> "What if I don't think I deserve him?"
That sentence just sat there. Ink still drying. Paper still trembling from the pressure of his hand.
He stared at it, unmoving, like it had slapped him in the face. Not with violence—but with the kind of calm, devastating truth that left a crater inside your soul.
His mouth was dry. Eyes fixed. He wasn't blinking. His hands slowly curled into fists.
> "What the fuck does that even mean?"
He didn't yell it.
He whispered it. A breath—low, cracked, like a man confronting a ghost that's lived inside his chest for too long.
He stood up. The chair groaned. His notebook slid a little on the desk as he began pacing—four steps to the window, four back to the wall. Repeat. Faster. Like he was trying to outwalk the thoughts chasing him.
Then he stopped.
> "You mean I'm scared… of becoming him? The best version of me?"
He laughed. Not joyfully. A scoff—a bite.
> "That's fucking pathetic."
He walked to the mirror. Looked into it. Not for aesthetics. Not to fix his hair. He was searching.
There he was. That same face. Slight beard. Bags under the eyes. Slight tremor at the jawline.
> "You scared of winning, huh?"
He leaned closer. Nose inches from the glass.
> "You scared of becoming a man who doesn't jerk off every night?"
> "You scared of waking up early and facing the weight of your own potential?"
Silence. Dead silence.
He turned. Walked back to his desk. Picked up the notebook with a new force.
He flipped to the page. Read it again.
> "What if I don't think I deserve him?"
And underneath it, he began writing. Not carefully. Not like a poet. Like a man clawing his way out of a coffin.
> "Maybe I don't jerk off because I'm horny. Maybe I do it because it's who I've been."
> "It's identity. It's routine. It's ritualized self-hate."
> "I'm not addicted to pleasure. I'm addicted to being small. Being pitiful. Being helpless."
> "I expect failure now. It's my normal."
He stopped writing. Stared at the words. They hurt. Not because they were wrong—but because they were exactly right.
He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head.
Then he scribbled more:
> "I've started becoming consistent. Two days clean. Two days of clarity. Two days of breathing better. And I fucking wrecked it. With my own hands."
He put the pen down.
He stood again.
Paced again.
Back to the mirror.
> "Why do you keep pulling the plug when the light finally starts to come on?"
> "You want to stay blind?"
He sat down cross-legged on the floor.
It wasn't meditation. It wasn't mindfulness. It was a man sitting in the ruins of his own inner world.
A war room.
He whispered:
> "I'm scared I won't recognize myself if I change."
He thought of the old version of himself. The one that lied. That made excuses. That said tomorrow but meant never.
And for a second—just a second—he felt homesick for that version. That broken comfort. That invisible prison.
> "But that version of me?"
He said it out loud now, voice steady, voice clear:
> "He's not my home."
> "He's just the cell I was born in."
He opened the journal again. New page. No hesitation.
> "I will not run anymore. I will look the pain in the face. I will see it, feel it, and still move forward."
> "I don't care how many times I fall. The man I want to become is worth every climb."
> "I will not make my demons my identity."
He closed t
he journal.
And this time, when he looked in the mirror, he didn't see a stranger.
He saw someone just starting to become real.
To be continued in Chapter 28: No Negotiation