The next morning, Rohit woke up to the blaring of his alarm clock—a sound he hadn't heard in weeks, maybe months. For a moment, he stared at the ceiling, confused by the mechanical chirping, before realisation dawned.
I set that last night.
His hand shot out from beneath the bedsheet, fumbling to silence it. The room returned to quiet, save for the faint hum of a ceiling fan turning lazy circles above.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cool beneath his feet. Slowly, almost mechanically, he rose and shuffled to the washbasin.
Cold water slapped his face. His fingers dragged down his cheeks, gathering rivulets of water that dripped from his chin and into the sink. He met his own gaze in the mirror—bloodshot eyes, dishevelled hair, faint shadows under his eyes like bruises from some invisible fight.
Back in his room, he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, fingers laced loosely. His brows furrowed in quiet thought.
What should I do today? one thing.
His gaze dropped to his own body. The old t-shirt clung awkwardly to his torso. His arms looked softer than he remembered, chest flatter, his stomach showing the faint swell of neglect.
There was a time when this body moved like it was supposed to—quick, responsive, light. A time when it obeyed.
Now, it felt like a slow machine with rusted joints. Every movement dragged. Every effort came with a sigh.
Rohit let out a breath through his nose.
I want to change this.
He stood up with a small grunt, walked over to the corner where his old workout gear lay neglected in a dusty heap. His fingers hesitated over the laces of his running shoes. They were stiff, dulled by a coat of fine dust. He brushed them off with one hand, then crouched down to tie the laces, tugging them tight.
Let's start small, he thought. Just one jog. One lap.
He stood, stretched his arms overhead until his back popped, then rolled his shoulders with a faint wince. Muscles unused to movement resisted like stubborn hinges.
Rohit stepped toward the door.
This time, his hand didn't tremble as it reached for the knob.
Funny, he thought. The door doesn't look as threatening anymore. Less like a barrier, more like a beginning.
With a quiet breath, he turned it and stepped outside.
The sun greeted him with a mild blaze, brushing warm light across his arms. The scent of the morning lingered in the air—faintly metallic with dust, but layered with something fresh: damp earth, foliage, the sharp tang of a nearby vendor frying breakfast snacks.
The path to the park was familiar but strange, like walking through a dream of something once real. His legs moved at a steady rhythm, not fast, not slow. Just forward.
When he reached the park, Rohit paused at the edge of the running track. He exhaled and began jogging—an awkward pace at first, like his body had forgotten the rhythm. His arms swung stiffly, breath shallow.
But barely two minutes in, his lungs began to burn.
He stopped at a corner of the track, bending slightly, hands on knees, chest rising and falling with short, wheezy gulps.
"Man… I'm really out of shape," he muttered under his breath, between coughs.
He didn't run again that morning. Instead, he walked a lap, letting his heartbeat settle, letting the act of being out wash over him like a slow tide. It wasn't dramatic. But it was real.
After a while, he exited the park and crossed over to a local shop. The glass bottles of milk stood stacked in an old fridge buzzing faintly with effort. He pointed at one, then at the stack of newspapers beside the till.
"Milk. And the paper."
The shopkeeper handed both over without small talk.
Rohit glanced at the front page as he tucked the folded paper under his arm. A bold, aggressive headline screamed in all caps:
"HAVOC IN SOUTH AFRICA – GIFTED ATTACK AUTHORITIES"
His eyes skimmed the words. He didn't linger.
He walked back toward the PG, milk in hand, newspaper pressed to his ribs. The buildings looked the same, but the walk back felt different—like he wasn't retreating, just returning.
As he reached the stairs, a voice called out behind him.
"Rohit!"
He turned.
It was Mukesh, his landlord. The man was perched on the second-floor landing, leaning against the rail with a steel tumbler in one hand.
"The rent's due," Mukesh said, in a tone that was firm but not unkind. "Don't forget to send it."
"I'll transfer it by evening," Rohit replied with a small nod.
Mukesh turned to a nearby boy—Mohit, one of the louder residents known for playing loud music past midnight.
"Look at this fellow," Mukesh said, gesturing toward Rohit like he was a model student. "Always on time. Doesn't create drama. Learn something."
Rohit offered a polite nod to Mohit, who gave him a sheepish glance and promptly returned to half-arguing with Mukesh.
Rohit took the stairs two at a time this time, as if to outrun the moment. Once inside his room, he shut the door with a soft click and stand there, milk and newspaper still in hand.
The room felt different now—not larger, not cleaner—but less like a cage.