Early Mornings
I love working out early in the morning.
It’s quiet then—the kind of quiet New York rarely allows. No unnecessary chatter, no territorial stares over machines, no bodies pressed too close because someone thinks waiting is optional. Just the low hum of treadmills, the clink of metal, and my own breath finding its rhythm again.
And him.
Okay. I acknowledge it. I am a sucker for good looks.
Who isn’t?
That doesn’t mean I’m shallow. I don’t judge people by size or shape or the way their bodies occupy space. I know better than that. I’ve worked too hard on my own body, my own discipline, to pretend attraction isn’t instinctive.
And I’m not bad-looking myself.
Let’s get that straight.
Still—there’s something about him.
He’s always there before sunrise, like the city hasn’t fully woken up but he has. Sleeves pushed up, jaw set, focus razor-sharp. No performative flexing. No checking reflections. Just movement—controlled, deliberate, like he’s working something out that has nothing to do with muscles.
I tell myself it’s coincidence.
I tell myself I don’t look.
I lie.
Three weeks ago, I moved apartments.
The old place had a leakage problem—persistent, invasive, the kind that starts as a drip and ends up soaking into places you didn’t know could rot. Management called it “minor.” I called it unbearable. Leaving felt less like inconvenience and more like escape.
This apartment, though—
This one is a hundred times better.
Sunlight spills in without asking permission. The walls don’t whisper at night. The air feels lighter, like it isn’t holding onto other people’s pasts. From my window, the city stretches out in muted grays and golds, waking slowly, honestly.
Author’s note:
Update on every saturday.
Thanks for reading. 🤍
