The taste of regret hadn't faded. It clung to his tongue like rust — bitter, metallic, shame-soaked.
Last night wasn't just a stumble.
It was a collapse.
Chinmay couldn't lie to himself anymore. He knew exactly what he was doing when he picked up that phone — the lie of "just checking something," the guilt he pushed aside for just one moment of relief. The images came, the numbness followed, and then… the silence. Heavy. Suffocating.
But this morning?
He stood.
Barefoot. Unshowered. Still aching with disgust.
In front of the mirror.
His reflection stared back. Pale. Hollow-eyed. A ghost of the boy who had promised to change.
But behind those tired eyes… something moved.
A flicker.
Not fire. Not yet.
But the beginning of one.
> "What now?"
No self-pity. No speeches. No tears.
He stepped back. Dropped to the floor.
Palms flat.
Floor cold.
Breath shaky.
One.
The body remembered. Muscle memory, maybe. Or just leftover adrenaline.
Two.
Short breath. Heart pounding. A sting behind the eyes.
Three.
Arms flared. Wrists wobbled. He gasped — not in pain, but in anger.
Four.
The floor crept closer. Chest kissed the ground. Teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached.
Five.
He screamed inside — clenched every muscle — and pushed.
Elbows locked. Back arched. Eyes wide.
He collapsed.
Chest heaving.
Floor slick with sweat.
But his mouth twitched.
Not a smile.
Something deeper.
A crack in the storm.
He rolled to his back and whispered to the ceiling:
> "Five. Every day. I don't care if I'm crying. Bleeding. Dead tired. Five."
No crowd.
No victory music.
Just a promise whispered into silence.
---
After splashing cold water on his face, Chinmay walked back into his room.
There it was.
On the floor.
The enemy.
A packet of chips. Bright. Shiny. Lying in wait.
He picked it up. The plastic crackled like temptation itself.
He didn't even realize he was salivating. His fingers itched to tear it open.
> "Just one. You've earned it."
The voice was back. Softer than before. Like a friend with a hand on his shoulder.
> "Come on. You already messed up last night. What's one more little sin?"
He stared at the packet.
His thumb slid under the seal.
Pulled.
Stopped.
A memory flickered — of his own reflection, eyes swollen from shame, sweat dripping down as he scribbled in his journal last night.
This wasn't hunger. It was escape.
And he wasn't escaping anymore.
He walked slowly to the dustbin.
Held the packet high.
The voice panicked — "Wait! Just think for a second—"
Thud.
It hit the bottom.
Silence.
No cheer.
But in his chest, something cracked — and then… settled.
---
Back at his desk, he flipped open his journal.
Wrote in sharp, angry letters:
> "Day after relapse.
5 pushups done.
Chips resisted.
I. Fucking. Won."
Then drew a flame beside it.
Big.
Violent.
Alive.
---
The voice returned.
Quieter now. Less confident.
> "You think this is strength? Five pushups and throwing away a snack?"
He didn't even look up.
Just leaned back in his chair and whispered:
> "No. I think this is war. And today, I fired the first shot."
And for the first time in a long time…
The voice didn't say a damn thing.
---
To be continued…
---