Chapter 8: The First Withdrawal
The high from the film screening lasted precisely until Liam's alarm blared at 1 a.m. for his warehouse shift. The laughter and the feeling of normalcy evaporated, replaced by a deep, bodily exhaustion that felt like a physical weight. The cheerful banter of his coworkers grated on him. The screech of the pallet jack was an assault. He was paying the price for those ninety minutes of respite, and the cost felt exorbitant.
This, he realized, was the true nature of the grind. It wasn't just the hard work; it was the relentless consistency it demanded. Any deviation, any moment of weakness, made the return to the routine feel ten times harder.
He dragged himself to his art history lecture later that morning, a hollowed-out shell. He slid into his usual seat in the back, his head pounding. Valentina was in her spot near the front. She turned, caught his eye, and gave him a small, warm smile. He managed a weak, tight-lipped smile in return before looking away, the guilt a sharp twist in his gut. That smile felt like a debt he couldn't afford.
After class, she waited for him by the door. "Hey," she said, falling into step beside him. "That was fun the other night. We should—"
"I can't," he interrupted, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He stopped walking, forcing himself to meet her concerned gaze. "Val, I... I appreciate it. The movie was... it was great. But I can't do that again."
Her smile faded, replaced by confusion. "Why not? Did I—"
"It's not you," he said quickly, running a hand through his hair. "It's this." He gestured vaguely at himself, at the air around him. "My schedule. My... life. I have a plan. A very specific, very demanding plan. I worked a full shift on four hours of sleep because of that movie. I can't afford that. Not now."
He saw the understanding dawn in her eyes, but it was mixed with a flicker of hurt. She was offering him a lifeline, and he was treating it like an anchor.
"Right," she said, her voice quieter. "The climb."
"The climb," he confirmed, the words tasting like ash.
She studied him for a long moment, her head tilted. "Liam, a climb isn't a sprint. You can't just stare at the peak the whole time. You'll burn out before you're halfway up. You have to stop and drink some water once in a while."
"That's a luxury I don't have," he said, the memory of the zero and his mother's weary voice a stark reminder. "Every second I'm not moving forward, I'm falling behind."
"That's not true," she said softly. "But I'm not going to argue with you." She shouldered her bag. "The offer stands. If you ever decide you need some water, you know where to find me."
She turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone in the bustling hallway. Her absence felt more profound than any silence they had shared. He had done it. He had successfully protected his focus, defended his precious, punishing schedule. He had pushed away the one distraction that threatened his ascent.
So why did it feel like his first real loss in months?