The room was still dark, the early morning light just beginning to creep through the thin curtains. Rohit blinked awake—not startled, not by an alarm—just awake. His eyes opened on their own, right on time.
But he didn't move.
The ceiling above him was familiar, stained faintly in one corner with an old water mark. The fan whirred softly, rhythmically. His bed was warm, his body relaxed. Too relaxed.
"Just five more minutes," he thought, eyes fluttering closed again. "It's comfortable here. I've done the work for three straight days. That's something. Maybe I've earned a rest day. Right?"
His fingers lightly drummed on his chest, as if tapping out an uncertain rhythm to his excuse. "Three days of work, one day off. Sounds fair." He shifted slightly, pulling the blanket up higher, sinking deeper into the mattress.
"Just a power nap. I'll get up soon..."
Then—"NO!"
The word exploded in his mind like a sudden crack of thunder. Rohit's eyes shot open, staring at the ceiling like it had betrayed him. His chest rose sharply as he inhaled, tension building in his arms.
His body didn't want to move. Muscles resisted like rubber bands pulled taut. The bed clung to him, tempting, whispering of ease and warmth.
But something else inside him—louder than the comfort—refused.
He swung his legs over the side. His feet met the cold floor.
Rohit stood up.
Wobbly at first, his knees cracking slightly. He stood there, staring down at the mattress he had just abandoned. It looked different now—more like a pit, a place to fall into and disappear.
He gave himself a small, awkward pat on the shoulder. "Good, Rohit," he whispered with a tired but proud smile. "You're up."
Without wasting another second, he stepped into his worn sneakers and bolted out of the room like the bed might drag him back in if he lingered. The hallway was dim, the house quiet, but every step away from the room felt like progress.
"Funny," he thought as he jogged down the narrow street toward the park. "A few days ago I couldn't wait to come back home. And now... I don't want to go back at all."
The morning breeze was cool, brushing against his skin like a silent cheer. He reached the park and stepped onto the soft grass of the garden, stretching his arms over his head, one shoulder then the other.
His legs still felt stiff. Breath came in short bursts. But he moved anyway.
He jogged slowly around the small park loop, passing the same old banyan tree, the same crooked bench. Sweat beaded on his brow as he pushed forward.
When he finally slowed to a stop, his heart thudding but steady, he placed both hands on his hips and exhaled deeply.
He still had some breath left in him.
"Maybe I should try push-ups today."
A voice whispered back:
"Maybe tomorrow. You've done enough today. You even showed up. That's more than most."
He frowned. That voice again. It always knew the perfect excuse.
"No. I came here. I ran. I'm already better than where I'd be if I'd stayed in bed. But if I give in now, that voice wins again."
He looked around. The park was empty. Just the sound of wind rustling the trees, and the faint calls of early-morning birds.
There was an open space nearby—flat, shaded by a neem tree.
He hesitated.
A flicker of doubt entered his chest. What if I push too hard? What if I crash? I'm not that strong-willed. I've failed before.
He stared at the ground. Then at his own trembling hands.
"Fine. One push-up. Just one."
Rohit dropped down onto all fours. Planted his palms. Focused his breathing. Then lowered himself to the ground—slow, trembling—and pushed back up.
One.
He stood up again, sweat trailing down the side of his neck. It wasn't grand but he was proud of it. But it was a start.
He looked out toward the rising sun, golden light streaking through the branches above.
"I'll do more tomorrow," he said quietly to himself.
And with that small victory, he turned back toward home.
This time, walking tall.