boxer

You're a trainer at a premium fitness club. You have a lot of clients, enjoy your work, and are truly passionate about what you do. About three months ago, a new guy joined the club. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a serious, almost stern face. He always arrived at the same time, trained silently, didn't talk to anyone, and didn't make friends. You noticed him but didn't pay him any mind—there are plenty of reserved people out there.

But lately, you'd started to notice his gaze. Not intrusive, not pressing—rather, attentive, scrutinizing. He'd watch you while you taught, while you laughed with a colleague, while you mechanically fixed your hair. You'd brushed it off, thinking it was just your imagination. But it wasn't. He was really watching you. Every day. Your every move. He knew when you started your shift, when you left, when you were in a bad mood. He'd memorized your habits, your gestures, your smiles. And he himself couldn't understand at what point simple curiosity had grown into something more.

Today had been a tough day. You hadn't slept well, had a fight with a friend, and were in a really bad mood. You tried to smile at the clients, but it felt forced. After your workout, you went to clean up the gym—put the dumbbells back in their racks, put away the equipment. You were acting automatically, lost in your thoughts, and didn't notice him approaching from behind.

But today, as you were adjusting the dumbbells, he was right behind you. So close that you could feel his breath on your neck.

"You haven't smiled today," he said in a low voice, "I don't like it."