It had been two days since that string of failed calls. Two days since Rohit heard the polite rejections from people he once called friends.
The whiteboard in front of him stood still—untouched. The neatly written checklist, once a symbol of progress, now felt like a silent accusation. No new tick marks. Just the same empty squares staring back at him.
He sat slouched on his bed, back against the wall, legs pulled in loosely, elbows resting on his knees. One hand dangled by his side, tapping lightly against the wooden floor in slow, irregular beats.
Tap... tap... pause... tap...
The tapping stopped.
"I've relapsed."
He whispered it, like a confession to the room.
No workouts. No reading. No effort. He hadn't stepped out of the house, hadn't even left the room except to eat or use the bathroom.
It felt like he was wading through syrup—thick, invisible resistance wrapping around his limbs, weighing down every movement. Even sitting upright took effort.
He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as if answers were hidden in the fan's slow spin.
"No matter how hard I work... how many times I pull myself up... it never feels like enough. I'm still here. Still stuck."
He looked around the room—once chaotic, now neatly kept. Yet it felt no less confining.
"This... this is my prison. And I am the prisoner—of my choices, of my own mind."
His voice cracked slightly. He hated how poetic it sounded.
He sank deeper into the bed, shoulders slumping forward.
"I know I shouldn't give up. Not this soon. But..."
He looked at the screen of his phone—blank and cold—and let out a long breath.
"But it's comforting, isn't it? Just letting go... Not fighting. Not struggling. Just… watching whatever I want. Eating whatever I feel like. No guilt. No war with myself."
He closed his eyes, listening to his breath. The excuses from the past two days echoed in his mind like a familiar lullaby. But the lullaby was over.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his uncombed hair.
"I can't let this continue."
Then came the realisation—sharp and disorienting.
"I had a goal. I had something to fight for. That's what pushed me out of the rut. But now… now I've done it. I'm not breathless after a sprint anymore. My body doesn't ache from two pushups. I've read more in the past few weeks than I have in months. I've built momentum."
He glanced at the mirror across the room. His face was leaner.
"I don't feel like shit anymore."
And that was the problem.
"Time won't wait for me here." he muttered. "It's moving. And if I don't move with it..."
He sat in silence. The ticking of the wall clock was the only sound.
"So what now? What next?"
His gaze shifted to the open browser tab glowing faintly in the corner of his laptop screen. A news headline stared back at him:
"American Hero Saves 200 Lives After Pacific Cruiser Disaster."
Rohit stared at it.
"What if I'd been born like that—gifted? Brave. Larger than life."
Then shook his head. He leaned forward, elbows on thighs again, hands clasped in front of his mouth.
"No. Jealousy is pointless. I can't become something I was never meant to be. But I can choose something to become. I need a goal."
He tapped his foot against the floor now, this time with more pace. It echoed in the room like a quiet war drum.
"Without a goal... I'll drown in this comfort. Forever."
Suddenly, his phone rang—startling him out of the spiral.
The screen lit up.
Unknown Number.
He hesitated, thumb hovering.
"Probably spam..."
Still, he swiped and lifted the phone to his ear.
Rohit: "Hello? Who is this?"
Voice (familiar, grinning): "Oye! Is this Rohit?"
Rohit frowned. "Yeah… who's this?"
Voice: "You bastard! You don't even recognise my voice? It's me, Sathya!"
Rohit's mouth opened slightly. His posture straightened. A smile cracked through the dullness on his face like the first ray of light in a windowless cell.
Sathya: "Hello? You there or did I call a ghost?"
Rohit (grinning now): "You bastard! You didn't even pick up my call!"
Sathya (laughing): "I changed numbers, Nitin told me you were trying to reach me."
Rohit's voice softened a little. "He did?"
Sathya: "Yeah. He said you were looking for a job. I was like—how the hell did he call Nitin before me? Then I remembered I'd changed numbers. Anyway… still looking?"
Rohit: "Yes."
Sathya: "Good. Then come to Gurkram. I've got a surprise for you. Let's meet this Sunday."
Rohit: "Okay."
Before he could say more, the line clicked. Sathya had hung up.
Rohit stared at the screen for a moment, still holding the phone to his ear. Then he lowered it slowly, smiling—this time genuinely.
He placed the phone on the table like it was something precious.
"At least… I still have one good friend."
And for the first time in days, Rohit stood up on his own, without thinking, without effort.
The chain hadn't broken. Not really.