After an afternoon filled with laughter, banter, and shared moments, the stream drew to a close, and I reluctantly bid these watchers goodbye. Their fond farewells lingered in the chat, a mix of sad emojis and heartfelt messages scrolling by as I shut down the streaming software. Yet, as I descended the stairs, the residual buzz of the stream's energy slowly ebbed away, leaving behind a sense of quietude in its wake. My thoughts, which had been consumed by the entertaining interaction moments ago, now drifted to mundane matters like dinner. It was then, upon entering the kitchen, that the sight of a lone salad in the fridge triggered a sudden revelation.
"Dad's confusion earlier..” I mused aloud, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fit together in my mind. The impracticality of reheating a salad dawned on me—a culinary faux pas that would render the leafy greens limp and unappetizing. My suspicions solidified as I surveyed the meager contents of the container, its portion so small that its caloric value seemed negligible. In an instinctive gesture, I reached for the salad, gathering it delicately with practiced care. Alongside it, I retrieved the necessary utensils and a neatly folded napkin—a ritual borne out of years of ingrained manners. As I settled at the table, the coldness of the dish didn't deter my gratitude for the simple sustenance it provided.
The ambiance signaled the onset of fall, casting an early dusk hue that cloaked the surroundings in a premature evening glow. A glance at the time revealed the encroaching darkness, an oddity at such an early hour of three. The urgency to reclaim lost vigor and agility loomed within, prompting a quest for the most effective means to achieve it—a quest for power and speed. Resistance bands and a bag is what I need. Shadow boxing took root in my mind, a substitute if the elusive bag remained out of reach. The concept crystallized—punching with enough force to challenge a band resisting twenty pounds would be the litmus test for readiness.
Before stepping out, a cursory check of my wallet revealed a modest sum of thirty dollars. Sufficient, perhaps, for the task at hand. With a gentle creak, the door opened, and a quiet declaration slipped past my lips, "I'm off." Unexpectedly, my sister's voice echoed from the far end of the hallway, "Off to where?" Caught off guard by her sudden presence, I blinked. "What? You heard that?" I queried, perplexed by her concern.
"It's dangerous," she replied, her tone betraying a protective instinct, "I'll come with you." The implication struck a dissonant chord within me. "Dangerous? Are women just like that?" I questioned, a mix of incredulity and resignation coloring my words. Her swift response came as she grabbed her purse, "It's not about that. You're sought after. If you weren't as appealing, nobody would bat an eye."
A wave of discomfort washed over me at the implication. As we began our descent down the staircase, I attempted to divert her attention. "We're heading to Big 5. I need to get resistance bands.” I informed her. "Okay..” she responded hesitantly, "Are you going to do yoga?" I hesitated before crafting a response. "Yeah, in my room.” I replied, choosing to sidestep the real intention behind the equipment. A scoff escaped her lips. "Yeah, thought so."
Navigating the familiar streets of the city felt like retracing steps through a time-frozen tableau, a scene unaltered despite the passing days. The same array of restaurants, stores, and storefronts remained in their well-practiced positions, mirroring the unchanging rhythm of the city's heartbeat. Amidst this unchanged landscape, a question lingered, tugging at the edges of anticipation—would anything beyond our designated roles shift in this static existence? A gentle ping from my phone interrupted the musings, drawing my attention to the screen. Ah, Amaru. Swiftly, I endeavored to add her as a contact—a quick association of her name with an image of a cheerful giraffe and the tag "Amaru” a concoction to avoid any unintentional misinterpretation.
Reading her message, a flicker of uncertainty danced across my thoughts. "Hey Michael, hopefully this is ur phone lol. Wanna go to a restaurant in two days, my treat." Did I want to accept the invitation? Would it be misconstrued in unintended ways? A part of me yearned to decline, but another voice chimed in—a gentle acknowledgment of her appeal. Going on a date with someone is masculine, what am I thinking? Yet, there lingered a more pressing mission in my subconscious, one that I couldn't afford to fail.
A response formulated with deliberate force. "Yeah, it is my phone lol. Sure, but we'll split the bill fifty-fifty. What time?" With the task at hand momentarily settled, I powered down the phone, muting the notifications. The decision made, I redirected my focus, leaving the query hanging in the digital realm for a later pondering.
Engrossed in my phone, I continued traversing the bustling street, the screen holding my attention captive. Suddenly, an unexpected collision jolted me from my digital reverie. A figure tumbled, landing on her knees with a startled yelp. My gaze swiftly shifted from the screen to the unexpected scene—a beautiful blonde woman, slightly shorter than me, now kneeling before me.
"Sorry, I'm sorry. That wasn't intentional. Are you alright? Need a hand?" I apologized, extending my hand toward her. Her gaze lingered on my hand for a fleeting moment, an uncertain pause making me uncomfortable. Before I could register her response, my sister intervened, guiding me aside and extending her help to the fallen woman.
A flicker of confusion mingled with my concern. Was my offer considered inappropriate or misconstrued as flirtatious? Attempting to regain my footing, I addressed my sister, seeking clarification. "That seemed a bit abrupt. Why did you push me away?" My inquiry fell upon her, but she avoided meeting my gaze, her countenance etched with a haunting sense of apprehension. "You'll thank me later." she replied tersely. Casting a hesitant glance backward, I scanned the street, but the blonde woman had vanished into the ebb of the crowd. Despite the novelty of this so-called 'new' sister, an inexplicable trust resonated within me—a certainty in her sincerity. The raw terror etched across her features was a genuine emotion impossible to feign.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Stepping into the store, my stride purposeful and direct, I made a beeline for the physical training section—an area I navigated with a sense of familiarity and ease. The layout of all Big 5 outlets held a familiar pattern, each housing a dedicated place for gloves, focus mitts, and other fitness essentials. The sight of the neatly arranged resistance bands drew my attention, their various colors and levels of resistance laid out before me.
As I contemplated the options, my sister soon caught up, her presence hovering by my side. Her hand reached for a pink resistance band, its resistance level indicated a mere four pounds. I hesitated, my hand briefly touching the band before retracting. "No, I need something with more resistance." I muttered, almost to myself. "Why?" she queried, a note of skepticism lacing her words. "Yoga doesn't typically require that much resistance, especially for a man."
A surge of realization flooded my mind in an instant. Her statement highlighted the frailty of my hastily constructed façade. Panic simmered beneath the surface. The story I'd woven around my intended use for the equipment threatened to unravel under the scrutiny of even the briefest consideration. Meeting her gaze with a serious expression, I attempted to mask the turmoil within. "Could you allow me to purchase the one I prefer, please, sister?" The title felt foreign on my tongue, an oddity in our usual interactions.
Her reaction was unexpected. A flicker of surprise flashed across her features before she diverted her gaze, a subtle discomfort settling in. "Sure, Michael." she murmured, her tone softened. "Why are you calling me sister, by the way? You always call me Aya." she pointed out, a touch of confusion evident in her voice. Swiftly seizing a blue resistance band with a weight closer to twenty pounds, I held it up, seeking her approval. "Can I have this one, Aya?" I inquired, hoping the use of her preferred name might appease her. Her response came as she delved into her wallet, fingers deftly shuffling through its contents. "Yeah.” she relented, the tension seemingly diffused as she complied with my request.
Approaching the counter, my sister and I completed the purchase of the resistance band. The clerk, misinterpreting the situation, assumed it was intended for my sister. Without missing a beat, she played along, seamlessly easing any potential awkwardness. Her quick wit and willingness to shield me from an uncomfortable exchange didn't go unnoticed—I silently appreciated her gesture. The journey homeward passed uneventfully, the store's exit greeted us with the cloak of nightfall. As darkness enveloped the streets, Aya ensured our proximity, subtly guiding me home. Upon arriving, I glanced at the clock, its hands ticking away the minutes to reveal the time: four fifteen. An ample window of training time awaited me, a chance to regain strength and focus. "I'm heading upstairs to start the Yoga now, haha.” I informed Aya, the pretense of my training regimen on my mind. "Enjoy, Michael. If you need to go anywhere else, I'll accompany you.” she reassured me, her kindness a constant in both realms, real and imagined. "Thanks.” I acknowledged as I ascended the stairs, the weight of the resistance band tucked under my arm.
As I settled on my bed, unwrapping the package, I examined the resistance band. Its thickness hinted at the challenge it held within. Attempting to stretch it proved unexpectedly difficult—the switch had sapped my strength more than I expected. Eager to gauge the velocity of my punch, I unleashed an admittedly slow right straight, channeling every ounce of power and speed into the movement. Mentally noting my performance, I sought to benchmark my current level.
With precision, I secured the resistance band around my wrists, its tautness extending across my back. The repetitive motion began—a relentless assault of punches, each strike a measured attack. As an MMA fighter, I'm committed to preserving the flawless form I'd honed over years of practice. Speed and power might fluctuate, but compromising on form was a line I refused to cross.
Initially, my punches felt sluggish, each one a struggle to execute. Yet, I persisted, dedicated to the incremental improvement I knew lay ahead. Hour after hour, with unyielding will, my strikes gained efficacy, a testament to the power of persistence.
I relished the quantifiable aspect of my training—the ability to measure and track my progress. Reflecting on my initial rating before the training commenced, a mere six, I found myself at a staggering fifty before the transition. Despite the resistance band's limited impact on immediate improvement in punch velocity, I understood the significance of perseverance and the incremental gains amassed over time. Improvement wasn't solely about drastic leaps but rather the cumulative effect of persistent effort.
My teacher told me once, that pushing boundaries and consistent effort, regardless of initial setbacks, will show you growth; this fact remains a universal truth.
After a grueling two-hour session, my body glistened with perspiration, my muscles fatigued, and my head pounding, threatening to spiral into concussion territory. The world around me wavered, my vision hazy, yet amidst the disarray, a flicker of change surged through me.
Summoning what remained of my strength, I assumed a proper stance, determination surging within. With a swift motion, I propelled a right straight punch forward. A surge of realization washed over me—it was faster! Perhaps an eight, or more conservatively, a seven on the scale I'd set for myself. Progress, albeit modest, a glimpse of hope in a vast landscape of arduous effort. If I committed to this relentless routine for a month, perhaps I could inch my way back to something resembling half of my previous strength. The prospect ignited a spark of optimism within—an ember of hope that whispered of a chance, however slight.
Fatigue, however, clutched at my bones, threatening to pull me into its dark embrace. My energy reserves dwindled rapidly, and with an abruptness that shocked even me, I collapsed onto the ground, the impact reverberating in the room with a resounding thud. As the world faded into a blurred haze, a distant presence entered the room. My father's voice echoed in the space, his words a mere murmur to my overwhelmed senses. With a cruel swiftness, consciousness abandoned me, ushering me into the solace of unconsciousness, the trials of the exhaustive training session claiming their due toll.