This is What Happens When You Fall for Your Gym Partner

Three months ago, I walked into the gym for the first time in over a year.

Not because of New Year resolutions or any “fitfam” inspiration—nah. I was tired.

Tired of feeling invisible. Tired of getting ghosted after one date. Tired of my shirts folding around my stomach like I was hugging a pillow under them.

So I made a deal with myself: 90 days of consistency, no excuses.

First week? My body wanted to sue me. My thighs screamed louder than the speakers in a mainland club. My arms couldn’t lift jollof rice. But something in me snapped—maybe it was pain, or pride, or just pettiness. I kept showing up.

The gym became my new safe space. I started waking up at 5 a.m., meal prepping, counting macros, posting those cringe-but-addictive mirror selfies with captions like: “Work in progress” or “Pain today, strength tomorrow.”

My followers started noticing. DM requests increased. One girl even asked what protein powder I used. I said discipline, and she laughed. We moved to WhatsApp.

Her name was Mariam. She was fit too. Did yoga. Posted those slow-mo sunrise runs on Instagram with Afrobeat songs in the background. We started sharing gym playlists, exchanged post-workout selfies, even synced our cheat days.

I felt like I finally met someone who got it. We became gym partners—not just in sweat, but in flirting too.

One day, I did something I hadn’t done in years: I took off my shirt at the beach.

The stares? Oh, I noticed them.

The compliments? I soaked them in like whey isolates in cold water.

Even Mariam bit her lip and said, “You’ve really transformed o… see definition.”

I laughed and said, “It’s you that defined me.”

Everything was perfect. Until it wasn’t.

One rainy Friday, I decided to surprise her after work with a protein smoothie and a kiss on the forehead (yes, I’m that guy now). Her location? Still on at her house in Lekki. Cool. I got there and messaged, “Outside, fitbae”

No reply.

Waited.

Still nothing.

So I buzzed the gate. The security man looked confused and said, “Madam no dey.”

I showed him her location on Snapchat. He squinted and said, “Oga, she don travel since morning o. Check well.”

I felt something cold crawl up my spine. I checked her Snap again. The location updated—now it said she was in VI.

Long story short: I opened Instagram later that night and saw a tagged post of her at some luxury gym with another guy.

Caption?

“When your man says let’s hit PR together #FitnessCouple #StrongerTogether“

I wanted to vomit all my pre-workout. I scrolled. The dude? Bigger. Beard fuller. Tattoos. One of those guys that drink raw eggs and smile while doing deadlifts. He looked like my before and after in one picture.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t even confront her.

I just went to the gym the next morning, and squatted till my knees gave way.

You see, fitness did change my life. I found discipline. I found confidence. I found my body.

But in the process, I also found that people will admire your glow and still chase someone shinier.

I’m still lifting. Still healing.

Still drinking protein shakes, but now they’re mixed with a little lesson in betrayal.

So if you see me posting less gym selfies, don’t worry—I’m still working.

But this time, I’m building muscle… and emotional armor.

And oh, I blocked Mariam.

Even discipline has boundaries.