Whisper #27The Part That Arrives Later

You sit on the teacher’s mat before anyone asks anything from you.

One ankle crosses over the other.

The mat is cooler than expected through the fabric of your pants, still holding a little of the morning before bodies warm it.

The room is almost ready.

Rows of mats face you with a precision no one will comment on.

Blocks aligned at the top corners.

Straps folded the same way.

Your water bottle already placed behind your left corner.

Near the door, sandals begin forming their own loose line against the wall, never straight, no matter how often people try.

You take your phone.

Bluetooth off.

Then on again.

You know it was connected.

You wait for the small pause anyway, watching the screen as if something important depends on that symbol appearing exactly when it should.

The playlist opens.

The one you arranged last night, moving one track higher, another lower.

A mat unrolls in the last row.

That dry clap against wood.

Someone clears their throat near the entrance, then lowers their voice into a greeting that does not need an answer yet.

Your thumb hovers over the first track, but instead you reach for the notebook.

Not because you forgot the sequence.

You know where the class begins.

Still, your eyes scan the page once more, irritated by your own handwriting yet following arrows you wrote for yourself in the margin, checking a transition already memorized.

The room smells unfinished.

Cotton, wood, a little humidity from bodies arriving, and the incense that should already be burning but isn’t.

You hear your opening sentence once before saying it.

Silently.

Then again.

A little shorter.

At the door, someone bends to remove their sandals.

Another student steps in behind them, whispering sorry as though the room has already started becoming quiet.

Two minutes.

Then you remember the incense.

The fucking incense.

The lighter is still on the far shelf.

For a moment it becomes the only object in the room.

You stand, crossing between the mats, careful not to brush anyone’s space, already smiling before someone stops you to ask whether today will include inversions.

For half a second, your eyes stay on the lighter behind them.

In your head, you curse.

You answer.

Quickly.

Still smiling.

The incense catches late.

The first thread of smoke rises thin and uneven before finding its shape.

By the time you sit again, the music has already begun.

Your mouth begins.
Your breath arrives later.

By then the class is already listening.

With Love & Stillness,
Saf

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This whisper continues →

Whisper #27: The Part That Arrives Later