I am out longer than most.
Long enough for the rush of the run to settle into something quieter. Long enough that, usually, I would feel looser afterwards. Cleaner, somehow. Excess energy burned off and replaced by the steady calm that comes after a shift well used.
Instead, by the time I return to the cubicle, only my clothes remain.
The strange feeling still sits in my chest as I pull on my torn polo and joggers.
Not discomfort.
Not pain.
Pressure.
Awareness.
Something unfinished.
I ignore it.
Or try to.
Calix is quieter than usual too, which I dislike more than I want to admit.
You're being unhelpful, I tell him.
He does not rise to it.
That, more than anything, leaves me uneasy.
I head back towards the dormitory, towelling the last of the damp from my hair with one hand.
