Chapter 1 - PE
I still don’t know if it was self-sabotage or just pure stupidity, but I missed the PE registration last night.
Yes. Really.
I was sitting with my phone in my hand, staring at the tiny clock in the corner of the screen, fully convinced I had time. A minute. Maybe two. I’d make it.
I logged in at 10:01 p.m. and immediately understood I had just lost at life.
One spot left.
Nordic walking.
“Perfect,” I thought. “Finally something calm. I’ll stroll through a park with sticks, breathe fresh air, pretend I care about cardio. Retired grandma energy, but make it student.”
There was just one tiny problem.
Nobody had sticks.
The instructor clapped his hands together, way too excited for a Monday evening.
“Well! Since we don’t have equipment, we’ll just run.”
A few people laughed nervously. Someone stared at their sneakers, like they might object on their own.
“Fine. Run-walk intervals.”
He added, pleased with his compromise.
That’s how the running started.
Unfortunately, I’m not even wearing my own leggings. I leave the apartment convinced this is going to be a peaceful walk. Daniel tosses his at me from bed.
“They’re clean,” he says.
That was apparently their biggest advantage.
I pull them on in a hurry and already in the hallway I know something is wrong. The fabric stretches too tight with every step.
And there’s a hole. Right between my thighs. In the one place you absolutely cannot pretend doesn’t exist.
I stab a safety pin through it.
Problem solved. Kind of. By the time I reach the meeting spot, I’m late.
The group has already started. I see their backs moving in rhythm, arms swinging in perfect unison.
I jog after them, trying to catch my breath before I’ve even begun running.
The pavement is still wet from last night’s rain. My shoes slip slightly on the turns.
On one side, the faculty building. On the other, a parking lot where someone is starting an old diesel. The smell of exhaust mixes with cold air.
“Oh, Miss Annie! Running won’t wait!”
The instructor shouts cheerfully.
He has the voice of a man who genuinely believes sport can solve global problems. Mid-fifties. Springy step. University tracksuit. That spotless, motivational smile.
He speeds up to match my pace.
“I used to weigh three hundred kilos!”
Sweat runs into my eyes. It stings.
“Congratulations,”
I wheeze.
The park begins just beyond the gate. Gravel crunches under our feet. Trees still damp. A girl from my year keeps checking her sports watch every fifteen seconds like her life depends on it.
“If I could change my life, so can you!”
He continues.
He jogs lightly.
My chest, meanwhile, feels like it’s being squeezed from the inside. Every breath shorter than the last.
“I have panda asthma,” I manage, trying to inhale deeper.
“All the more reason to exercise!”
Fantastic. I’ll die preventively.
By the second lap I stop hearing other people. Just the ringing in my ears and the rhythm of my own steps.
Gravel. Asphalt. Gravel.
My knees start protesting. The safety pin digs into my skin with every longer stride.
“What motivates you?!” he calls out.
“Survival,” I gasp.
“It’s all I’ve got.”
He laughs. Thinks I’m joking.
By the final stretch I can only see the backs in front of me and my own shoes.
My brain feels foggy. He’s saying something about how life is movement.
How stopping means failure.
Very inspirational for a man running next to a girl who looks seconds away from passing out next to a bench labeled Do Not Step on the Grass.
We make it back to the building. My legs tremble. I try to breathe in a way that doesn’t look dramatic.
“Excellent!” he beams.
“Stretching now. Miss Annie, do you have documentation for that asthma?”
I look at him.
I don’t remember what I answer. In my head, I’m cursing him in Sanskrit.
He must guess the asthma is imaginary because he smiles to himself.
The bus feels like salvation.
I drag myself to the raised seats at the back. Those four seats always feel safe.
I lean my head against the window. Cool glass.
My heart hammers in my temples.
My hands are shaking.
The bus pulls away.
I’m sweating like I’ve just left a sauna in an MMA suit, barely breathing, praying to just make it home.
Then the roundabout happens.
The bus turns sharply.
My exhausted body, not attached to anything, performs a graceful ballet spin and—
I fall.
Completely.
Off the raised platform like a log. I land against some man’s shopping bag.
He looks unsure whether to help me or check if his groceries survived.
People stare. The driver looks back. A woman squeaks.
I’m lying on the bus floor.
In leggings with a hole.
Mascara smudged.
“Are you alright?” an older woman asks.
I stare at the ceiling.
“Still checking,” I reply.
I stand up slowly. Hole in the leggings. Mascara under my eyes. Hair glued to my face.
No one laughs.
It’s too real for that.
I get off three stops early to avoid eye contact.
But before I make it home, I do something incredibly stupid.
I send Daniel a selfie.
Sweat everywhere. Hair all over the place. Face red like I’ve been sunburned in a tanning bed. I just want him to laugh.
Daniel, unfortunately, is in a lecture.
He laughs so loudly the professor asks what’s so funny.
And Daniel—being Daniel—says:
“Ann after PE.”
And puts my picture on the projector.
For the entire year to see.
With the caption: A three-act tragedy: sweat, tears, and asthma.
It’s honestly surprising I don’t become a meme. Maybe I do. I don’t check the
student group anymore.
By the time I reach the apartment, I’m running on fumes.
Our place is a classic. Old building downtown. High ceilings. Crooked floors. The smell of student curry mixed with dust.
Daniel, Paweł, and Zuza—roommates from hell and heaven at the same time.
“You alive?”
Daniel shouts from the kitchen.
“Technically.”
He walks out, looks at me, raises an eyebrow.
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks. Your leggings too.”
“I told you they had a hole.”
“I thought you were joking.”
Zuza leans out of the bathroom.
“You’re on Discord. The bus video already has a hundred likes.”
Wonderful.
Paweł tosses me my phone.
“Konrad texted.”
My chest tightens harder than during the third lap.
I open the message.
Hey. I was thinking about you. Everything okay?
Three short sentences.
Calm. Normal. And suddenly the run, the roundabout, the projector humiliation—it all feels smaller.
I don't know what hurts more. My body.
Or the fact that his name still does something to me.
I lie back on my bed. The ceiling is high, cracked in the corner. I can hear Daniel filling the kettle in the kitchen.
The embarrassment will fade.
The soreness will fade.
With him, it's never that simple.
