It's strange how pain becomes familiar. Like a background noise you stop noticing until it's gone.
Today, when I dropped into my first set of push-ups, something felt... lighter.
Ten push-ups. No shaking.
Twelve. Still steady.
Fifteen. Burning, yes-but not collapsing.
Seventeen. Almost gave out. Eighteen. Done.
I collapsed onto the floor, my heart pounding. But I was smiling. Not a big, dramatic smile. Just the
small kind that says, "You've changed."
Then I stood in front of the mirror. Same face. Same messy hair. Same eyes. But for the first time-I didn't flinch.
No disgust. No shame. Just... acceptance.
My chest, when I touched it, wasn't soft anymore. Not like before. It felt a little... denser. Firmer.
Like
something was being built underneath all the softness.
And my legs?
They ached. Constantly.
If I stood-my thighs cried.
If I sat down-the stretch in my hamstrings felt like punishment.
Even turning sides on the bed had become a strategy game.
Walking to the toilet was war. Climbing stairs? Torture.
But when I flexed my legs in front of the mirror-thighs and calves turned into stone.
Visible. Real. Growth.
But I hadn't changed everything. Not even close.
I still ate trash.
Still scrolled endlessly at night.
Still slept at dawn.
Still avoided eggs, fish, and meat.
Some habits fight harder than others.
Then something changed again-this time outside of me.
My father came back.
He'd retired. Left the years of foreign labor behind. Returned to the house like a ghost of old
responsibilities.
He watched me one morning-shirt drenched in sweat, squatting slowly with a wince.
He didn't say anything. Just looked.
Later, my mother asked, "Why are you always exercising these days? Are you trying to lose
weight?"
I just nodded.
The next day, I remembered something.
Saitama.
Sung Jin-Woo.
They both ran. Ten kilometers. Every. Single. Day.
So I woke up earlier than usual. No sun yet. The sky was just turning from black to navy.
And I ran.
Out in the middle of the street. No people. No eyes.
I ran until my feet screamed.
I ran until my throat felt like sandpaper.
I ran until my sweat painted the roads.
It wasn't 10 kilometers. Maybe not even 3.
But when I dropped on the concrete, panting like a dog-unable to move, heart ready to burst-I felt
something new.
Not victory.
Not glory.
Just... freedom.
And in the white void, once again-the watcher appeared.
That chalk-like silhouette.
Still faceless. Still watching.
This time, his arms were behind his back. The glow from his chest was brighter.
"His muscles cry. His habits rot. Yet he moves."
A pause.
"He still stumbles through the dark... but the cracks are forming. The first dawn always hurts the
eyes."
He didn't stay long.
He never does.
Back on the streets, I turned my eyes to the sky.
It was bright now.
I didn't know what I was becoming.
But I knew what I wasn't anymore.
And that was enough to get me home-one aching step at a time.