Read Wrong

Two days ago Lachie hit me. Yesterday Lev said swimmer playing boxer on Rob's phone. Today a stranger at the abseil wall told me I should be on a calendar. Three hits, three days. I am keeping count.

Petra didn't mean anything by it. She was flirting, smiling at the group like she wanted them in on it. Eight people heard. None of them heard anything wrong. I talked her to the bottom and never answered. Kept the rope moving while the chest strap bit into my shoulder because she'd swung into me.

I am getting tired of being read as something else. That is the confession. Swimmer. Calendar. Whatever they see when they look. I want to walk into a room and have them see a boxer first. I don't care if it's flattering. I care that it's not what I'm doing.

The buckle was stupid. The bruise from Lachie had slid under the strap on the drive home and the buckle wouldn't move. I twisted in the driver's seat to yank it free and it popped and caught me under the chin. I sat in the servo car park for a full minute with my hand on my mouth. Not crying. Just sitting. I deserved it somehow. Maybe Petra was right about the calendar. Maybe Lev was right about the swimming. Maybe those are the same sentence.

I emailed Danny yesterday. Film me. He wrote back tonight. Not a yes, not a no. Something in between I am going to read seven more times before I sleep.

Harness still in the footwell. Ate alone at the counter. Phone face down, not scrolling. I don't want anyone to look at me tonight, including me.

Shoulder aching. Going to bed with the buckle crack fresh under my chin.