an awkward intruder in a secret society of bendy humans.

Why am I here? I should be at home, icing my knee, wallowing in self-pity, and maybe stress-eating a family-sized bag of chips. That’s my comfort zone. This? This is a brightly lit, essential-oil-scented, potential-humiliation zone.

I can still leave. Just turn around, walk away, pretend this whole yoga experiment never happened. Blame it on a temporary lapse in judgment, a side effect of the pain medication. No one would judge me.

Okay, Hana might, but she’s contractually obligated to be nice to me.

My hand hovers over the door handle, my escape route so close.

But…

A tiny voice, persistent and annoying, whispers in the back of my mind. What do you have to lose? Shit. It’s Hana’s voice. Damn her and her well-meaning advice. One class. For your knee. For your mind.

And, okay, maybe another, even tinier voice exists, one whispering about distractions, about warm bodies and shared meals and conversations unrelated to budget cuts.

“Come on, Raimei,” I mutter, pushing open the door. “Let’s get this over with. Maybe we can convince them to let us just lie in child’s pose for the entire hour.”

Raimei, nestled in my bag, offers a skeptical snort. “Child’s pose? You? I have my doubts.”

“Shut up,” I hiss, trying to ignore the amused glances from the other students. I find a spot in the back corner, as far away from the instructor’s platform as possible, and unroll my borrowed mat. It’s a bright, obnoxious shade of pink, because of course it is.

I try to blend in, mimicking the stretches of the people around me, feeling like a stiff robot attempting to imitate a graceful swan. My knee throbs in protest, and my inner monologue is a constant stream of self-deprecating commentary.

This is a terrible idea.

I look ridiculous.

I’m going to fall over and break something.

I should have stayed home.

I’m about to make my escape, feigning a sudden, urgent need to… uh… rearrange my sock drawer when the door opens, and the instructor walks in.

And my heart stops.

No. Fucking. Way.

It’s him.

Rhys.

The ghoster. The yoga instructor who vanished after one magical, kiss-filled night. The guy I’d spent weeks analyzing, wondering what I’d done wrong.

He’s standing there, looking even more ridiculously attractive than I remember, all toned muscles and a serene smile and…

My carefully constructed facade of calm detachment crumbles. My inner monologue shifts from self-deprecating to full-blown panic.

Oh. My. God.

He’s the instructor? He’s the instructor.

I’m going to die.

This is worse than the budget cuts.

Worse than the knee injury.

This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

I want to shrink, to disappear, to teleport myself back to my couch, preferably with that family-sized bag of chips. But it’s too late. He’s scanning the room, his eyes meeting mine for a brief, heart-stopping second.

A flicker of recognition crosses his face, followed by… what? I have no idea.

I can’t read him. And I can’t escape. I’m trapped. Trapped in a yoga studio with my ghoster, who is now going to be instructing me, and I’m wearing the world’s most unflattering leggings and an ugly knee brace.

Shit. This is my life now.

I shift into a fugue state, drawing within myself.

Disassociating. I’m here in this room, but not really.

I watch myself from a distance follow the poses as best I can, listen to Rhys’s calming voice and gentle encouragement, and notice how he adjusts everyone but me.

He does not come near me. He does not make eye contact. He completely ignores me.

I feel about a centimeter tall.

I will have to leave and dig my own grave now.

I hope I find a sharp shovel. And maybe a hazmat suit. Because the level of toxic humiliation radiating off me right now could melt steel.

It’s his voice. Gods, that voice. Smooth, like warm sunlight in the autumn.

A year ago, it vibrated through me that night, and it’s doing the exact same thing right now.

It’s a voice capable of convincing you to do anything.

Jump off a cliff? Sure. Run a marathon? Why not?

Attend a yoga class despite a knee injury and a deep-seated aversion to public displays of flexibility? Apparently, yes.

And the way he moves. Fluid, graceful, like he’s made of liquid moonlight and a thousand good intentions. He’s demonstrating a warrior pose, and every muscle in his arms and legs is defined, sculpted. Perfect.

Stop it, Rosa. Focus. You are here to… what are you here for? Oh, right. Humiliation. Public, excruciating humiliation.

Maybe... Maybe he doesn’t recognize me. The lighting is terrible, right? Perhaps he’s ghosted so many women that we’ve all blended into one faceless, yoga-pants-wearing blur.

The thought should make me angry. It should.

But all I feel is this… sinking. It’s mortification and…

damn it… attraction. Because even with the ghosting, even with the awkwardness, even with the very real possibility I might spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment, he’s still…

him. And my traitorous body, the one failing me on the soccer field, remembers exactly why I was so smitten that night.

Fuck. I am a loser.

“And now, everyone, slowly roll onto your right side, and then gently push yourselves up to a seated position.” Rhys’s voice, his damnably soothing voice, washes over the room, pulling me from my dissociative state.

I blink, reorienting myself. The class is ending.

Freedom, or at least a different form of torture, awaits.

I follow the instructions, my movements stiff and jerky, a stark contrast to the graceful fluidity of everyone else. My knee throbs a dull protest, a reminder of my physical limitations, while my mind races with escape strategies.

Grab my bag and Raimei.

Beeline for the door.

Avoid eye contact.

Pretend I have a sudden, urgent appointment with… my couch.

As the class disperses, a wave of polite “Namastes” and soft chatter fills the room. I gather my bag, and Raimei releases himself from a nap on the floor. I shove the borrowed mat into its bag. My hands are clammy, my heart fluttering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I make my way towards the exit, keeping my gaze fixed on the floor, weaving through the departing students like a clumsy ninja.

“Almost there,” I mutter under my breath, my voice tight with suppressed panic.

Raimei, ever the perceptive companion, nudges my leg with his head. “Running away, are we? Subtle. Very subtle.”

“Shut up and get in the bag,” I whisper back. It’s hard to settle him when he’s got four legs to put away.

Raimei plays noodle, his limbs flopping everywhere until he literally waterfalls out of my bag and lies on the floor.

“Is your dog all right?”

I freeze at his voice. Rhys is right behind me.

“He’s fine,” I blurt out, my voice a little too high, a little too strained. “He just... gets a little dramatic after exercise. Doesn’t everyone?” I force a smile, an unnatural thing that probably looks more like a grimace. “Long day. Lots of excitement. You know how it is.”

I scoop Raimei up, ignoring his indignant huff, and stuff him, none too gently, into my bag. “Gotta run,” I say, my words tumbling over each other in my haste to escape. “Big... uh... thing. With the... uh, yeah. Important.”

I turn and head towards the door. My escape! Freedom. Sweet, sweet freedom from this awkward, humiliating encounter. My knee smarts and yells at me to stop or slow down.

No.

Just a few more steps.

Don’t look back.

Pretend you didn’t see him.

Pretend this whole thing never happened.

But of course, the universe, in its infinite wisdom and twisted sense of humor, has other plans.

A group of students are on their way in for the next class and clog up the doorway, laughing and talking instead of stepping to the side. I’m trapped.

“Excuse me,” I say, trying to push past. “Sorry, coming through, need to…”

They don’t budge, still engrossed in their conversation, oblivious to my desperate attempts to navigate around them. I try to squeeze through a gap, my bag catching on someone’s yoga mat, nearly sending both of us tumbling.

“Whoa, careful there!” a cheerful voice says, a hand steadying me. I mumble an apology, my gaze still fixed on the exit.

My knee is screaming. Every awkward twist, every near-stumble, sends a fresh wave of pain shooting through my leg. Just a few more meters. Ignore the pain. Don’t make eye contact. Just get out of here.

Finally, a path clears. I lunge for the door, shoving it open with more force than necessary, the sudden burst of cool air hitting my face like a welcome slap of reality. I stumble onto the sidewalk, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

Made it. I escaped. I’m free.

The relief is short-lived.

“Rosa?”

His voice cuts through the street noise, stopping me dead in my tracks. It’s not a question, not really. It’s a statement, a recognition, a belated acknowledgment of the woman he’d ghosted a year ago, now standing on the sidewalk outside his yoga studio, looking like a disheveled, sweaty mess.

My name, spoken with a hesitant surprise, a hint of... confusion? Regret? Curiosity? It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he knows.

He remembers.

And I’m frozen, caught between the urge to flee and the morbid curiosity to see what happens next.

Weren’t you just saying you were going to give dating a chance again, Rosa? Why not start now by figuring out what happened on the last great date you went on? Maybe you can learn something?

I choose curiosity and turn around.