The universe had given me a second chance.
I wasn't about to waste it.
We were on holiday—no school, no pressure, no watchful eyes following my every move. To everyone else, it was just a break. To me, it was the perfect opportunity to begin again.
This time, I chose myself.
Every morning, I woke up before the sun rose. While the world slept peacefully, I stood alone in my room, staring at my reflection. My body was still the same—soft, heavy, familiar in all the ways that had once made me hate myself.
But I didn't look away anymore.
I put on my shoes and stepped outside, the cool air brushing against my skin. My first run barely lasted five minutes. My lungs burned. My legs trembled. Sweat soaked through my clothes, and tears stung my eyes—not just from exhaustion, but from the memories of every insult, every betrayal, every time I had been made to feel small.
I wanted to quit.
But then I remembered his voice.
You're just fat and ugly.
So I kept going.
Day after day, I exercised until my muscles screamed in protest. I jumped, stretched, ran, collapsed, and stood back up again. Some days I moved with anger, letting it fuel me. Other days I moved with quiet determination, reminding myself that this wasn't punishment—it was reclamation.
I changed how I ate too. Not to starve myself, not to disappear, but to grow stronger. I learned discipline. I learned patience. I learned that change didn't come overnight—it came in small victories.
One extra minute of running.
One less break.
One more push-up than yesterday.
There were nights I lay in bed aching, my entire body sore, wondering if any of this would truly matter. I was still fat. I still looked the same. No dramatic transformation greeted me in the mirror.
But something inside me was different.
I felt… alive.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't chasing someone else's approval. I wasn't trying to be loved. I was trying to survive—no, to thrive.
As the days passed, sweat washed away more than fat. It washed away self-hatred. It washed away helplessness. Each drop was proof that I was trying.
I clenched my fists one night, staring at my reflection again.
"This is only the beginning," I whispered.
The world thought Nam Ra was weak.
They were wrong.
I was just getting started.