The shouting from downstairs was getting worse.
Chinmay sat silently on the bed, knees pulled up to his chest, staring at nothing.
Every word thrown around below felt like a hammer inside his skull — the kind of hammer that didn't just break things; it shattered them.
> "You're worthless!"
"Just like your father!"
"No future!"
A relative's voice cut through all the noise, sharp like a knife.
Mocking.
Final.
Chinmay didn't even flinch.
He had heard it all before.
Again and again.
And somewhere deep inside...
he believed it.
The phone lay on the table, its screen dark but somehow alive.
Whispering promises of easy escape.
Temporary peace.
Chinmay's hand twitched toward it.
One tap.
That's all it would take.
He could lose himself in the scroll, the videos, the mindless noise.
Forget about the shouting, the loneliness, the anger.
---
For a long moment, he sat there.
Frozen.
The room around him blurred.
His own body felt heavy, like it wasn't even his anymore.
Something inside him whispered:
> "What's the point?
You'll end up the same anyway."
His head hung low.
Tears threatened, but didn't fall.
This wasn't even sadness anymore.
It was emptiness.
---
But then...
a flicker.
Almost invisible.
A memory.
A feeling.
That push-up he had done earlier in the day.
It was pathetic.
It was ugly.
It was small.
But it was real.
It was HIS.
And for a second — just a second — he remembered that tiny surge of pride.
The tiniest proof that maybe... just maybe... he wasn't completely powerless.
---
Chinmay wiped his face with his sleeve.
His body screamed to just lie down, to give up, to disappear.
Instead, he stood up.
Slowly.
His legs wobbled. His head spun.
But he stood.
He walked toward the mess on his study table.
One old paper.
Crumpled.
Meaningless.
He picked it up.
Threw it in the trash.
---
One small action.
No drama.
No hero music.
Just one tiny decision.
But in that tiny act, something shifted inside him —
so quietly it could almost be missed.
---
He picked up another paper.
Then a broken pen.
Then a bent notebook.
One after another, cleaning, stacking, moving, fixing.
The room didn't magically transform.
The pain didn't magically go away.
But his breathing changed.
Slightly deeper.
Slightly steadier.
---
The phone still sat on the table.
Still whispering.
Still tempting.
But Chinmay didn't touch it.
Not yet.
Instead, he dropped to the floor.
And with all the strength he could muster,
he tried for one more push-up.
One.
Ugly.
Shaky.
Pathetic.
But again, it was real.
His muscles screamed.
His mind howled.
But he didn't stop.
---
Breathless, he collapsed onto the floor.
Not in defeat —
but in battle.
He had fought back.
Not with a sudden surge of motivation.
Not with anger.
Not with drama.
Just by refusing to be a slave for one more second.
---
As
he lay there, the ceiling spinning above him,
a cold voice echoed in the corners of his mind.
It was waiting.
Watching.
Ready.
A voice he knew all too well.
---
To Be Continued...
---