Just one more rep than yesterday. Just five more seconds holding that abominable pnk. He had this uncanny knack for finding her absolute limit, the point where she was convinced she was about to evaporate into a puff of ctic acid, and then nudging her just… one… step… further. It was maddening.

  It was effective.

  "Just two more!" he’d call out during squats.

  "Two?" Dipa would groan, legs trembling. "That's like asking me to climb two Everests after already climbing one!"

  But despite the near-constant state of protest bubbling inside her, despite the colorful curses muttered under her breath, Dipa showed up. 6 AM. Every damn day. The arm clock remained Public Enemy No. 1, but her sneakers hit the park path regardless.

  Some mornings, just getting out of the car felt like the main achievement. But she did it. Consistently.

  Honestly, predicting Dipa's state upon arrival was like pying the lottery – you never knew what you were gonna get. Some mornings, she looked haunted, the dark circles under her eyes telling tales of te-night scrolling and existential dread. "Didn't sleep," she'd mumble, "pretty sure my brain was running its own marathon of embarrassing moments."

  Other days, the DOMS (Deyed Onset Muscle Soreness – her personal four-letter curse word) was practically debilitating. "James, I think my hamstrings have gone on strike," she announced one morning, attempting to bend down and immediately regretting it. "They left a tiny picket sign. It says 'Unfair Working Conditions'."

  Tying her shoes became an Olympic event requiring strategic leaning and muffled groans.

  And the frustration days? Oh, those were spectacur. The jump rope remained a primary antagonist in her fitness journey narrative. It wasn't just a rope; it was a sentient, orange serpent seemingly dedicated to tripping her.

  Picture this: focus, determination, a decent rhythm starting… then thwack. Ankle strike. Repeat. On the tenth consecutive failure one morning, she didn’t just drop it, she flung it.

  "Right, that's IT!" she yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at the coiled rope on the grass. "This thing is possessed! It's ughing at me, I can feel it!"

  "It's just timing, Dipa," James said, calmly retrieving it. "Try smaller wrist circles, less arm."

  "Timing? James, it's mocking my very existence! I bet it colludes with the burpees! They're probably in a group chat!"

  "Uh-huh. Pick it up. Let's go again. Five good skips."

  "Five? After that betrayal?" But despite the theatrical outbursts, the near-tears over betrayed muscles, the moments staring at a bde of grass wondering what am I even doing?, she never actually quit a session. She’d sigh dramatically, maybe kick a stray pebble, but she’d pick up the rope, or get back into pnk position.

  The commitment, buried under yers of sarcasm and soreness, was definitely there.

  Ah, the jog. That one-kilometer loop around the park perimeter. Still ranked high on Dipa’s list of Things She’d Rather Not Do, somewhere between public speaking and eating Brussels sprouts. It remained her nemesis, her daily cardio crucible.

  But, objectively speaking (though Dipa rarely felt objective while running), it was becoming slightly less like a near-death experience. The frantic, desperate gasping for air? It had subsided. Maybe.

  A little. Progress, perhaps measured in millimeters of lung capacity.