Page 32 of Unclench Me Softly

I sigh.

Of course it’s that one.

I set the card aside and step into the center of the circle. I drop my arms, lift my chin, and begin walking away slowly. Then I spin around, eyes wide and hopeful, and mime typing on an invisible phone. I wait. Pause. Check again. Wait longer. Wilt dramatically.

“Are you acting out dying from boredom?” Jax asks.

“Loneliness,” Seb says quietly.

“Emotional abandonment layered with hope and self-doubt, framed through a millennial lens of digital disconnection?” Asher asks.

I blink. “Yes.”

Asher beams.

I sit down. “Okay,” I say. “Who’s next?”

Jax grabs a card, stares at it, and grins like a feral child. Then he stands and immediately begins shadowboxing.

He throws a fake punch. Blocks. Spins. Then stumbles, clutches his chest, staggers dramatically, and drops to one knee with his hand on his heart.

Miles mutters, “A mid-life crisis disguised as masculinity.”

“Toxic ego collapse,” Asher guesses.

“Fear of vulnerability expressed through performative strength,” Jonah says.

“Getting dumped by someone you never admitted you loved,” Seb says.

We all turn.

Seb’s eyes don’t leave Jax’s.

Jax blinks. “Damn.” He drops the card. “Next.”

Asher picks one like it’s a sacred scroll. He reads it, nods seriously, and begins his performance.

He stands. Puts a hand on his chest. Then mimics lifting a heavy bag. He tries to carry it. Stumbles. Falls. Tries again. Looks at us. Points to his chest again. Tries one more time. Then kneels and “offers” the invisible bag forward.

The dome is silent.

I stare at him. “That was... surprisingly moving.”

Asher wipes a tear. “It was emotional labor in a one-sided relationship.”

Even Jax claps a little.

Miles sighs like his soul is tired. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.” He pulls a card, reads it, and then straightens his shoulders like he’s entering a courtroom.

Then he proceeds to pantomime... something.

He puts on an invisible tie, straightens it, and looks in an invisible mirror. Practices smiling. Stops. Tries again. Stops. Then reaches into his chest and mimes pulling out a perfectly beating heart, and shoving it back in. Hard.

“The performance of stability,” Jonah says.

“Weaponized perfectionism,” Asher answers.

“You’ve all done this before, haven’t you?” I say.

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