There was no miracle on the second day.
No extra energy. No motivation from some video. Just the muscle memory of yesterday's fight.
He sat up in bed again at 4:58 AM. A small smirk formed.
Two days in a row. Who the hell is this guy?
But the smirk faded quickly.
Because there it was again — that familiar second voice.
"You'll mess up again. It's just a phase."
He didn't argue. Arguing with that voice was like trying to wrestle a shadow.
He just stood up.
---
The first pushup burned more than yesterday.
By the fifth, his arms trembled. Still weak. But he didn't stop.
He pushed for one more.
Six.
It wasn't the number. It was the silence afterward. The kind that says: You didn't stop when it started to hurt.
He stood, breathing slow and deep, and walked to the mirror again. Same face. But his gaze was slightly different today.
Still haunted.
But not helpless.
---
Downstairs, his mother was up early — making tea.
She didn't say much when she saw him. Just a raised eyebrow, then a slight nod.
But to him, it was everything.
It wasn't approval. It was recognition.
A silent: "You're not nothing. I see you trying."
He poured himself a glass of water again. No phone in hand.
No noise. No guilt in the stomach.
---
At 6:20 AM, the notebook opened again. He flipped to the same page.
"Pushups — 6
Wake — 4:58
No phone in washroom
Craving came again. Beat it."
Below that, he added:
"Discipline is the promise I make to my future self —
Not the reward my past deserves."
He didn't need to say more.
---
Kinematics again.
He wasn't fast. But he wasn't getting distracted either. There was still shame when he had to rewatch a concept he "should've known." But he allowed it.
What mattered was — he didn't leave.
And something new happened at 7:45 AM.
He got bored.
That itchy boredom. The kind that leads you straight to relapse.
He felt his hand twitch toward his phone. The temptation wasn't sexual. It was escapist.
That old urge to leave this moment and go somewhere easier.
But then he remembered something he'd read weeks ago, buried deep in an old Telegram channel:
> "Most relapses happen because we don't know what to do with the present moment."
He sat there, blinking at that thought.
And did something he hadn't done in weeks.
He stood up, walked outside, and looked at the sky.
No agenda.
No app.
Just sky.
Birds. Ants crawling on the wall. The smell of bread from someone's kitchen. A distant dog barking like it had something to prove.
Life, happening. And him — not running from it.
---
That evening, while returning from tuition, he took a different route.
Longer, quieter. Just to be alone.
And he thought of that version of himself from two months ago — the one who couldn't go even two days without slipping. Who lied about everything. Who hated mirrors.
That version wasn't gone.
But today, that version wasn't in charge.
And that mattered.
---
He reached home. Mom was doing jhaadu. She asked if he wanted tea.
He said yes.
They sat silently in the kitchen, drinking.
No deep talks. No lectures.
Just presence.
---
Later that night, he wrote in his notebook again:
"Didn't feel strong today.
Felt real.
Maybe that's better."
---
To be continued in
Chapter 26: The Sound of Breaking Quiet.