MEANINGFUL FLASHBACKS
The afternoon sun hovered high, neither blazing nor forgiving.
It simply watched.
Kihoru's palms pressed into the concrete floor, fingers spread wide as if gripping the earth itself. Sweat slid down his temples, tracing slow paths along his cheeks before dripping onto the ground beneath him. Each drop felt heavy, like proof that his body was still fighting him.
"Ninety-four…"
His arms trembled—not violently, but persistently. The kind of shake that came when muscles were no longer fresh, yet not completely broken either.
"Ninety-five…"
His breathing was rough now. Each inhale scraped against his throat, dry and hot. Each exhale left his lips like steam escaping a cracked pipe.
"Ninety-six…"
The floor smelled faintly of dust and old cement. His nose caught it with every breath.
"Ninety-seven…"
Pain wasn't sharp anymore.
It had settled.
Deep.
Dull.
Constant.
"Ninety-eight…"
His shoulders burned. Not the dramatic burn people talked about—the cinematic kind—but the quiet burn that told him damage was happening slowly, patiently.
"Ninety-nine…"
His chest hovered just inches above the floor.
"One hundred."
He didn't drop.
He didn't celebrate.
He didn't even feel relief.
He just kept going.
The paper taped to the wall trembled as a soft breeze slipped in through the open window. It was old now—edges curled, corners darkened by sweat-stained fingers.
Training Schedule – Day 15
No quotes.
No encouragement.
Just instructions.
He remembered the first day he had seen that list.
It had scared him more than the exercises themselves.
Because it didn't care.
One hundred and five.
His arms bent slower now. Each push-up felt heavier than the last, like gravity itself was increasing with every repetition.
One hundred and ten.
His vision blurred slightly at the edges—not spinning, just narrowing, like his world was shrinking down to the space between the floor and his chest.
One hundred and fifteen.
His elbows screamed.
His wrists ached.
His fingers felt numb.
One hundred and twenty.
A thought crept in.
You can stop at one hundred and twenty-five.
He crushed it.
One hundred and twenty-three.
No one will know.
He ignored it.
One hundred and twenty-six.
You're already better than before.
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
Better wasn't enough.
One hundred and thirty.
The concrete felt colder now, almost mocking.
One hundred and thirty-three.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. It stung. He blinked repeatedly, but his hands stayed firm.
One hundred and thirty-six.
His breathing grew uneven. Shorter inhales. Forced exhales.
One hundred and thirty-nine.
His body shook violently now. Not subtle anymore. Every push-up looked ugly. Sloppy.
One hundred and forty.
That was when the voice came.
"Why don't you get tired?"
Kihoru didn't turn.
He knew that voice.
Alan stood near the doorway, arms folded loosely across his chest. His brown tracksuit clung lightly to his frame, showing signs of earlier sweat. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes missed nothing.
"You do this every day," Alan continued. "Same movements. Same pain."
One hundred and forty-two.
"Most people would've asked me to change it by now."
One hundred and forty-four.
"They'd say repetition kills motivation."
One hundred and forty-six.
Kihoru's elbows bent slowly now, almost reluctantly.
"One hundred and forty-eight…"
His chest trembled.
"One hundred and forty-nine…"
His body screamed.
"One hundred and fifty."
He stayed there.
Chest hovering.
Arms locked.
Teeth clenched.
Breathing erratic.
For a moment, he wondered if he would collapse face-first.
Then he let himself fall back, lying flat on the floor, staring at the cracked ceiling above him.
The world felt distant.
Muted.
His heart hammered wildly, each beat echoing in his ears.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
He waited until his breathing steadied—just enough.
Then, still staring upward, he spoke.
"Uncle…"
His voice came out rough, like it hadn't been used in a while.
"I read something."
Alan raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt.
"They say even great things become tiring," Kihoru continued slowly, "if you repeat them enough times."
He turned his head slightly, sweat soaking into his hair.
"But… the ones who don't get tired of repeating the same thing…"
He forced himself to sit up, back hunched, arms resting on his knees.
"They become disciplined."
His lips curved upward—not confidently, not proudly.
Just honestly.
"And discipline," he said softly, "is what makes them different from everyone else."
Silence filled the room.
Not awkward.
Not tense.
Heavy.
Alan straightened, his gaze resting on Kihoru's back—sweat-soaked, trembling, exhausted, but upright.
Inside his mind, something stirred.
A memory of younger men.
Stronger bodies.
Faster learners.
All of them talented.
All of them gone.
This one…
This one doesn't rely on talent.
A thought slipped through before he could stop it.
That's why destiny might have chosen you.
He swallowed it.
Kept it buried.
Outwardly, Alan allowed only a small smile to appear.
"Impressive answer," he said. "From such a small mouth."
Kihoru let out a weak laugh, shoulders shaking slightly.
Training ended without drama.
No applause.
No encouragement.
Just routine.
Kihoru dragged himself back to his room. His legs felt heavier than usual, muscles tight and uncooperative. Each step reminded him that strength wasn't arriving magically—it was being carved out slowly.
His room greeted him with familiar emptiness.
A narrow bed.
A small table.
Bare walls.
He picked up a pen and looked at the calendar.
Day 15.
He drew a bold cross over the date.
Then, below it, he wrote carefully:
Weight: 90 kg
He stared at the number longer than he expected.
Six months ago, it would've crushed him.
Now—it was information.
Nothing more.
The bath came next.
Cold.
As always.
The moment the water hit his skin, his breath hitched violently. His body reacted before his mind could stop it. Goosebumps erupted instantly.
His teeth clenched.
His shoulders tightened.
Every instinct screamed get out.
Life won't give you warm water everywhere, Alan's voice echoed in his mind.
So he stayed.
Letting the cold sink in.
Letting his body adapt.
When he finally stepped outside, wrapped in a thin towel, the sky stretched endlessly above him.
Pale blue.
Quiet.
He sat on the concrete stairs.
The warmth of the sun barely reached him.
For the first time all day, there was nothing to count.
No reps.
No lists.
Just thoughts.
Am I really changing?
His past self surfaced without permission.
A boy avoiding mirrors.
A boy shrinking when laughed at.
A boy who thought silence was safety.
Then there was now.
Still heavy.
Still imperfect.
But standing straighter.
Breathing deeper.
Thinking clearer.
The two versions overlapped inside him.
Confusion tightened his chest.
"What if I lose myself?" he wondered silently.
"What if I'm still weak?"
"Where are you lost?"
Alan sat beside him, same step, same level.
"I don't know," Kihoru admitted. "Sometimes I feel like I'm becoming someone else. And sometimes… like I'm lying to myself."
Alan looked at the sky.
"You're not becoming someone new," he said calmly. "You're shedding what you don't need."
Kihoru frowned slightly.
"The weak parts?" he asked.
Alan shook his head.
"The unnecessary ones."
He stood.
"Rest. Tomorrow starts early."
Kihoru nodded.
As Alan walked away, Kihoru leaned back, eyes closing.
His body hurt.
His mind was tired.
But for the first time—
He wasn't afraid of the path ahead.
And that was enough.
PRESENT TIME
The classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust and sweat.
It always did during the last period.
The chemistry teacher stood near the blackboard, explaining something about reaction rates, his voice steady but tired. He'd taught the same lesson countless times before. It showed in the way his chalk moved—confident, almost automatic.
Kihoru sat near the middle row, notebook open, pen moving at a controlled pace.
He wasn't rushing.
He wasn't trying to write everything.
Only what mattered.
He wrote headings first. Then short points. Arrows. Small diagrams. His handwriting wasn't beautiful, but it was clean—thought-out.
Once, chemistry had terrified him.
The symbols blurred together. Numbers overwhelmed him. He used to copy blindly, hoping understanding would somehow appear later.
Now, when the teacher spoke, Kihoru followed.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
He adjusted his glasses with two fingers and leaned slightly forward, listening as the teacher explained why increasing temperature sped up reactions.
Around him, the class had already mentally left.
Someone two benches away tapped their foot repeatedly, impatience obvious.
At the back, quiet whispers rose and fell, followed by stifled laughter.
A girl near the window stared outside, sunlight reflecting in her eyes.
Kihoru noticed all of it.
Not because he was trying to.
Because his mind was calm enough to register things now.
When the bell rang, sharp and sudden, the room reacted instantly.
Chairs scraped loudly.
Bags unzipped.
The quiet discipline of the lesson shattered into noise.
Kihoru finished the last line of his notes before closing his notebook.
He didn't stand immediately.
He sat there for a moment, pen resting in his fingers, looking at the classroom as if seeing it properly for the first time.
This place had once felt suffocating.
Every desk a reminder.
Every laugh a threat.
Now—it felt… smaller.
Not harmless.
Just smaller.
He stood and began packing his bag slowly.
Notebook in first.
Textbook next.
Pen case zipped carefully.
He noticed the marks on his desk again—scratched jokes, old carvings, names that didn't matter anymore.
One line stood out.
Pig.
He stared at it for a second.
No anger rose.
No shame.
Just a quiet acknowledgment.
That was me.
He adjusted the strap of his bag and walked out of the classroom.
The corridor was loud.
Students pushed past each other, voices overlapping. Someone bumped into his shoulder lightly and muttered a quick sorry before moving on.
Kihoru didn't react.
He walked straight.
Head up.
Not challenging.
Not hiding.
Outside the building, the sun was lower now, painting everything in a soft orange glow. The school gates stood open, students pouring out in groups.
Laughing.
Complaining.
Planning.
Kihoru walked alone.
He didn't feel lonely.
Just… singular.
As he stepped past the gate, a strange heaviness settled in his chest.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Someone was watching him.
Rithvik
Rithvik tugged his tie loose roughly, irritation crawling under his skin.
The classroom felt cramped. Too many people. Too much noise. Too little space to breathe.
He tossed his notebook into his bag without caring how it landed.
His friends were talking—something stupid, something loud—but he barely heard them.
All he could think about was that name.
Kihoru.
It shouldn't have mattered.
It really shouldn't have.
But it did.
Because people didn't come back.
Not after disappearing like that.
Not after running away.
And definitely not after being his punching bag.
Rithvik stood abruptly, chair screeching backward. A few heads turned instinctively.
He liked that.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked out, taking the long route without thinking.
Past the sports room.
Past the side corridor.
Toward the back gate.
The air felt different there—quieter, heavier.
His jaw tightened as his thoughts spiraled.
He sat there. Like nothing happened.
Like I never existed.
That hurt more than it should've.
Anger bubbled up—not loud, not explosive. Focused.
Cold.
"I'll remind him," Rithvik muttered under his breath.
Face to Face
Kihoru stepped onto the road outside the school.
The sound of traffic hummed softly in the distance.
He took one step forward—
Then stopped.
Someone stood in front of him.
Blocking his path.
Rithvik.
Hands in pockets.
Shoulders relaxed.
A familiar smirk on his face.
For a second, neither spoke.
Wind stirred dust near their feet.
Students passed behind them, too busy to notice the tension thickening in the air.
Rithvik's eyes moved over Kihoru slowly.
Not impressed.
Not dismissive.
Evaluating.
"…You changed," Rithvik said finally.
Kihoru didn't respond.
That silence was new.
It bothered Rithvik more than insults ever had.
"But you're still you, right?" Rithvik added lightly. "Still quiet. Still pretending you're not scared."
Kihoru met his eyes.
Steady.
Calm.
Rithvik felt it then—a small, unpleasant twist in his stomach.
"So?" Rithvik stepped closer. "Back for more?"
Kihoru's voice was low when he spoke.
"Move."
Just one word.
Not loud.
Not threatening.
But it landed.
Rithvik laughed, though it came out sharper than he intended.
"Wow," he said. "You learned one word."
Kihoru shifted his bag slightly on his shoulder.
He didn't clench his fists.
Didn't tense.
He just stood there.
Waiting.
Two boys.
Two histories.
Standing inches apart.
The street noise faded.
Something was about to break.
And both of them knew it.