He woke up before the alarm.
Not with a start, not with the dragging groan of a tired boy—he just opened his eyes. For a second, there was stillness. Then the breath came. Steady. Deep.
The bedsheet rustled as he got up.
His body was sore in the right places. Not the kind of pain that made you wince—the kind that told you something had been worked. Used. Like an instrument tuned a little tighter.
No thoughts yet. Just motion.
He dropped to the floor. The coldness of the tiles bit into his palms.
"One… two.."
By five, his arms trembled. By seven, they burned. But he kept going. Fast, sharp, clean pushups. No fluff. No hesitation.
The voice in his head tried to slip in: "Maybe just stop at seven today, this is alrea...—"
"Nine, Ten."
The counting was the reply.
When he finally stopped, his chest heaved but his mind was clear. Not a warzone of justifications. Not a fog of half-decisions. Clear.
He splashed water on his face. Cold. Instant clarity. The mirror showed the same face—but it wasn't quite the same.
He looked into his own eyes. Not seeking approval. Just checking in.
"Move," he said to himself.
At breakfast, no one said much. And he didn't wait for them to. He ate quickly—no phone, no distractions. Just the food. The fuel.
His bag was already packed. Books arranged with care. Notebook aligned perfectly with pens, highlighters clipped into the spiral.
He left before anyone else had finished their chai.
The streets were noisy, but something in him wasn't reacting. He wasn't ignoring it—he was just moving through it. Like water through clutter. Unbothered.
Outside the tuition center, a group of boys were laughing over something. One of them—Sameer, the loud one who always had a comeback—glanced at him, then back at his group.
No reaction.
He walked straight in, took his seat. Second row from the front, left-hand side, window open. His usual place. But this time, he didn't lean back or stare out of the window.
He opened his notebook.
The ink from last night's notes gleamed faintly. Today, the lines would continue. Page by page. Day by day.
The class started. The teacher walked in, speaking quickly. Heat Transfer.
He didn't look up. Just followed. Wrote. Underlined. Circled. Solved.
During break, he stood near the window. Alone. Looking out.
No one approached. And he didn't mind.
There was a strange sort of warmth in that solitude. Like the heat inside a kiln—not flashy, but intense. Controlled.
"I don't need to be seen loud," he wrote later in his journal. "But I do need to see myself move clearly."
At home, the pattern held.
He placed his shoes neatly. Opened the book. Sat down. Wrote.
Even when the fan turned off in a power cut, he didn't stop. Sweat rolled down his temple. He wiped it off and continued.
No theatrics. No music swelling in the background. Just motion.
The kind of motion that doesn't need to be rewarded.
Because motion was becoming muscle.
Because this was no longer about waiting to become someone.
This was someone.
And he was already here.