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I blink my eyes as tears well in them, dropping into a full plank.
“Fuck,” he mutters, gritting his teeth as we lower our plank.
Yuval says, “That’s it. Let it out. Now, cobra.”
We both push up, arms extended, chests out, faces much too close as we breathe in, filling our lungs.
Sebastian’s gaze roams me, his exhale rough as we move back into a plank, then downward dog, a halfway lift. My breathing is getting rougher, the knot tighter in my throat as I roll my spine up, standing to my full height.
By the time I’ve straightened, I’m trying so hard not to cry, it’s nearly impossible to breathe. Which is, I realize, counter to the entire point of angry yoga, but like I told Seb, change is easier said than done. I hate crying. I hate feeling the dam break inside me, that loss of control that was so familiar as a teen, the flood of emotions so intense, I was terrified I’d drown in them.
I haven’t learned how to feel the way I need to without being scared it’s going to swallow me whole. But right now, unless I want to pass out from lack of oxygen, I don’t have a choice.
On my next inhale, I lift my arms over my head and let out a single groaned “Fuuuck.”
Sebastian’s arms are high too, his own “Fuuuck” not far behind. His sounds—unlike my rage-filled cry—are pained, exhausted, spent. And yet, knowing he’s there, that this cool, aloof man is feeling something too, confessing it with raw weariness in his voice, makes me feel so much less alone, so much less afraid to groan out another gut-deep curse as I fold over.
Yuval’s turned up the music, and its tempo builds. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. I feel like a decade of pain has parked itself beneath my ribs, and unless I scream it out, it’s going to crush me.
“Breathe deep,” they remind us both.
I hear Sebastian’s strong inhale, his groaned exhale as we lift up halfway and our eyes meet, faces close again.
His gaze searches mine with an intensity that just might be concern, etched into his perfect features. I feel like he sees every single thing I’m about to scream out as I suck in air and straighten my body, swinging my arms upward.
A noise I have never made before, a broken, animal howl leaves me as my chest opens. The pressure in my chest, the knot in my throat, dissolves as I yell, as the pounding music echoes in the room and swallows up my sounds.
As the last trickle of air leaves me, I gasp, sucking in a breath. Sucking in a breath again.
I’m crying. Hard.
Then, I’m crumpling to the ground—
Well, I was. But now, I’m falling into arms. Lean, sweaty arms wrapped around me, crushing me to a lean, sweaty chest.
God, he smells good. Like he did last night after his shower, only more. Cool and clean—snow-covered pine branches, frost-kissed sage leaves rubbed between my fingers. I bury my nose in his neck as another sob rips out of me and clutch his shirt, the damp fabric clenched in my fists.
The music’s so loud, thumping through my body, yet all I can hear is the pound of Sebastian’s pulse in his neck against my ear, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he presses me into it.
I scrunch my eyes shut, feeling so much, that familiar flood of intense emotions, a torrent of thoughts. But they’re not drowning me, not stuck in my throat or filling my lungs like cement. Instead, each breath is a little easier, each sob becomes softer.
I don’t know how long we stand like that, only that at some point, by some mutual agreement, our grips loosen, and we pull apart.
Slowly, I peer up at Sebastian and meet his eyes. I’m flushed and sweaty, and I’m sure my face is blotchy from crying. I do not give a single damn. He saw me scream-cry and fall apart. He held me while I put myself back together. My ruddy exercise complexion and cry face are the least of my indignities right now.
“Honestly, Sigrid,” he whispers, wide-eyed. “You didn’t have to sell the angry yoga angle that hard.”
I blink at him, biting my lip.
His mouth tips to the side in a faint, uncertain smile. “I’m just joking,” he says, his eyes tightening with concern. “Ziggy, I didn’t mean that, I was just trying to make you—”
A laugh bursts out of me, hard and throaty. I double over, one hand clutching his arm as I laugh even harder, joyful lightness bubbling through my body. “You’re such an asshole,” I cackle, wiping my eyes.
“Well, now you’re catching on,” he mutters, taking my elbow and pulling me back up, into his arms. He cups the sweaty nape of my neck with his hand and squeezes gently. “I know that crying’s good, that you needed it. I just selfishly…” He exhales heavily. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. So I tried—very poorly, clearly—to make you laugh instead.”
Another burst of laughter leaves me as I drop my head to his shoulder. “That was plenty of crying for me. Laughing…laughing feels good.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. His hand still cups my neck, massaging it gently. “Well…good.”
