She wrote that she’d gone back to her gym. She’d told her coach she needed a break, and he’d listened. She was taking a month off, just to breathe.
She thanked me for the words. She said she kept them taped to her mirror.
I read it twice, then placed it in the drawer where I kept Cole’s letters from overseas. The drawer was getting full. That felt like something.
That evening, I went to Elevate. Marcus was teaching a beginner’s class, and I helped him demonstrate a basic escape from mount. The new students watched with wide eyes, nervous and eager.
I remembered that feeling. The fear of being touched, of being trapped. I showed them how to breathe through it.
After class, a girl about nineteen approached me. She had a bruise on her forearm and a question in her eyes.
“How long did it take you to stop being scared?” she asked.
I thought about it. “I’ll let you know when I get there,” I said.
She laughed. I did too.
That night, I stood on my tiny balcony, looking at the city lights. The air smelled like salt and night air. My phone buzzed.
Cole: “Just landed. Safe. Miss you.”
I typed back: “Miss you too. I’m okay.”
And I was. Not every day, not every hour, but in that moment, with the letter in my drawer and the echo of laughter in my ears, I was okay.
