Rohan Singh sat alone in the dark, the only light coming from the dim glow of the streetlamps outside his window. The curtains were drawn, casting long shadows across the room, and the once lively space that had been his sanctuary now felt like a prison. His injured leg was elevated, wrapped in bandages and ice packs, but it wasn't the physical pain that consumed him. It was the suffocating weight of hopelessness that had settled deep in his chest.
It had been weeks since the devastating news about his hamstring tear. Despite the doctors' assurances that he could recover with proper care and rehabilitation, Rohan couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of loss that gnawed at him every day. The future he had worked so hard for—the races, the championships, the Olympics—had all disappeared in an instant, replaced by endless therapy sessions and the cold reality of his injury.
At first, he had tried to stay positive. He had told himself that this was just another obstacle, another challenge to overcome. But as the days turned into weeks, and the progress came slower than he had hoped, the doubts began to creep in. What if he never recovered fully? What if this was the end of his running career?
These thoughts consumed him, day and night. They followed him like a shadow, darkening every moment of his life. His days blurred together in a fog of frustration and despair. He had withdrawn from the world, ignoring calls from his friends and teammates, avoiding visits from his family, and even pushing Ms. Mehra away. He didn't want to face their concern, didn't want to hear their words of encouragement, because deep down, Rohan didn't believe them.
He couldn't.
He had always prided himself on being strong, on being the kind of person who could push through anything. But this injury was different. It wasn't something he could just fight through or will away. It required patience, something Rohan had never been good at. And with each passing day, the realization that he might never return to the track began to feel like a certainty rather than a possibility.
Rohan sat in silence, staring at the blank television screen across the room. He hadn't turned it on in days. There was no point. Watching the races, seeing his competitors still out there competing, still living the life he had once been a part of—it was too painful. It felt like the world was moving on without him, leaving him behind to rot in his own misery.
A knock on the door broke the heavy silence of the room, but Rohan didn't move. He knew it was Ms. Mehra. She had been coming by every day, checking on him, trying to pull him out of the dark pit he had fallen into. But Rohan didn't want to talk. He didn't want to be reminded of everything he had lost. So he sat in the dark, motionless, hoping she would go away.
But she didn't.
"Rohan," Ms. Mehra's voice came through the door, steady but filled with concern. "I know you're in there. Open the door."
Rohan closed his eyes, willing her to leave. He didn't have the energy for this, didn't want to hear what she had to say. But Ms. Mehra was nothing if not persistent.
"Rohan, I'm not leaving until you let me in," she said firmly. "We need to talk."
Rohan sighed, the sound heavy and tired. He didn't have the strength to argue. Slowly, he stood up, grimacing as a sharp pain shot through his injured leg. He limped to the door, each step a reminder of how broken he was. When he finally opened it, he was greeted by the sight of Ms. Mehra standing there, her arms crossed and her expression both stern and worried.
She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her sharp eyes taking in the state of the room. The unmade bed, the discarded clothes, the untouched food on the table—it all painted a picture of a man who had given up.
Rohan sat back down on the edge of his bed, unable to meet her gaze. He could feel her disappointment, her concern, and it only made him feel worse.
"You can't keep doing this, Rohan," Ms. Mehra said, her voice softening as she stood in front of him. "This isn't you. You're stronger than this."
Rohan let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and unkind. "Maybe I'm not as strong as you thought."
Ms. Mehra frowned, crouching down in front of him so that she could look him in the eye. "You're going through one of the hardest times in your life, Rohan. It's okay to feel lost. It's okay to feel frustrated. But you can't let this defeat you."
Rohan shook his head, his voice hollow. "What if it already has?"
There was a long pause as Ms. Mehra studied him, her expression unreadable. Then, she reached out and placed her hand on his, her grip firm and reassuring.
"I've known you for a long time, Rohan," she said quietly. "And I know that you're not the kind of person who gives up. You've fought through so much to get here. This injury—it's a setback, yes. But it doesn't define you. It doesn't change who you are."
Rohan clenched his jaw, the frustration bubbling up inside him. "I don't know who I am anymore," he admitted, his voice breaking. "Running was everything to me. It's all I've ever known. And now… I don't even know if I'll ever be able to do it again."
Ms. Mehra's expression softened, and she squeezed his hand. "I know how much running means to you, Rohan. But you're more than just an athlete. You've got a spirit that can't be broken, no matter what happens. I've seen it in you, time and time again."
Rohan looked away, unable to meet her gaze. The words she was saying felt like hollow comfort, like something someone would say when they didn't know what else to say. But deep down, Rohan knew Ms. Mehra wasn't just trying to comfort him. She believed in him. She had always believed in him, even when he didn't believe in himself.
But right now, that belief felt like a burden. How could he live up to it when he wasn't even sure if he wanted to keep fighting?
"I don't know if I can do this," Rohan said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know if I want to."
Ms. Mehra's eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, she was silent. Then she stood up, her hands resting on her hips as she stared down at him.
"Rohan, I'm not going to sit here and pretend like I know what you're going through," she said, her voice firm but compassionate. "But I do know one thing: you've got more fight in you than anyone I've ever met. If you really want to give up, then that's your choice. But I don't believe for a second that you're ready to walk away from everything you've worked for."
Rohan looked up at her, his heart heavy. He wanted to believe her, wanted to believe that there was still a part of him that could fight, but the darkness that had settled inside him felt too deep, too consuming.
"I don't know," he said again, his voice cracking.
Ms. Mehra knelt back down, her eyes locking onto his. "Then take the time you need to figure it out. But don't shut yourself off from the people who care about you. We're all here for you, Rohan. You're not in this alone."
With that, she stood up and walked toward the door, pausing only to look back at him one last time.
"I'll be back tomorrow," she said quietly. "Think about what I've said."
And with that, she was gone, leaving Rohan alone in the darkness once more.
But this time, the silence didn't feel quite as suffocating.