#tw.exercise

“So, see you again next week?”

While sliding your underwear over your thighs, you turn around to face the man you had just hooked up with. His dirty blonde hair is matted to his forehead and a thin sheen of sweat glistens on his skin; his chest rises and falls slightly as he tries to steady his breath. The purple LED lights in his room illuminate his face, and he stares at you with cocked eyebrows and a smug grin plastered on his face.

You shrug and nonchalantly reply, “Depends on my schedule.” As you hastily throw on your shirt and jeans, he hops out of bed and tugs his boxers back on. You make your way over to the door and kneel down to put on your shoes. While you tie them, his figure looms over you, waiting for you to finish.

“So, uh-- bye!” you say as you rise off the carpeted floor, forcing a smile and a gentle wave.

“Bye!” he starts, and he extends both of his arms to initiate a hug.

Not this fucking shit again, you sigh to yourself.

Reluctantly, you let him wrap his arms around you as yours limp awkwardly at his sides. While still holding you, he whispers in your ear.

“I had a lot of fun tonight.”

Oh, shut up.

You pull away and exit his apartment before you could catch a glimpse of his face again. You take hurried steps down his complex’s stairwell, and once you pass through the front doors of his building, your face is blasted with the hot California September air. You look up at the night sky, and where there should be stars, your eyes are met with a vast expanse of empty darkness.

Light pollution is no joke, huh? You chuckle to yourself.

And thus your ritual of regretting every decision you’ve made so far begins during your “walk of shame” back to your apartment.

I knew it was gonna be a waste of time, you sigh. ‘I had a lot of fun tonight’ headass. Of course you did! I did all the work and you just sat back and did absolutely nothing.

A group of skateboarders zoom towards you, and you move to the side to let them pass. As they whir by, their joyous laughter fills your ears.

It’s always fucking like this though— it’s almost formulaiac. I come over, we make small talk for like two minutes until he puts his hand on my inner thigh, and then we fuck. He cums in five to seven minutes TOPS, and then I quickly get changed before he kicks me out.

You open the doors of your apartment building and hear loud chattering in the lobby. There’s a group of drunk girls who most likely just got back from a frat party. Behind them are their male counterparts, and you can barely make out the Greek letters on their shirts before they all hop into the elevator. You turn to your left to head up the stairs.

Or maybe I leave before my shame can settle in.

Your steps echo through the empty stairwell, the clicking of your shoes ringing up and down the barren walls.

I know this isn’t good for me, and I know this isn’t the best way to cope, but I can’t stop.

You arrive at your floor and navigate through your building’s twisty hallways, coming to a stop in front of your door. You quickly pull your keys out of your pocket and shove them into the keyhole, rattling them a few times.

This damn key always gets stuck at the most inconvenient of times. Just let me get inside.

Suddenly, you hear a familiar voice in the distance, and your stomach drops. You fiddle with your keys even faster, heart rate increasing as the voice draws closer and closer. Finally, your doorknob turns and you swing your door open and immediately shut it, right before the person turns around the corner of your hallway.

Your hand flies to cover your mouth to silence your panting as you check through your peephole. Shutting one eye and aligning the other with the little window, you stealthily watch a couple pass by— a man with shaggy, shoulder-length dirty blonde hair has his arm wrapped around a girl who’s slurring her words and stumbling, clearly more than a few shots in. Your breath hitches when they stop right outside of your door.

Tears start to brim your eyes as he pulls out his phone. You watch as he turns to the girl— his supposed ‘conquest’ for the night— and whispers something to her. You press your ear against the thick wood of your door to hear them more clearly.

“My roommate said we can have the room all to ourselves! We’re good to go,” he says to her in a honeyed tone. She laughs as he presses a soft kiss to her temple and they continue walking past your door.

When their voices fade out, you turn around and hold your back flush against the door. Sliding down it, your skin drags along the cool wood. Once your bottom hits the ground, you pull your thighs to your chest and bury your face in between your knees. Hot tears trickle down your legs as you sob, and your dark apartment is filled with sounds of your hics and uneven breathing. A panic starts to swell in your stomach, and you grab at the nearest thing to try to steady yourself. Tangling your fingers into your hair, you tug slightly to try to relieve some of the tension that you feel in your gut, but nothing’s working. That’s when you pull out your phone and decide to phone a friend.

The call rings a few times before your ears are graced with a comforting voice. It’s your friend’s— her voice is raspy and soft as if she had just woken up, but it immediately becomes more alert when she hears you sniffling on the other end of the line.

“What’s wrong, dear? Did something happen?” she asks you, her voice dripping with concern. You hear shuffling in the background as she pulls away her covers to sit upright.

“I saw him right now. He lives in my building,” you manage to croak out. You’re trying your best to stabilize your voice, but your vocal chords are working against you; it feels like the pit in your stomach has slowly made its way up to your throat and is now choking you, depriving you of precious air.

You hear your friend gasp and immediately collect herself. “Is this your first time seeing him since… y’know?”

A weak “mhmm” is all you manage to get out, and now the pit is sitting on your tongue like a crushing weight, making it hard for you to speak. Your anxiety manifests as nausea, and you slowly start crawling your way over to the trash can in the corner of your kitchen. You collect your hair with one hand while the other presses your phone against your ear.

“Do you want me to come over and spend the night?” your friend asks softly. Even though she’s always so busy— classes, work, personal life, etcetera— she never fails to make time for you whenever you need help. She’s been there for you since your first year at UCI, and she was one of the few people to help you through the aftermath of the incident.

“No, I’m okay,” you murmur. You don’t know how you’ll ever repay her for her kindness, or if you even deserve her kindness, but you’re more than grateful that she’s there.

“Are you sure?” she replies, her voice ladled with even more concern than before. You know she doesn’t believe you, so you do your best to muster up all the strength you could gather to give a more confident response.

“Yes, I’m positive,” you say back, and even you are impressed by the reassuring tone that rolls off of your tongue. You hear your friend sigh on the other end, before bidding you farewell.

“Okay, I believe you. And don’t forget your counseling session tomorrow morning at the student health center. Make sure you don’t miss it and set several alarms so you wake up on time, okay?”

You thank her for the reminder and for calming you down before you hang up. Wiping your tears with the back of your hand, you pick yourself up from your floor and trudge over to your bathroom. When you turn your light on, you’re greeted with a horrific sight— your disheveled face post-anxiety attack.

Your nose is runny and mascara is smeared under your eyes and across your cheek. Drool pools out of the corners of your lips, and your whole face feels hot from the rush of blood to your head. You turn on your sink and let the water run for a few seconds, waiting for it to get warm.

Your fingers test the rushing water, and once it hits the ideal temperature, you lower your face to the sink and splash water all over your face. With closed eyes, you feel all around your counter for your bottle of face cleanser and press onto the pump, letting a few spurts of the soap spray onto your open palm. Your other hand turns off your sink and you wash your face, making sure to scrub underneath your eyes to remove the mascara stains before rinsing off the soapy bubbles and drying your face

Staring at yourself in the mirror, you drink in the new image before you. Now, your reflection is back to normal— well almost. The only evidence of your previous crying fit are your puffy and bloodshot eyes, but you figure that a good night’s rest will be enough to get rid of that.

You’re okay, you try to reassure yourself. You’ll be okay.

You let out a long sigh as you shut off your bathroom light and enter your bedroom; the twinkling lights draping down one of the walls of the room casts a soft light on everywhere it can reach. You grab a pair of shorts and an oversized shirt from your drawers and change out of your dirty clothes, tossing them into the hamper underneath your bed.

Once you crawl onto your mattress and pull your covers over you, you stare at the ceiling. Despite how many times you try, you can’t get the image of the man outside of your door out of your head— it’s branded on the frontal lobe of your brain. No matter how many times you try to forget, no matter how many bottles of cheap beer you guzzle to forget the acrid taste of his lips, no matter how many men you lie under to forget his shit-eating grin— you just can’t seem to do it.

A tear spills out of your eye and rolls down your temple, wetting your pillow underneath your head. More tears flow out and soon a pool forms on the dampened cloth. You raise your head and flip your pillow to the dry side, rolling over to press your cheek into the plush material. Shutting your eyes tightly to prevent more tears from pouring out, you drift off to sleep.

…

Whoever said that there’s no better rest than after crying yourself to sleep is a fucking liar.

The next morning, you wake up more exhausted than the night before. Light peeks through your blinds and illuminates your room, waking you up a few minutes before your alarm is scheduled to go off.

You roll out of bed and stand in front of your full length mirror. Your hair is tangled, your lips are chapped, and your throat is painfully dry— probably because you forgot to drink water after sobbing out half of your body’s water content. You reach over to your desk to grab your reusable bottle, taking a few big gulps of the cold liquid to help relieve the pain. Bringing your face closer to the reflective glass, you can’t help but notice how your eyes are still bloodshot and puffy. You groan and walk over to the mini-fridge on the other side of your bedroom, crouching down as you open the small door.

You reach inside and pull out a silver spoon from your freezer, the cold metal stinging your fingertips. You return to your mirror and watch as you bring the spoon up to your face, gently placing the rounded part of the utensil to your eye socket. You hold it there for a few seconds before removing it, checking to see if there was any improvement. There was, and now the swelling around your eyes is greatly reduced, but the red tint on your sclera is still noticeably visible.

I look like I’m high, you joke to yourself. I’ll have to put on some eye drops later.

You repeat the process with your other eye, and once you finish you toss the spoon back into your freezer. Running a hot shower in your bathroom, the warm water soothes your tired muscles. You thoroughly scrub your body with soap— your neck, your arms, your torso, your legs— but you spend extra time washing the expanse of flesh between your thighs. Your hand collects the warm water in your palm and harshly rubs the spot back and forth, meticulously cleansing the area to the best of your abilities. You know that it won’t undo or change anything, but you find yourself doing it subconsciously, almost as if it’s a reflex now.

Hopping out of the shower, you quickly pat yourself dry before throwing on some clothes. You throw your hair up into a towel to let it dry while you sip your morning coffee.

And thus your morning ritual begins. You sit at your windowsill and stare out of your window, watching people pass by underneath you. There’s a wide array of sights before you— energized people in athletic wear and headphones going on a morning jog; hungover people still wearing their beer-stained clothes from the night before, most likely starting their walk of shame home; and half-awake people still in their pajamas lazily trudging along the sidewalk, heading over to the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts to grab their morning fix of caffeine.

You swallow your last sip of coffee, throw on some shoes, and head out your door. While walking through your building’s hallways, you check your watch for the time.

It’s barely 8 AM, you think to yourself, exhaling a sigh of relief. It’s too early, there’s no way he’s awake yet. I probably won’t run into him right now.

Once you exit your building without running into the man from the night before, your hurried pace starts to slow down. You make the ten minute trek across campus from your apartment to the student health center, kindly waving and greeting the people that you recognize from your classes.

Arriving at your destination, the cool air from the medical center blasts your face. Despite your school’s vain attempt to liven up the lobby with teal-colored walls, the clinic itself still feels sterile and void of life. You know that most people don’t come here on their own volition— whether they’re receiving treatment for a worsening cold, getting tested for STDs or STIs, or seeking mental health counseling— everyone waiting in the cushioned seats of the lobby doesn’t actually want to be here.

You check in with the receptionist and sit down on one of the benches and wait for your appointment. You pull out your phone and idly scroll through social media. The first story is of your friends from high school clinking shot glasses together and throwing their heads back, swallowing the hard liquor in one gulp. The second story is posted by your classmate from last semester, and it’s a graphic advertising their club’s fundraiser later this week. The final story shows someone who lived in your freshman year dorm building at a party, flashing lights shining across their carefree face.

Hearing your name being called from above you, you shove your phone back into your pocket before standing up. You follow the nurse through the hallways and into the room, fluorescent light bouncing off the white walls. You plop onto the leather couch that sits directly across from a chair made out of the same material.

The nurse turns to you before leaving and starts speaking. “A counselor will be with you shortly,” she says and then exits the room, leaving you alone.

You wait for a few minutes in tense silence. To pass time, your eyes scan around the room, reading every single infographic and painting that hangs from the walls. They land on an image of a “pain scale,” a series of happy and sad faces resting on top of a 0 to 10 scale.

Your face scrunches up as you ponder the picture before you. You’re struggling to decipher where you fit onto the scale, when the door swings open and interrupts your train of thought. You straighten up in your seat when a pretty woman in her mid-30s steps into the clinic room.

“Hi,” she says sweetly, taking a seat in the chair in front of you. She continues introducing herself, “I’ll be your counselor for today.”

You greet her and tell her your name, and she replies with a warm smile. Her fingers sift through the files on her clipboard before she speaks again. “I see this is your first time visiting the mental health department. What brings you here today?” She looks up from the page and stares at you intently, waiting for a response.

“Well,” you start. “My friends recommended that I come here for a counseling session.”

“Hmm, I see,” she looks back down at the sheet of paper, and your palms grow clammy in anticipation. Without lifting her eyes, she asks you a question in a softer tone. “It says here in your files that six months ago you went to the student health center to get tested for STDs and STIs and to ask for a birth control referral.” She lifts her face again, and her concerned expression pangs your heart. “Was that a routine check-up or something else?”

You feel the pit in your stomach reappear, and your heartbeat booms violently in your chest. Blood rushes to your head and the room grows hot; the lights feel so fucking bright as they shine into your eyes, nearly blinding you. You take a few deep breaths to calm yourself down, and after an elongated sigh, you confess, trying to mask your fear with a seemingly indifferent tone.

“No, it wasn’t,” you reply coolly, but you can’t seem to hide the slight quivering in your voice. “I was taken advantage of six months ago, but I’m fine now. I promise.”

The counselor eyes you up and down, scanning your face for any signs of hesitancy or uncertainty. They run down your body and finally settle on your lap, where your fingers twiddle and fidget with each other.

Shit, you think to yourself. She caught my bluff.

“You know,” she whispers to you gently, almost as if she were approaching a cornered animal. “Anything you tell me here stays between you and me. I know you don’t know me and it’s hard to open up sometimes, but you have my undivided attention.” She flashes you a compassionate smile, and it causes your eyes to swell up with tears.

You take a deep inhale before starting. “I saw him last night,” your voice is shaky as you scour your brain for the right words to say. “The guy who hurt me. He was outside my door, and he was with another girl. She was clearly drunk, and I didn’t do anything to stop him.”

You’re sobbing now, and your nose is becoming stuffy. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe, but you continue on. “If he did anything to her,” you croak, throat growing tight as you ramble on, “it’s my fault. It’s my fault because I didn’t intervene. It’s my fault because I didn’t report him so he could never hurt another girl again. I wanted to stop him, I really did. I wanted to open my door and yell at him to get a fucking life and stop being such a dick, but I couldn’t. I was so scared— I froze in fear behind my door.”

You look up at her, and through tear-stained eyelashes you could see that her cheery expression morphed into one of pain.

“I’m just as much to blame, and I’m no better than him. I’m weak.”

You drop your face into your palms, your hands muffling your sobs. You feel a gentle hand rub your shoulder, and you look back up at the counselor. She has the warm expression plastered onto her face again, but her eyes are solemn as she gives you advice.

“It’s not your fault. It’s entirely his.” She reaches over and grabs a box of tissues from the counter and places them onto your lap. “You’re not to blame for the harm that he does unto others.”

You nod your head as you pull out a tissue and wipe your wet face. You blow your nose to try to clear your nasal passages, but it doesn’t work. She continues with the session, maintaining her sympathetic tone.

“If you’re comfortable with sharing, why didn’t you report him? Not saying that you need to— it’s completely your decision whether you do or don’t. Your experiences are valid regardless.”

You let out a hollow chuckle before you answer. “I can’t report him,” you say dryly, your voice starting to grow louder as your frustration builds. “He’s a student athlete on a popular team here. Who would the university believe— him, a star athlete on a team that brings the university so much money, or me, a common whore who this school couldn’t give less of a shit about?”

“If I do report him, what if his team comes after me? A few of them live in my building; it’d be easy for them to pound on my door and threaten me or do even worse things. If not that, his family has money. His parents could sue me for defamation, and I don’t have that kinda money. There’s also the issue of my parents finding out, and I’d rather die than have them discover what happened to their daughter. I don’t know how they’d react— would they be heartbroken? Would they blame me? Would they ask me what I was drinking or wearing? Either way, I don’t want to find out.”

You shake your head before carrying on. “Even if I did report him and the university believed me, what punishment would he get? A slap on the wrist? Get kicked off of his team? Nothing will ever be enough.”

Tears brim your eyes once again. “Nothing will return the months of my life that I wasted, desperately trying to move on from the situation. Nothing will make me unafraid of men. I can’t pass by a group of student athletes without having panic burn through my body. They all look like him— they all have his cruel smile and it haunts me wherever I go.”

Your emotions start to spiral out of control as your inner turmoil and anger bubble in your stomach. Hot tears spill from your eyes and stream silently to the floor. Realizing that your blood is growing hot, you stand up and frantically pace around the room, trying to calm yourself down. You place your hands on top of your head and take a few deep breaths to steady your heart rate.

After a minute of pacing, you sit back down in your seat. A pained sigh slips past your lips, and you forge on. “I just don’t think there’s anything that this school or this government could do that would correct his sins against me. He didn’t just take advantage of me— he destroyed my soul. He robbed me of my bodily autonomy, my self-worth, my sense of control. How do you fix that?”

The two of you stare at each other in silence before she opens her mouth. “You can’t,” is all she replies.

You nod your head somberly. “Exactly,” you conclude gravely. “You can’t.”

The counselor takes a few seconds to collect her thoughts before continuing on. “You know, it’s really unfair how our justice system treats survivors. More often than not, people feel re-victimized and re-traumatized rather than helped by these systems. So, everything you said is completely valid, and you know what’s best for you more than anyone else.”

You wipe your tears with the back of your hand and she adds on, “There are ways to receive closure that don’t involve the justice system at all. How do you cope with the pain that you feel? What are some things that you do?”

You take a deep breath before responding. “Honestly, I just pretend like it isn’t there. I just want things to return to normal, and I believe that if I don’t think about it, it’ll eventually go away or I’ll forget.”

Looking up at the ceiling, you let out an exasperated groan. “But, if you want specifics, I’ve been taking up a bunch of various hobbies to try to regain some semblance of normalcy. I’ve been going to the gym everyday for the past few months; I joined a few interest clubs; and I even took up some journaling. You know, anything I can do to give me some sense of control…” Your voice trails off as your gaze meets the counselor’s again.

The corners of her lips curl upward to form an enthusiastic smile. “That’s great! Those are all really healthy coping mechanisms for trying to move on from the situation, and there are other things you could do, too! Like…” Her voice fizzles out into the background as you zone out from the conversation.

Of course I only told her a half-truth, you think to yourself. I know if I told her everything I did, I would get scolded.

Little did your counselor know that for the past month since you’ve returned to campus, every weekend you would go out to a party, find some random guy, and let him take you home to have less than subpar sex. If there were no parties going on that night, you’d check your dating apps, picking one man from the vast sea of horny and disrespectful messages in your inbox. You’d head over to his place and do all the work while he sits back in utter bliss.

You know it’s not the best coping mechanism, but somehow, you can’t stop. It’s the only way that you feel in control again. “They can’t use me or take advantage of me if I let them,” was your reasoning, a bastardized reclamation of power.

They can’t rob me of my sexual autonomy if I consent first.

But deep in your heart you know it’s not true. After every disappointing session, after every failed orgasm, after every prideful expression is plastered on your “partner’s” face, you feel worse than before. You know that they treat you like a masturbatory aid— that they view you as nothing more than a cocksleeve— yet you still return to these shitty men. You still return to these men who wouldn’t give a fuck if your picture appeared on an obituary one day, because in your mind it was your twisted way of coping with the grief.

The counselor’s voice rings through your ears and brings you back to reality. “So,” she says, clapping her hands together. “That’s all the time we have today. I hope this session helped you, and if you ever want to talk again, just schedule an appointment through the student portal.”

The two of you rise to your feet and shake hands before exiting the room. You make your way over to the bathroom and lock the door behind you. Staring at your reflection in the mirror in front of you, the puffiness in your eyes has returned, and somehow your eyes are even more bloodshot than they were this morning.

You sigh to yourself. It’s a good thing I didn’t wear makeup, but I wish I brought my frozen spoon.

You turn on the faucet and cup the cold water in your palms. Oh well, this’ll have to do.

You splash the cold water in your face and dry it with a paper towel. Checking your eyes again, the swelling has gone down slightly, but you know that your metal spoon would’ve done a better job at masking the inflamation.

You exit the restroom and make your way out of the clinic, your eyes adjusting from the harsh, sterile lights in the building to the bright and sunny California daylight. You check your watch again and see that it’s almost 9:30 AM, still too early for him to be awake.

Phew, you think. I can head back now, get ready for the gym, and leave before he wakes up. By the time I’m done with my workout, he’ll be at practice so I can return home without running into him.

Admittedly, it’s embarrassing that you know his entire schedule, but it’s a measure that you have to take in order to protect yourself.

You make the journey home in ten minutes. You fill up your water bottle and change into workout appropriate attire, before heading out once again.

The campus gym is a lot closer to your apartment, about half of the distance to the student health center. In five minutes, you walk through the sliding doors of the recreation center, the filtered cold air blasting your face and giving you goosebumps. Your eyes scan the room to make sure that none of his friends are here, and relief flushes your body when you realize that you’re safe.

You plug in your earphones and hit play on a random workout playlist you curated. Energetic music blasts in your ears as you start a light jog on the treadmill.

Let’s just forget what happened earlier and try to have a good workout, alright?

Your workout runs smoothly— after your warm-up run of one mile and lifting sets, your legs start to ache and burn. Finally, it’s time for the barbell squat, your least favorite leg exercise.

You make your way over to the squat rack section of the gym, and your eyes land on a familiar face. His features are strong, typically formed into a scowl as he lifts a ridiculously heavy amount of weight. His green eyes always look so determined, and his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. His arms look toned even when he’s not flexing, but when he does, you can’t help but wonder if he could crush a melon with his bare hands. But his most noticeable feature has to be his spiky dark brown hair that comically rests on the top of his head— it reminds you of a porcupine.

He’s very handsome, and it’s not just you that notices his looks. Everytime you see him there, there’s always a crowd of people gawking at him, asking him to help fix their form or help spot them. Usually, most guys would take this as an opportunity to hit on the person who asked for assistance, sometimes even getting unnecessarily handsy with them. But never this guy. He just helps them with whatever they’re doing, offers useful tips and tricks, then returns to his workout.

He’s so good looking, and because of this, you have no doubt that he has a significant other or that his phone is overflowing with random numbers that people gave to him. He doesn’t seem like the type to be a sleaze, but with a face and body like that he definitely doesn’t have trouble finding love— or a casual hookup, at least.

The first few times you went to the gym, you noticed him staring at you. Initially, you thought that there was something on your face or wrong with your form, but that suspicion subsided after it happened several more times. Now, whenever you go to the gym, you inadvertently have a stare-off with the attractive stranger, waiting to see who will crack first.

Today is no different. As you walk to the empty squat rack next to him, his eyes follow your figure while he takes a drink of water. You wrap your fingers around the cold metal bar when a wild thought flies through your mind.

Giggling to yourself over the idea, you decide to try your luck, and you turn to the hot stranger to your left and ask him a question.

“Hey,” you sweetly call out, drawing his attention away from his water bottle. “I’m gonna try adding weight today, do you mind spotting me?” You flash him a bright smile, hoping that he’ll take the bait.

He quickly nods and sets down his bottle, walking over to you. You place the appropriate plates on both sides of the barbell and wait for him to stand behind you. Once you sense his presence, he asks you a question, and you can feel his hot breath against the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine and forcing the little hairs on your skin to rise.

“Are you ready?”

To which you reply with an enthusiastic nod. “Yep!”

You duck your head under the bar and rest it on your shoulders. You lift the metal pole off of the rack and take a few steps forward, the stranger’s hands hovering around you just in case you need help. You bend your knees and drop your ass into a seated position, making sure that your back is straight. You rise up and straighten your posture, and repeat this process eight more times.

On your tenth and final squat for this set, your thighs ache from the weight. Sweat beads at your temples as you drop down, and while you slowly rise back up, you hear a deep voice from behind you.

“C’mon!” The stranger encourages you. “This is your last one for this set, then you can take a break! You’re almost there.”

Using your last bit of strength, you stand back up, and he helps you place the barbell back onto the rack. Your fingers brush against each other, and your breath hitches at the sudden contact.

“Phew!” You chant as you wipe the sweat off of your forehead with your shirt sleeve. “Thanks for that encouragement at the end, I really needed that!”

The man smiles at you, and for the first time you see his hardened expression actually soften. “No problem! Your form is really good; I’m thoroughly impressed.”

You smile back at him and point over to his rack. “It seems like you do a damn good job yourself,” you reply, referring to the multiple large plates on his barbell.

He rubs the back of his palm as his face tints pink. “Oh, it’s no biggie at all. I’ve been regularly working out since high school, and I’m a sports science major, so physical fitness is a huge part of my life.”

You nod your head in interest, before continuing on. “Anyways, I’m sorry for pulling you away from your workout. If you want, you can go back to your sets; I think I’ll be okay with mine!”

He raises a hand and shakes his head. “No, I’ll be fine. I’d rather help you and make sure that you’re safe.”

Your face grows hot at his words. You eagerly nod your head and turn back around to face the barbell. But before you can start your second set, he murmurs something in a low voice.

“But what’s a guy gotta do to get dinner and a movie with a pretty girl like you?”

You feel butterflies flutter in your stomach. Was that friendly demeanor earlier all just a façade? You ask yourself. Collecting your thoughts, you turn your head slightly to face him, your faces merely inches apart.

“Well,” you start, scrunching your nose as you stare up at the ceiling, pretending to look for an answer. “You could spot me for my next two sets. I’m free tonight after 7, if that works for you?” You innocently bat your eyelashes at him, waiting for his response.

For a split second, you swear that there’s a crack in his confidence, and his features gaze at you in a stupor, almost as if he were in shock that you actually agreed to go on a date with him. He regains his cool though and nods his head before helping you remove the bar from the rack.

At the end of your set, the two of you exchange numbers. You introduce yourself and tell him your name, and he wipes his sweaty palms on his shorts before extending it out to you.

You grab it and shake hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Hajime Iwaizumi, but you can just call me Hajime.” He flashes you that killer smile one more time before you part ways.

Once you make it back to your apartment, you run a hot shower. While massaging your hair with shampoo, you think about your handsome date for tonight.

You grin when you think about his dazzling smile, but your mood soon turns sour when a realization hits you.

He’s still a guy at the end of the day, you think to yourself disappointedly. And an attractive one at that. He’s probably like every other man— they all just want one thing. Sex. And once you give it, they’ll toss you to the side.

That whole ‘dinner and a movie’ thing was probably just a ploy to get me to agree to go on a ‘date’ with him, if I can even call it that. But I know better. I know that he has no interest in getting to know me, and tonight will probably end the same way that it always does— with me walking home unsatisfied and feeling ashamed of myself.

There’s no point in getting my hopes up.

A tear rolls down your face, but you quickly wipe it away.

There’s no reason for me to be sad; that’s just how it is. We both use each other for one thing, and it’s consensual, so there’s no harm nor foul, right?

You try your best to reassure yourself, but know that it’s to no avail when another tear streams down your face.