Page 43 of Unclench Me Softly

(subtitled: Reconnect with your pre-societal self through embodied regression, organic movement, and emotionally feral choices.)

So far, the itinerary includes:

• Crawling meditation

• Shirtless forest run (optional but highly encouraged)

• Sustainable nest-building using only foraged materials and the will to heal

• Possibly a howling circle, if I can figure out how to lead it without bursting into laughter or tears

• Post-howl journaling prompt: “What does your inner cub fear?”

I chew my bar in silence, legs crossed, notebook in my lap, thinking very serious thoughts like: Is moss structurally sound for emotional nests? and What are the sanitation implications of primal barefoot expression?

While I ponder, I take another bite of the bar, which tastes like regret and artificial vanilla, and stare at the moon, which feels judgmental tonight.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I mutter.

I’m just scribbling “cub snack break (optional berries?)” in the margin when I hear it.

A branch crunches. There’s a shift in the air.

That feeling in your chest when someone walks into your orbit and doesn’t say anything, but somehow still says everything.

I glance up, already knowing who it is.

Of course it’s Jax.

He’s not stomping in like usual. No swagger. No “look at me” energy. He’s... quiet. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders loose. Shirt still MIA, because of course, but not in the usual “I’m a problem” way. Tonight he looks like someone who’s been cracked open and is still figuring out if he likes the way the light comes in.

He sees me, doesn’t smirk. Just nods once, casual, and walks over like it was always the plan. “You talkin’ to the sky, or just lost your mind out here?”

I swallow the rest of the bar like it’s a defense mechanism.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, trying not to sound startled or secretly thrilled.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Too much... steam in my brain or whatever.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’ll happen when you scream your trauma into the void while squatting in warrior two.”

He shrugs and walks closer, not sitting exactly, but crouching nearby, like he’s trying the whole “reclaiming his cub” thing a little early.

There’s a moment. Soft. Tense. Unspoken.

Then he says, “You were right, you know.”

I blink. “About what?”

“This whole thing. The... screaming. The sage. The yoga where I nearly pulled something sacred.” He pauses. Looks up at the moon. “I thought it was bullshit. All of it. But today, during that pose where we were, like, angry dogs or whatever? Something just...” He gestures vaguely at his chest, his throat, his everything. “Let go.”

I freeze.

Because he’s not joking. He’s not posturing. He’s just... there. Earnest. Raw. A little wrecked in a way that feels holy.

“I’ve been angry so long I forgot what it feels like not to be,” he says. “Like, I wake up and it’s just there. In my jaw. In my hands. In my spine. Like armor. Like... noise.”

He finally glances over, and the look on his face is wrecked. Open. Real. “But today... it got quiet. Just for a second. And that scared the shit outta me.”

---