The yoga studio was quiet in the way expensive places often were—hushed, deliberate, curated. Sunlight spilled through tall windows, washing over pale wooden floors and rows of carefully spaced mats. From the back-left corner, Jen moved with calm precision, her breath steady, her posture flawless. She had chosen that spot intentionally. Visible, but not eager. Skilled, but not performative.
When the instructor called for Warrior Three, Jen lifted smoothly, her body aligning as if guided by an internal compass. Balance settled into her muscles without strain. She held the pose easily, gaze focused, breath controlled. In the mirror ahead, she noticed the woman two mats over.
Amy White stood out even among the polished crowd. Her leggings were designer, her mat pristine, her movements graceful but impatient. Wealth clung to her subtly—no logos, no excess, just refinement. As she lifted into the pose, her hips tilted open, throwing her balance off. She wobbled, recovered, then wobbled again.
Jen waited. Timing mattered.
When Amy tipped for a third time, Jen lowered her leg and stepped closer, her movements unhurried.
"Sorry," Jen said quietly, voice gentle enough not to startle. "Your hip's opening too much. If you draw it in a little—like this."
She demonstrated beside her, mirroring the pose with deliberate clarity. No touching. Just example. Amy followed, adjusted, and suddenly steadied.
"Oh," Amy breathed. "That feels completely different."
Jen smiled politely. "Your balance is great. It was just alignment."
Their eyes met briefly in the mirror—Amy's surprised, curious; Jen's calm, unreadable.
After class, they crossed paths again near the cubbies. Amy moved with the ease of someone accustomed to being comfortable in any room. She tied her shoes and glanced up.
"I'm Amy.... Amy White," she said, offering her hand. "Thank you for the help earlier."
"Jen.... Just Jen," she replied, shaking once, firm but warm. "Happy to."
They talked briefly—small, harmless topics. The instructor. The studio. How crowded it had been lately. Amy laughed easily, and Jen noted how quickly she relaxed once she felt guided rather than judged.
Amy mentioned jogging, almost casually. How she used to go every morning but hadn't lately. Too many obligations. Too many interruptions.
"I jog most mornings," Jen said, as if the thought had just occurred to her. "Along the river."
Amy's expression brightened. "Really? I love that route. Maybe we could go together sometime."
"Sure," Jen said. "If you'd like."
Their first jog was cautious. They kept an even pace, conversation light. Amy spoke vaguely about work—investments, boards, meetings that sounded important without explanation. Jen listened more than she spoke, offering interest without intrusion. By the third jog, the silence felt comfortable. By the fifth, Amy brought coffee in a thermal mug and shared it midway through, laughing about how impractical it was.
By the seventh jog, Amy suggested they stop by her favorite coffee spot sometime. "For a real cup," she said. "Not this half-cold stuff."
By the tenth jog, Amy was welcoming Jen into her home for home-made coffee.
Amy's home was exactly as Jen had anticipated—clean lines, neutral tones, art chosen by someone with both money and confidence. Jen complimented her taste without sounding impressed, and Amy visibly softened at that.
Coffee became routine. Sometimes pastries appeared, dismissed as indulgences Amy pretended not to care about. They talked about life, about stress, about balance and mostly about how much she adores her cat, pinky. Jen offered gentle insights, never advice unless asked. Amy trusted her quickly.