5:45 AM.
The alarm broke the silence like a match being struck in a dark room.
Chinmay's eyes opened.
He didn't move.
For a few seconds, it was just breath. Shallow, cold. The kind that doesn't reach your chest — just fogs your throat and stops.
His hand twitched toward the phone. The screen glowed faintly on the side table. So close.
Just five more minutes.
He could already feel it — the weight of the blanket, the warmth of sleep, the excuse forming like condensation on glass. Just five. Just a little.
But then something flashed in him.
Not resolve. Not motivation.
Something quieter.
Memory.
Last night. The living room. The silence between two sentences.
His father had said nothing after the third time he'd been told "I'll try tomorrow." No raised voice, no lecture. Just that sharp, airless pause that meant: I've stopped expecting now.
And his mother, collecting plates without looking at him. As if she didn't want to see how far he'd drifted.
That silence… was worse than shouting.
Worse than failure.
It was absence.
And so — with muscles stiff and stubborn — he sat up.
Not in triumph.
But in survival.
The room was cold. His breath came out in small bursts. Outside the window, the sky was still a diluted charcoal, the world half-asleep. That eerie, liminal hour where time doesn't flow — it just waits.
His phone buzzed once.
A notification. Probably nothing.
Still, he stared at the screen for a few seconds, like it was some kind of test. A trap in plain sight.
Then — slowly — he picked it up, walked to his drawer, slid it in, and shut it with a click.
Not victory.
Just… resistance.
That was enough.
His body complained like it hadn't moved in years. His brain offered him shortcuts: Just stretch for a bit… maybe journal first… maybe make coffee first… maybe—
"No," he muttered.
The voice sounded cracked. But firm.
He went to the bathroom. Splashed water on his face. The cold hit him like truth. He tied his hair back — badly — the band too tight on one side.
Still, it held.
He sat at his desk.
Not dramatically. Just… sat.
The books were stacked like silent judges. He touched one — the Physics textbook — and opened it.
Kinematics.
He stared at the heading for a long time. Like it was an old photograph of someone he used to love, then lost.
The symbols danced in front of his eyes. Displacement. Velocity. Acceleration. Words that once felt like second nature now looked like a foreign language.
He whispered:
"I used to do this in my sleep."
Then paused. And added:
"But I'm not that guy right now."
It didn't hurt to say it.
It was just a fact.
He opened a notebook. Turned to a clean page. Wrote the heading: Kinematics — Day One.
Then — painstakingly — he began. One formula. One concept. Writing everything out. Not to impress. Not to prove. Just to rebuild.
His hand moved slowly. There was no rhythm to it. But it didn't stop.
He wasn't thinking of the CET. Or the competition. Or how far behind he was.
He was just here. Right now. Writing.
And for once, his brain didn't fly off into panic or cravings or excuses. His hands didn't reach for distractions. Even the silence in the room felt… earned.
The clock ticked.
Forty minutes.
He blinked.
A breath escaped him — long, ragged. Like air after drowning.
He hadn't done anything heroic.
But he hadn't quit.
That's what mattered.
He leaned back.
Looked at the page — messy, full, alive.
Something flickered in his chest. Not pride.
Something smaller. Softer.
Like a handshake with his own self. Like forgiveness.
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To be continued in Chapter 23 – After the First Flame
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