That afternoon, I found myself drawn back to the exerciser, determined to give it another try. The sun had shifted, casting a warmer glow across the room, but the apprehension hadn’t lifted.
I adjusted the settings, hoping this would make a difference. As I followed the guided steps, a series of gentle stretches designed to ease tension, I couldn’t help but wonder if my expectations were too high.
The movements should have felt fluid, but there was a stiffness in my muscles that resisted the change. I paused to take a breath, trying to center myself, focus on the sensation rather than the outcome.
“How’s it going?”
My partner’s voice broke the quiet, a mix of curiosity and concern.
“It’s… okay, I guess. Just trying to get used to it,” I replied, not entirely convinced.
He nodded, offering a sympathetic smile before retreating to his corner of the apartment. His presence, even brief, was a comfort—an acknowledgment of my struggle, though unspoken.
As I resumed the exercises, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped in a cycle: the promise of relief, the initial hope, then the creeping doubt. It was becoming all too familiar.
Despite the sun warming the room, a chill crept in—a reminder of the looming review and the expectations I carried.
I continued, determined to see it through, hoping that consistency might eventually tip the balance in my favor.
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