sofia looks a little surprised when the conversation keeps flowing so easily. she’d half expected the usual awkward small talk or the kind of enthusiasm that felt forced—first impressions often went that way for her. maybe that was just the pessimist in her. but atlas seems genuine, and that softens the guarded edge she usually carries. she nods slowly as he explains, stepping onto the treadmill beside him. “functional fitness actually sounds… reasonable,” she admits, a faint smile appearing. at his invitation, she thinks for a moment, one hand lightly resting on the bar as the treadmill begins to move. “well,” she says, a little more thoughtful now, “i’m a mortician. so most of my days are… quiet, but intense. a lot of standing, a lot of focus, and not a lot of time where i’m doing something for myself.”
she pauses briefly, glancing sideways at him, almost waiting for the usual reaction. most of the time when she says it, the conversation changes. people either get awkward, suddenly fascinated in a morbid way, or they pull back like she’s admitted to something strange about herself. she’s gotten used to it—polite smiles, quick subject changes, that subtle shift where people decide she’s a little unusual. “i take the work seriously.. i have to.. but it doesn’t always leave much room to just be… me.” she glances back at the treadmill display, then over to him again. “so exercising seemed like it might be one thing that’s actually for me. and maybe,” she adds with a small breath of a laugh, “a way to have a little more energy that doesn’t come from coffee.”
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