Chinmay stared at the ceiling, the fan above spinning in lazy circles. The air was warm, stale. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, but he didn't move. He was lying there, frozen. Something inside him was stirring — not strength, not resolve — but something darker.
It started with a flicker. A memory. A single image. A scene from the past, buried deep — a porn clip he had watched months ago. He blinked hard, shook his head.
> "No. Not this. Not now."
He sat up, wiping his face with his sleeve, trying to force the thought out. He stood, walked around the room aimlessly. But the image returned.
Another flash. Another sound. Another moment from another clip.
> "Stop. You've fought so hard today."
He paced. His hand ran through his hair. His breath got shorter. He could feel the craving crawling beneath his skin like fire ants.
His phone sat on the desk. Silent. Unassuming.
He glanced at it. Then looked away. Then again.
> "Don't do it, Chinmay. You'll regret it."
> "It's meaningless. You said it yourself, remember? You promised."
His inner voice was screaming now, desperately clinging to the ledge of reason.
He nodded. "Yes. Yes. Agreed. You're right."
Then — silence.
The voices stopped. His mind blanked.
Like a trance, he reached out. Picked up the phone.
A few taps.
It was done.
---
Afterward, Chinmay lay on his back, staring at the fan again. But it wasn't lazily spinning anymore — it felt like the whole room was whirling. Spinning with shame. Disgust. Numbness.
The high? It lasted seconds.
Now, he just felt… hollow.
> "You did it again," the voice whispered. But it wasn't angry. It was cruel. Sarcastic. Mocking.
> "So much for your new beginning. Look at you. Lying in your own filth — again. How many times are you going to pretend you're different?"
> "You'll never be free. You're broken."
His stomach twisted. His jaw clenched.
But then — something strange happened.
A second voice, faint but steady, broke through the haze:
> "It's a trap. This guilt. It's a f***ing trap."
> "This already happened. You can't undo it. But you can still stand up. Right now."
He blinked. That second voice — it was tired, but alive.
Chinmay sat up suddenly. Threw the blanket aside.
He stood.
And sprinted.
Not to the bathroom. Not to the phone. Straight to the hallway.
He dropped down into a squat position and started sprinting in place. His legs pumped furiously. His breath came in sharp bursts. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum.
30 seconds.
Then 10 more.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air.
But his mind… was clear.
No fog. No self-hatred. Just pain… and clarity.
He crawled back to his room, grabbed his journal with shaking hands, and flipped to a fresh page.
> "Relapsed."
He underlined it twice.
Then wrote:
> "Why?"
And he began the autopsy.
He listed everything.
•The images
•The boredom
•The restlessness
•The heat
•The silence
•The phone
•The fatigue from the previous workout
•The irrational voice
He scribbled until the page was full.
Then turned to the next.
> "What could I have done instead?"
•Cold water on face
•Music
•Call someone
•Walk outside
•Journal early
•Push-ups
Each line he wrote felt like cleaning a wound.
And then — in his mind — he saw it.
That reflection again.
The version of himself from the mirror.
But this time…
He wasn't disappointed.
He was proud.
Not because Chinmay didn't fall.
But because he got back up.
And the cruel voice?
It screamed.
> "You think that's an achievement? You think that counts? You're pathetic."
But Chinmay didn't flinch.
He stood up slowly, walking to the mirror again. His face was drenched in sweat, eyes puffy, lips trembling.
> "Yeah," he whispered. "I am pathetic."
He leaned closer.
> "But I'm still here. I'm still fighting. And you? You're just a voice. And you're losing."
He placed the journal down, chest still rising and falling.
Somewhere deep inside, the fire sparked again.
> "Next time," he said, "I'll be ready."
And with that, he stepped back, washed his face, and opened his window.
A breeze blew in.
Not a cleansing wind. Not a magical sign.
Just air.
But it felt new.
> (To be continued...)