The clock hit 9 p.m.
Aren lowered his hood and slid his membership card across the counter. His eyes stayed on his phone, scrolling through playlists — the screen's glow barely catching in his half-lidded eyes.
"You're a bit late," someone said from behind the counter, swiping his card.
Aren looked up, meeting the man's gaze for only a moment.
"Uh, yeah." He looked away, clearing his throat. His voice came out rough, uneven. "Overtime."
Not exactly. He'd spent an hour debating whether to lift at all. But in the end, he came.
The gym was quiet, save for the clink of metal and the low groans of people finishing their workouts. Nice and quiet. No eyes, no conversation — just metal.
Heat still lingered in the air, a leftover from the rush hour crowd. The steady hum of fans filled the silence. Fans, yes. Air conditioning is for sissies.
Aren took his card and locker key from the counter and walked to the lockers. His steps felt heavy. He thought about turning back, but habit kept him moving.
Earbuds in. Hood over his head. Towel over his shoulder. Playlist queued. Two-liter bottle in hand.
He dropped his things by the dumbbell rack and started to stretch.
Every breath carried the taste of metal and dust. The world felt smaller here — just Aren, the weights, and the sound of his pulse between each exhale.
He reached for 15kg dumbbells. Feeling the familiar weight, he started curling. Just a quick set of 10 to remind his biceps of the weight they'd been lifting for years.
Aren set the dumbbells back on the rack. As he wiped his face with his towel, he noticed a guy reaching for the same pair. His face was hidden behind his hood.
The guy's fingers brushed the handle — then stopped. He hesitated, and instead grabbed the 20kg dumbbells beside them.
Aren's brow twitched as the guy started curling.
He brushed it off and set a forty-five–degree incline on the bench as the guy racked his dumbbells.
Aren reached for the twenties — then hesitated. A quick glance to the side. He grabbed the twenty-fives instead.
He sat on the bench and lifted, slow and deliberate, feeling the burn settle deep in his chest.
Beside him, the guy sat in silence. His eyes flicked toward Aren for a moment — just enough. Then he adjusted his own bench to an incline.
8... 9... 10.
With a sharp exhale, Aren sat up and set the dumbbells on the floor. He caught his breath, towel draped over his shoulders. Then he noticed the guy beside him — sitting on his bench, twenty-fives in hand.
8... 9... 10.
The guy paused, arms trembling slightly. The weights hovered mid-air for a heartbeat. Aren's gaze lingered, then he rested his forearms on his thighs.
Then — a sharp inhale.
Aren's head turned. The guy lowered his weights again.
11...
The dumbbells moved with a strained grunt.
12.
A sharp exhale — and—
Thud. The weights hit the ground.
Aren stared. The sound echoed longer than it should have.
Show-off.
He looked away, pretending to check his phone, but his eyes flicked back — once, twice — just to be sure. The guy was rolling his shoulders, breathing steady, expression blank.
Not a word. Not a nod. Just calm. Like Aren hadn't even been there.
Something in his chest twisted. Not anger. Not yet.
But close.
He stood, grabbed the towel from his shoulders, and wiped his face. His reflection in the mirror stared back — jaw clenched, brows drawn.
Without thinking, he reached for heavier weights.
***
Aren stepped out of the restroom, rolling his shoulders as he turned toward his favorite bench press. He wondered if he should go till failure tonight.
Then he froze.
His bench was taken.
This guy…
He was lifting the same weight Aren had lifted. Two plates on each side.
Same stance. Same slow exhale. Even the same quiet intensity — like he was mimicking him. Aren watched, jaw tight. It wasn't admiration. It wasn't coincidence. It was intrusion. Every motion felt like an echo in his space — his rhythm, his ritual — now performed by a stranger who didn't belong.
Aren watched as the bar moved — steady, precise. Reluctantly, he walked to the bench beside his favorite.
CLANG!
The sound split the quiet. The guy lay there for a moment, gasping for air. Aren could faintly hear the music leaking from his headphones.
Is this guy deaf?
He turned away, jaw tightening, and loaded a plate. Warm-up as usual — one set of ten.
Clang.
The bar hit the rack.
Aren felt the burn as he steadied his breathing. Something about it filled the hollow space inside him.
He stood, added another plate. 225. A hundred kilos.
Now the workout starts.
8... 9... 10.
Clang.
He gasped for air, wiping his face with a towel. Then—
Clink.
Huh?
Aren glanced over, eyes narrowing.
This guy...
He'd just added a five-pound plate.
The audacity.
Aren stared for a moment. Then their eyes met. The guy didn't smile. Didn't nod. He just lifted his chin.
Aren froze as the guy lifted his weights.
6...
His form was near perfect.
7...
His hands trembled — he was pushing himself.
8...
CLANG!
The bar hit the rack. The guy lay there for a moment, chest heaving. Then, slowly, he turned his head.
Their eyes met.
Neither moved. Neither blinked. Just two mirrors of exhaustion — and something deeper underneath.
Then the guy sat up, grabbed his towel, and walked off toward the locker room. No words. No glance back.
Aren sat there, unmoving. Something inside him ignited — slow, molten, alive. The kind of fire that didn't burn out. His fingers curled into a fist.
This guy.
He stood and added a pair of five-pound plates.
As the guy returned to his bench—
Clink.
Aren lifted the bar.
The guy stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing.
6...
The weight pressed down harder with each rep.
7...
Aren's arms began to slow, muscles trembling.
8...
He paused. He should rack it.
No. One more.
He inhaled sharply and lowered the bar to his chest. Near his bench, the guy watched — eyes widening. The bar touched down. The weight felt suffocating.
But Aren pushed.
With every ounce of strength. With every fragment of will. He pushed.
The bar moved. Slow. Almost too slow. Then it stopped. Midway. Every muscle screamed, begging him to stop. The air thickened. Even the gym seemed to hold its breath.
He could call for a spot. He should. But the fire in his chest refused.
He pushed.
He pushed like nothing else existed — like this single rep was existence. The bar trembled, inching upward. Then, with a sharp grunt—
CLANG!
Metal struck metal.
Aren gasped for air, vision blurring, head spinning. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his heartbeat — and the faint echo of footsteps behind him.
He didn't turn — didn't have to. He could feel the stare on his back.
Silence.
Then — a short exhale. Not quite a sigh. More like a laugh through the nose.
The guy stepped forward, grabbed his towel, and without a word, added another pair of fives to his bar.
Clink.
Aren's head tilted slightly, just enough to see him through the corner of his eye. The guy lay back on the bench. No hesitation. No warm-up. The bar lifted.
One rep. Two.
Aren's fingers curled into fists.
Three… Four…
The guy's arms shook — veins straining.
Five.
CLANG!
The bar hit the rack.
He sat up slowly, chest rising, and for a moment, their eyes met again. No words. No smiles. Just a quiet, burning challenge. Then the guy stood, slung his towel over his shoulder, and walked away — leaving only the faint smell of sweat and iron.
Aren stared at the ceiling, the thud of his heartbeat louder than the gym's hum. His arms still shook. His lungs burned.
He could've let it go. He should've.
But that look — that look.
Like he was being measured. Like the guy had already decided something about him.
Aren clenched his jaw. His knuckles whitened.
It wasn't about the weights anymore. It wasn't even about the workout.
It was about that unspoken dare. That silent I can do better.
He didn't even know his name, but the fire in his chest wouldn't die. It spread — slow and bitter, like acid.
Alright, then. If that's how it is...
Let's see how long you can keep up.
***
Aren walked toward his house in silence, the plastic bag in his hand rustling with every step—a small, fragile sound filling the quiet of his defeat.
Fuck. Is it because I did the extra reps?
His brows furrowed as he slotted the key, twisting it until the lock clicked. He pushed the door open — cold air and darkness spilling out to meet him.
He stepped inside.
"Mom, I'm home."
No answer. Only the same silence that always waited for him.
He flicked the lights on. Its white glow filled the narrow hallway, empty shoes lined neatly against the wall — untouched since last week.
He exhaled, a faint shake in his breath, and bent down to untie his shoes.
The adrenaline from the gym was still in his veins, burning with nowhere to go. He could still feel that guy's stare, replaying it in the back of his mind like an echo he couldn't shut off.
The entrance light clicked off as he stepped deeper inside. Aren flicked on the living room light. The glow spread across a small, lived-in mess — dishes piled in the sink, dust clinging to the floor, the trash bin overflowing.
He dropped his bag onto the couch and turned toward the lone portrait on the table. A faint layer of dust covered the frame. His eyes narrowed.
With a sigh, he grabbed a cloth and cleaner, wiping the glass in slow, careful motions. His hands still trembled.
The glass caught the light — two faces reflected back at him.
One young, smiling. One older, proud.
When he set the portrait down, silence pressed in again. Aren sat across from it, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the photo.
"Mom," he murmured, voice low, almost sheepish. "I met a guy at the gym tonight." He paused, lips curling into a faint, bitter smile. "I think I hate his guts."
For a moment he sat, not expecting any answer. Of course. It's only a portrait after all. Just a moment frozen in time. A memory that refused to be forgotten.
***
Aren stepped out of the shower, still shivering. Hot showers weren't something he could afford every day anymore. They'd become a quiet kind of luxury.
He padded to the kitchen, pulled the store-bought curry from the plastic bag, and set it in the microwave. He stood there, waiting, arms folded, forehead resting lightly against the cabinet.
The microwave hummed. A slow, tired sound.
From the sink, a steady drip tapped against the pile of unwashed plates —a soft, hollow rhythm that filled the silence of the house far too easily.
Knives lined up on the magnetic mount above the counter. His mother's knives. Some of them older than Aren, their edges worn thin from years of chopping onions, slicing chilies, cutting fruit for him when he was small.
They hadn't been touched in days. Sometimes weeks. They just hung there now — silent, dull, and waiting — like everything else she left behind.
When the microwave beeped, he opened the door and pulled the container out. Steam drifted upward, curling weakly. The smell of curry filled his senses — bold, warm, familiar.
He reached for the chili powder. Level 50 glared up at him from the label.
Sitting down, he shook the container without thinking. A red rain dusted the plate — too much, way too much — but he didn't bother stopping.
He scooped a spoonful, lifted it to his mouth, and took a bite.
Hot. Spicy. It should've burned.
But instead—
"…It's cold."