Wednesday night. No run, no walk, no destination. Just thirty-seven minutes of indoor something. Bodyweight, stretching, whatever felt right on the living room floor.

November in Pensacola still feels like summer forgot to clock out. The kind of evening where going outside sounds reasonable but never quite happens. So you stay in. You move. You don’t track distance because there isn’t any.

Thirty-seven minutes won’t make a highlight reel. But it’s thirty-seven minutes that didn’t get spent on the couch, and some weeks that’s the whole victory.

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// RAPTOR GIRL