Chinmay sat back in the chair, staring at the words he had just written.
"Today, I fought back."
They looked small on the page.
But inside him, they echoed louder than anything had in a long time.
He closed the journal softly and looked around the room.
It was the same cluttered, slightly dusty room — nothing had magically changed.
No trumpets blared. No spotlight fell on him.
But something had shifted.
He didn't want to waste it.
His phone was still lying there — silent, untouched.
For the first time in what felt like years, he had woken up without diving headfirst into endless web novel chapters.
His hands itched. His mind screamed. Every second, an excuse tried to pull him back.
> "Maybe just a few chapters. Who would even know? It won't ruin everything..."
But no — he clenched his fists. Not today.
---
It felt strange, this silence around him.
No flashing screens, no buzzing notifications, no portals to fake worlds where he was the hero without moving a muscle.
He wasn't the hero yet.
Right now, he was just a scared, confused teenager in a crumpled T-shirt, a body he hated, and dreams he was too scared to even admit out loud.
A lump rose in his throat.
The urge to give up whispered to him like an old friend. It was so easy... so comforting to sink back into the fantasy.
But then he remembered,
The mirror.
The ugly, painful honesty of it.
The boy staring back at him, daring him to not look away.
---
Chinmay swallowed hard and stood up.
His body felt heavy, every step towards the bathroom door like dragging a mountain.
But he moved.
He brushed his teeth. Washed his face.
He stared into the mirror again.
Same face.
Same acne.
Same hollow eyes.
But something... something small had changed.
He had fought back today.
Maybe it was just one tiny battle —
Maybe nobody else would even notice —
But he knew.
And that made it real.
---
He came back to his room, opened his cupboard, and pulled out an old T-shirt and track pants.
They smelled slightly musty from disuse.
He shrugged.
No more perfect starts.
No more waiting for "the right mood."
He slipped into the clothes and looked around.
> "Where do I even start?"
The thought hit him hard.
His muscles were weak, his stamina nonexistent, and his confidence lower than the floor.
He had no gym membership.
No trainer.
No fancy shoes.
No Instagram-worthy "Day 1" picture.
All he had...
was this decision.
Chinmay dropped to the ground and pushed himself into a clumsy, shaking push-up.
His arms trembled.
He barely got halfway before collapsing face-first onto the cold floor.
The pain shot through his chest and shoulders.
His lungs burned.
Pathetic.
He wanted to cry.
But instead...
he laughed.
A small, broken laugh.
Because for the first time, the pain he felt wasn't from running away.
It was from trying.
---
One push-up.
One breathless, miserable, ugly push-up.
But it was real.
It was his.
He lay there, catching his breath, a stupid grin spreading across his face.
The voice in his head, the one that always told him he couldn't, was still there —
but quieter somehow.
He got up, brushed the dust off his pants, and whispered under his breath,
> "Not perfect... but better."
And just like that, without fanfare, without applause,
Day 1 had truly begun.
---
(To be continued...)
---