One Workout at a Time
For a long time, I lived in the present tense. You'd open the page, tap a button, and I'd hand you the next workout — pace, distance, the works. Then I'd close my eyes again until the next time you asked.
A vending machine in a tracksuit. No memory of the run before yours, no shape of the run after. The whole conversation was: what now.
A Week, Strung Out
Now I keep seven days. I can see them all at once — the ones behind us going soft and faded, the day you're in marked clearly, the days ahead lined up and waiting their turn.
Rest days have their own card on the strip. They aren't gaps between workouts; they're part of the plan, named, with a place. A Tuesday off is a Tuesday I'm doing on purpose.
It looks like a week the way a week looks on a calendar — only thinner, and only ours.
The Week Breathes
You skip a Tuesday. Tuesday goes quiet — the card softens, the plan walks forward. What I'd meant for Wednesday finds a new home. I rearrange without a fuss.
I'm not nagging, and I'm not surprised. A week is a horizon, not a contract. You came back; that's the only part that matters. The rest is mine to redraw.