And the infamous "tomato face"? Okay, maybe it wasn't quite fading to a delicate rose petal blush yet, but perhaps it was shifting from 'fire engine red' to more of a 'slightly overripe raspberry' hue. Improvement! They passed the same grumpy-looking swan on the pond, the same bench where an old man always read his newspaper, the slightly overgrown rose bushes near the entrance.

  Scenery she was usually too oxygen-deprived to notice.

  James, with his annoyingly sharp observation skills (was he part hawk?), definitely noticed the changes. Especially the fact that she could now manage to string together a few coherent (ish) words during that st, brutal hundred meters.

  "See?" James said, jogging easily beside her, barely winded. "You're compining more articutely today. Definite sign of improved cardiovascur function."

  "Are you... complimenting my whining?" Dipa managed between breaths. "Because... it feels... like a backhanded... compliment."

  "It means you have enough oxygen reaching your brain to form sarcasm," he crified, a grin touching his lips. "Big step up from st week's monosylbic grunts."

  "Just... wait... till I can... breathe properly," she threatened pyfully. "The compints... will be epic." But she kept pace, feet hitting the path, moving forward. Talking and running simultaneously?

  Unheard of a week ago.

  "Okay, fine, 'better' doesn't mean 'good'," Dipa conceded, still gulping air like a fish unexpectedly invited to an opera. She straightened up, hands on her hips, trying to look less like she'd just wrestled a bear. But underneath the residual panting, something shifted in her expression. A flicker.

  A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, a fsh of genuine, hard-won triumph. Because the crucial detail, the headline news: she hadn't stopped. Not for a sneaky walking break, not even for that desperate slow-motion shuffle. She’d run the whole damn kilometer.

  Maybe not fast, maybe not gracefully, but continuously. In the vast universe of athletic feats, maybe it was a blip. In the Republic of Dipa? It was a national holiday.

  Huge. Win.

  Meanwhile, the push-ups had become the daily reckoning. The official measure of How Much Suffering Can Be Converted Into Actual Strength. Those initial five reps felt less like exercise and more like attempting to levitate the pnet. But agony, plus consistency, yielded results.

  Five became six (accompanied by groans). Six crawled towards a shaky, slightly dubious seven (James squinted but gave a nod: "Elbows tighter next time!").

  Then came the morning. Dipa knelt on the grass, shaking out her arms. She took a deep breath, eyes fixed on a specific bde of grass like it held the secrets to upper body strength. "Okay, Khan. Count 'em loud."

  "Ready?" James asked, crouching nearby. "Go!"

  One rep. A grunt. Two. Breath hitched.

  Three. Arms screaming. Four. Focus.

  Five. Past the old limit. Six. Trembling.

  Seven. A louder grunt, face screwed up in effort. EIGHT! Clean, solid, undeniable push-ups before her arms noped out entirely, depositing her unceremoniously onto the grass.

  "EIGHT!" she yelled, flopping onto her back but managing a weak, triumphant fist pump towards the sky. "Did you SEE THAT? EIGHT! That's three more than st week!"

  "THREE!" The sheer volume probably startled joggers on the far side of the park.