Fitness is very important to me because it helps give me a

Host: The airport terminal was almost empty — the late-night quiet where every footstep echoed like a memory and every light hummed like a tired promise. Beyond the glass, the runway stretched into darkness, the faint pulse of blue beacons blinking against the rain-slick asphalt.

Jack sat by the window, a duffel bag at his feet, his grey eyes watching the reflections of planes taxiing into the distance. Jeeny sat a few seats away, one earbud dangling from her ear, her hair pulled back messily, the faint scent of travel — coffee, paper, and jet fuel — drifting between them.

Between their two cups of cooling coffee lay a folded magazine page, dog-eared and wrinkled. On it, highlighted in soft pink, was a quote that had started their quiet debate:
“Fitness is very important to me because it helps give me a routine when I travel. It gives me one hour of 'me' time and passes the time when I'm lonely. Living with scoliosis serves as a constant reminder to keep my core and back strong. If I get lazy, I feel it in my back first.” — Martha Hunt

Jeeny: “I love that she says ‘when I’m lonely.’ It’s so honest. Most people talk about fitness like it’s about perfection, but she’s talking about survival — structure in chaos.”

Jack: “Structure, sure. But it’s also control. You build a routine so you don’t have to face what’s left when you stop moving.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, blurring the city lights beyond the runway into strokes of watercolor. Jeeny looked at him, her expression soft but searching.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Sometimes movement is the only way to keep yourself from falling apart. Hunt isn’t escaping herself — she’s returning to herself, one workout at a time.”

Jack: “Or she’s just keeping busy. Everyone’s addicted to distraction. Some people scroll, some people sweat. Either way, it’s running from silence.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s learning how to live with it.”

Host: She shifted slightly, her posture straight, composed — like someone who understood the weight of discipline. The lights above them flickered softly, bathing her face in warm gold.

Jeeny: “Do you know what it’s like to live in a body that betrays you, Jack? Scoliosis isn’t just pain. It’s imbalance. Every step reminds you you’re not symmetrical, not ‘normal.’ Strength becomes both shield and confession. You fight your own frame to keep from collapsing.”

Jack: “So the gym becomes a battlefield.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But a sacred one. One hour where the noise of life stops, and the only thing that matters is your breath, your will, your spine holding its ground.”

Jack: “And the rest of the day?”

Jeeny: “You carry that hour inside you — like armor.”

Host: A boarding call echoed faintly in the distance, the sterile voice of routine cutting through the hush of the terminal. Neither of them moved.

Jack: “You know, I never understood the obsession with ‘me time.’ It sounds selfish.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you’ve never given yourself permission to have it.”

Jack: “I don’t need permission to be alone.”

Jeeny: “Alone isn’t the same as present. ‘Me time’ isn’t isolation — it’s communion with yourself. What Hunt said — that one hour of solitude — it’s not indulgence. It’s sanity.”

Host: Her tone was calm but carried weight — the kind of truth that comes not from theory, but from living. Jack stared into his coffee, the surface reflecting a blur of light and fatigue.

Jack: “You think discipline can cure loneliness?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can teach you how to survive it.”

Jack: “So you replace emotion with motion?”

Jeeny: “No — you make them the same thing. Every repetition, every run, every stretch — it’s a prayer disguised as effort.”

Jack: “A prayer to what?”

Jeeny: “To endurance.”

Host: The rain slowed, thinning to a fine mist. Somewhere across the terminal, a child laughed — that fleeting, fragile sound of life insisting on itself. Jeeny’s voice softened.

Jeeny: “What I love about her words is the honesty — that she admits to feeling lonely. That strength isn’t invincible, it’s responsive. Her body tells her when her spirit starts slipping.”

Jack: “So weakness becomes warning.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s what people misunderstand about strength — it’s not the absence of fragility. It’s the ability to read it, respond to it, recover from it.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking softly. He watched the slow, rhythmic sweep of the runway lights and let the thought sink in.

Jack: “You know, I used to run when I traveled. Every city, same route: early morning, no people, no noise. I said it was for fitness, but really... it was the only time I felt like I existed outside of everyone else’s story.”

Jeeny: “See? That’s your ‘me time.’ You found your own rhythm. That’s what she’s talking about — one hour where you stop being a passenger in your own life.”

Jack: “It didn’t last. The moment the flight left, I’d lose it again.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you thought peace was permanent. It’s not. It’s something you rebuild — daily, deliberately, painfully.”

Host: A faint announcement echoed — another flight departing to somewhere warm and bright. Neither of them looked up. The moment felt suspended — two travelers between destinations, between questions, between versions of themselves.

Jack: “You know what struck me most in that quote? The line about scoliosis being a reminder. Most people hide their scars. She turned hers into discipline.”

Jeeny: “That’s resilience — when pain becomes instruction. She’s not training her body to look perfect. She’s training it to remember its own strength.”

Jack: “Maybe we all have our versions of scoliosis — things that twist us out of alignment.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Emotional, spiritual, invisible — they all demand core work.”

Jack: “And if you get lazy?”

Jeeny: “You feel it first where you’ve been broken.”

Host: The words lingered in the air — gentle, precise, devastatingly true. Outside, a plane lifted into the night, its lights cutting across the clouds like a promise in motion.

Jeeny: “That’s why I love what she said. Fitness isn’t about beauty or vanity — it’s maintenance of the soul through the body. It’s the ritual of not giving up on yourself.”

Jack: “You really think movement can do that?”

Jeeny: “Movement is meaning. Stillness is decay.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — the kind of smile that hides old pain but honors new understanding. He looked at her, at the quiet certainty in her eyes, and nodded once.

Jack: “You know what? Maybe I’ll start running again.”

Jeeny: “Good. Start small. Don’t run from the loneliness. Run with it.”

Jack: “You sound like a coach.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who’s been limping long enough to learn how to walk again.”

Host: The final boarding call echoed through the terminal — their flight, their next act, waiting. They stood, gathering their things. Outside, the rain had finally stopped. The world, cleansed and glistening, seemed to hum with quiet promise.

And as they walked toward the gate, the truth of Martha Hunt’s words followed them like a heartbeat —

that strength is not the absence of pain,
but the discipline to meet it each morning;
that movement is prayer, and routine is refuge;
and that in the long, lonely hours of life’s travel,
the body remembers —
and through it, so does the soul.