Page 28 of Unclench Me Softly

Asher’s breathing gets more intense. Like he’s trying to hyperventilate his way into enlightenment. Then he whispers, “I think I unclenched something important.”

I don’t ask what. I don’t want to know.

Miles sighs. Audibly. His voice cuts in like a surgeon interrupting a drum circle. “This is… unorthodox.”

I blink at him. “Excuse me?”

He gestures to the ritual setup like he’s critiquing a wine flight. “There’s no clear structure. No defined technique. You’re relying on improvisation, emotional cues, and poorly defined symbolism. Which may work for some, but it lacks any grounding methodology.”

I blink again. “It’s called intuitive facilitation.”

“It’s called chaos with candles,” Miles says.

“Okay,” I say, standing. “We are done unclenching for right now.”

Asher sits bolt upright. “But I didn’t finish my journaling reflection!”

“Do it silently. In your dome. While drinking tea,” I say.

“Is there tea?” Asher asks.

“Toad!” I shout into the trees. “Can you please manifest some herbal tea before I scream into the void?”

Jax is openly laughing now.

Seb is… possibly asleep.

Miles is still staring at me like I just delivered a TED Talk in interpretive dance.

I walk calmly out of the dome, smiling. Then scream into a throw pillow behind the shrine.

I sit in the grass outside the ritual dome, still clutching a pillow to my chest like it’s holding my sanity together.

The men are inside.

Breathing weird.

Possibly journaling.

Definitely judging me in four entirely different ways.

And all I wanted was one sacred moment of spiritual surrender. A little ego release. A gentle vibe massage of the soul. Instead I got an audible mat fart, a ritual critique, and Asher trying to optimize his breathwork like it’s a productivity app.

I don’t know if I want to scream or sleep for fourteen hours.

And I still have another Unclenching activity planned for this afternoon.

“Emotional Vulnerability Charades.” It sounded better in my notes.

But before I can even contemplate which parts of my body I’ll have to clench just to get through it I hear footsteps, and the distinct sound of something sloshing in a mason jar.

“Toad,” I say flatly, without turning around. “Is that tea or emotional poison?”

He plops down beside me and hands me the jar. “Lemon balm and rose hip,” he says. “Infused with gentle regret.”

“Perfect,” I mutter, sipping. “I needed something to pair with humiliation and existential thirst.”

He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. I assume it’s a leaf at first. Or a note from a ghost. It’s always a gamble with Toad.

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