"You promised to change. But change doesn't care about promises-it only responds to effort."
A whisper from the white void.
I didn't become someone else overnight. The day after I made that decision I was still me.
Same room. Same suffocating heat of July. Same crusty mirror with toothpaste stains. Same baggy shirt that I'd worn for the seventh day straight.I still looked the same.
But something deep inside me felt... different. Not stronger. Not braver. Just more done. Done with the excuses. Done with feeling pathetic.
Before breakfast, I got down on the floor.
No warm-up. No prep. Just me, gravity, and all the shame I carried like dead weight.
1 push-up. My elbows flared. My body shook. It was ugly.
5. The sweat started rolling.
10. Chest on fire. Arms wobbling like jelly.
15. Collapse.
couldn't breathe. My chest felt like it was tearing open. My arms refused to push me back up. My face pressed against the dusty floor, and I just stayed there panting.
But I got back up.pressed against the dusty floor, and I just stayed there panting.
I had to. Because I said I would. And no one was coming to save me.
I moved straight into 33 squats. No breaks. No half-sets.
By the 10th rep, my thighs screamed. By the 20th, my head spun.
Still, I kept going.
Then the sit-ups-each one a grind, my spine awkwardly rolling on the hard floor, my stomach muscles barely even firing.
I wasn't doing it for gains. I wasn't doing it for six-packs. I was doing it so I wouldn't hate myself every time I walked past a mirror.
In a white endless void A silent observer watched.
A tall figure, faceless, glowing faintly like chalk under moonlight.
His form lacked detail, like someone unfinished. A white silhouette-looming and still.
He stared at the boy.
"He doesn't know anything about form," the silhouette murmured.
The boy's body trembled with every squat. His back arched. Sweat soaked through his collar.
"He doesn't understand rest, nutrition, sleep. No plan. No knowledge. No guidance."
A long pause.
"But he is moving."
After the morning workout, I went to the kitchen.
Leftovers again. Just rice and some bitter curry with a few floating lentils. No protein. No meat. No egg. Not that I wanted any of that.
I hated meat. Always thought people who loved meat were like animals. Fish? The smell alone made me nauseous. Eggs?
Made my stomach churn. At least, that's what I believed. In truth, it was because they were always fried in too much oil and too many chilies by someone who didn't care what I liked.
So I filled my plate with more rice. That was comfort.
The only "veggies" I touched were the soggy ones drowning in oil. My tongue was too used to sweet things,anyway. I'd sneak in sugar when no one was watching. A spoon here, a spoon there. Sometimes I'd even ea traw biscuits, chips, or whatever junk was lying around.
I didn't even drink water unless I was absolutely dying of thirst.
I trained again before lunch. Same 33 reps. Same struggle.
My shirt clung to my skin like it was glued on. My legs refused to stand after the squats.
No fan. No AC. Just heat. July heat. The kind that feels personal.
But I kept going.
And yet, I slept at 5 a.m. that night.
Not out of insomnia-but out of addiction. My phone was my escape. I scrolled until my eyes ached, the screen burning into my retinas.
It was always the same loop: YouTube, anime clips, gaming videos, motivational edits.
Ironically, I watched people doing what I wasn't doing-living.
I had a tutor class at 12 p.m. The private tutor came at 11 a.m. And still, I slept past sunrise. Woke up with eye bags, greasy skin, and a half-dead mind.
No skincare. No stretching. No protein.
Just more pain.
In the void, the silhouette stood still.
He observed the boy collapsing onto his bed after training, his shirt soaked, arms sore, back twisted in discomfort.
"A boy built on bad habits... yet choosing discipline."
A flicker of light moved within the silhouette's chest.
"The world will never see these early days."
"But they will remember what he becomes."
And with that thought, the figure turned-vanishing into the white, like smoke in sunlight.
That night, I stared at the ceiling.
My body ached. My stomach rumbled. My mind echoed with thoughts I didn't want to hear.
I remembered all the times I avoided gym class. All the times I pretended to be sick just to skip it. All the times I stood with my back to the wall during sports, pretending I was above it.
And I remembered that one day in class...
I bent over to tie my shoes, and my shirt rode up.
One of the boys saw my stomach. He leaned over and whispered with a smirk loud enough for others to hear:
"Yo, is he pregnant?"
The class burst into laughter.
And me?
I laughed too. That fake kind of laugh you give to hide the fact your soul just cracked.
That memory never left. It buried itself in my skin like glass. Quiet. Invisible. Always bleeding.
I wasn't doing this to impress anyone.
I wasn't even doing it to become strong yet.
I was doing it because I couldn't keep living like I didn't matter.
Maybe I didn't have a perfect diet.
Maybe I didn't sleep on time.
Maybe my form was trash.
Maybe I still hated the skin I was in.
But I was moving.
And tomorrow
I'd do it again.