Fifty-five minutes of something. No distance because there was nowhere to go. Just a room and a body and the decision to move it.

February in Pensacola. The kind of night where you could sit on the couch or you could not. I chose not. Whatever I did in that hour — bodyweight stuff, stretching, pacing, some combination of all three — it was enough to log. And logging it meant it happened.

There’s no pace to report and no route to map. Just time spent being a person who does things instead of a person who doesn’t.

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// RAPTOR GIRL