He woke up before the alarm.
4:57 AM.
No dream. No divine motivation. Just opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling like something had already been decided while he slept.
There was a familiar tightness in his chest — not anxiety, not quite. Just that quiet dread that came with being awake and being himself.
The first voice in his head whispered, "Sleep a little longer. You deserve it. You were good yesterday."
But a second voice — quieter, firmer — answered: "No. We're not doing that anymore."
He sat up. Slowly. The cold touched his skin like a test. The kind of cold that made your brain look for excuses.
But he didn't negotiate.
His feet hit the floor.
There was no glory in it. No theme music. Just skin, wood, and decision.
---
He walked to the bathroom and saw his reflection. He didn't look heroic. Or even healthy. Dark circles. Slight bloat from late-night dal-chawal. That usual feeling of being unfinished.
But this time, he didn't look away.
He stared straight into his own eyes and let the guilt rise — but didn't let it take the steering wheel.
It was all there — the memories of slipping. The late nights with the phone glowing in the dark. The fake schedules. The lies. The self-betrayals. The feeling after. The disgusting, shrinking regret that would sink into his bones.
He didn't flinch.
Instead, he said, quietly:
"You were weak. But you're not done."
---
After brushing, washing his face, and tying his hair back, he returned to the center of the room. Took a deep breath. And dropped to the floor.
Pushups.
Not because he wanted muscles. Not for a streak. Not for dopamine.
Just to do one thing hard before the day could break him.
One. Arms shaky.
Two. Exhale sharp.
Three. His mind started bargaining: "This is useless. What is five pushups going to do?"
But he kept going.
Four. The thought came: "This is embarrassing."
Five. He paused. Face to the floor. Chest just barely touching the cold ground. And stayed.
There. Silent.
That's when the second enemy arrived — not a voice this time, but a memory.
His mother standing at the kitchen doorway weeks ago, watching him leave his plate half-eaten, dragging his feet, eyes hollow. No scolding. Just that expression — like she'd stopped expecting anything from him.
He clenched his jaw.
Not today.
He got up, chest pounding. Not from the effort — from the refusal to let that memory define him anymore.
He went to his drawer, took out his CET Physics notebook, flipped past random mind maps and sad attempts at neat handwriting.
Found a blank page. Wrote the date.
"24th January
Pushups — 5
No snooze. No bargaining.
No phone in bathroom."
Then below it:
"I don't need to feel powerful to act powerful.
Today, we just show up."
---
He went downstairs, tied the water filter back in place because no one else had, and poured himself a glass. Drank it slowly, standing by the window. The sky outside was still dark, but not in a depressing way.
It felt like a clean slate. Cold, yes. But clean.
When he sat at his desk at 6:15 AM, his hands hovered over the book. Kinematics again.
He had every reason to hate it. He'd failed this chapter too many times to count.
But today, he didn't approach it like a victim of forgetfulness. He approached it like a soldier revisiting an old battlefield.
He wrote the first equation —
v = u + at
— not as a student, but as someone preparing for war.
And then came the hardest moment of all: the craving.
It hit out of nowhere. No trigger. Just a flash in his mind of a saved video. That one he had bookmarked "just in case." A warm wave of temptation. The itch to throw the book away, go upstairs, grab the phone, and disappear.
He stopped. Didn't fight it with panic.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair. Looked at his hand. Steady.
He whispered,
"We already said no."
Then louder, firmer:
"We already said no. And we meant it."
---
By 7:00 AM, he had solved three questions. Simple ones, yes. But solved. Without distraction. Without going to the washroom ten times. Without switching to music. Just him, the pen, and the page.
When he finally put the pen down, there was no joy. No "I'm back" moment. No montage-worthy grin.
Just a quiet sense of weight being lifted. Not all of it. Just enough to breathe a little better.
---
The day ends not with a climax —
But with a breath.
The kind that doesn't come from relief.
The kind that comes from resistance.
And resistance, today, was enough.
---