Jude

Syros’s favorite part of his day was going to the gym. The whole process, from sitting on the bus while making his dishwater-looking protein-water mixture, to listening to his hype playlist, to setting up for a superset. He thought of absolutely nothing and said absolutely nothing as he pushed and pulled more and more weight. When fatigued and sweating profusely, cool lemon water tasted like it was heaven-sent. Sitting on the bench in front of a dust-covered fan felt like an ocean breeze. He was present and experiencing every moment to its fullest. He was alive. The seconds were minutes and the minutes were hours when gripping the bar, muscles on the brink of collapse. He could live forever. Entire eternities passed while his body pressed and pressed. He appreciated the entire experience, especially that it was entirely his own. There was no one to ruin it. I thought he looked pretty cool too — like a superhero, saving damsels and catching buildings.

Most of all, he liked the way the gym made him feel — powerful and worthy. He felt worthy when someone would notice him growing and compliment him; when someone assumed he was on a sports team; when Mom asked him to move her heavy packages around the house for her. It validated all the time he spent there — time that Dad believed would be better spent on studies. Dad resented that, for all his son’s strength, Syros was not actually on any sports team. His muscles did nothing but take up space and consume copious amounts of food. Without a team, his pecs and delts wouldn’t be getting him into any schools. Wasted potential. Wasted space. Wasted time.

Jude

Syros’s favorite part of his day was going to the gym. The whole process, from sitting on the bus while making his dishwater-looking protein-water mixture, to listening to his hype playlist, to setting up for a superset. He thought of absolutely nothing and said absolutely nothing as he pushed and pulled more and more weight. When fatigued and sweating profusely, cool lemon water tasted like it was heaven-sent. Sitting on the bench in front of a dust-covered fan felt like an ocean breeze. He was present and experiencing every moment to its fullest. He was alive. The seconds were minutes and the minutes were hours when gripping the bar, muscles on the brink of collapse. He could live forever. Entire eternities passed while his body pressed and pressed. He appreciated the entire experience, especially that it was entirely his own. There was no one to ruin it. I thought he looked pretty cool too — like a superhero, saving damsels and catching buildings.

Most of all, he liked the way the gym made him feel — powerful and worthy. He felt worthy when someone would notice him growing and compliment him; when someone assumed he was on a sports team; when Mom asked him to move her heavy packages around the house for her. It validated all the time he spent there — time that Dad believed would be better spent on studies. Dad resented that, for all his son’s strength, Syros was not actually on any sports team. His muscles did nothing but take up space and consume copious amounts of food. Without a team, his pecs and delts wouldn’t be getting him into any schools. Wasted potential. Wasted space. Wasted time.

Sierra

Sierra was staring at the ceiling, hands folded across her chest, thinking about tomorrow. It was her first night at Uni, and she was so excited she couldn’t sleep. Though she was a regular insomniac, her melatonin usually had her out by 2:00 A.M.. It was 3:17.