The 5:30 am alarm was a merciless, piercing shriek in the pre-dawn silence, but it was a sound I didn't need.
I was already awake, had been for most of the night, my mind a relentless carousel of hopes and fears, replaying every possible outcome of the day ahead.
The nervous energy was a physical thing, a low, persistent hum beneath my skin that made sleep impossible and stillness a form of torture. I went through the motions of the morning ritual, pulling on my running gear, the familiar fabric a strange comfort against my agitated skin, and headed out into the quiet London streets.
But the run was a failure before it even began. My legs felt like lead, my lungs burned with a fatigue that wasn't physical, and every footstep on the cold pavement seemed to echo the question that was consuming me: what if I'd failed them?
