Immediate Setback

7:00 AMSoren's eyes snapped open, a dull ache thudding at the back of his head. His mouth felt dry, his neck stiff from an uncomfortable sleep. Blinking away the haze of drowsiness, he groped for his phone on the bedside table, fingers brushing against the cool glass surface before closing around it. The screen lit up, and the numbers stared back at him like a smug, mocking grin.

7:00 AM.

His body tensed. His alarm was supposed to go off at 4:40 AM. It wasn't the first time his alarm had failed him, but the suddenness of the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. His carefully planned morning routine was in shambles before he even had the chance to start.

He swallowed, his throat dry. "Damn it."

The curse slipped from his lips, thick with frustration and resignation. The morning cold hadn't been there to coax him back under the blankets; his mind had won out this time. His efforts to wake up early were fragile, and a single slip was enough to send him tumbling back down the hill he'd tried so hard to climb.

A sickening déjà vu of countless failed attempts washed over him. His chest tightened, breaths coming in slow, shallow pulls. This was how it always went. Ambition dissolved by comfort. Dreams drowned by routine.

He lay there for a few more minutes, the heaviness of sleep still clinging to him like a parasite. His plans for the day—rigid and orderly like iron bars—had already been bent by his own negligence. A throbbing sense of failure drummed in his chest. The very same chest that was supposed to become stronger, more disciplined, more powerful. And yet, here he was.

Finally, with a groan of irritation, he dragged himself out of bed and stumbled towards the kitchen. The routine of pouring cereal into a bowl, splashing it with milk, and scooping it into his mouth was mechanical, mindless. It was a pathetic excuse for breakfast, but it was what he was used to.

He stared at the phone on the table, his eyes dull as his hand reached for it almost instinctively. He didn't even try to fight the urge. YouTube was right there, a siren's call promising distraction and cheap entertainment.

Before he knew it, his thumb was gliding over the screen, tapping open Shorts. The quick burst of content hit him like a shot of adrenaline. His mind felt engaged, but his body remained slouched over the table like a wilted flower.

A motivational speech sliced into fragments.A meme compilation.A "fun fact" video about something that didn't matter.

The minutes bled away. His eyes were locked to the screen, the world outside reduced to the narrow frame of his phone. His breakfast was gone before he even registered eating it. The hunger had been numbed, replaced by the hollow satisfaction of mindless consumption.

But even as the cheap dopamine rush poured into his brain, there was a dark undercurrent of guilt winding its way through him. He knew what he was doing. And yet, he kept scrolling. Scrolling. Scrolling.

His thoughts clawed at him.

12:00 PMLunch was no better. Fried halloumi sticks wrapped in souvlaki bread. It was delicious, of course, but his stomach twisted with resentment as he chewed. No vegetables. No meat. Just another part of his broken routine. Another weakness left unaddressed.

The rest of the afternoon passed in the same sluggish haze. YouTube. More Shorts. A half-hearted attempt at browsing research articles on martial arts, but his attention was fractured, torn between what he should be doing and the allure of distraction.

It was always like this. A spiraling collapse of productivity and self-discipline. He'd read enough books to know the theories. He could recite passages from the likes of Atomic Habits and The Power of Now, but it was all just knowledge without action. Just more words to add to the pile of guilt he'd buried himself under.

And that guilt grew heavier by the hour.

3:30 PMThe realization struck him like a brick to the skull. The entire morning was gone, wasted. Just like yesterday. Just like countless other days.

His breathing grew shallow, anger simmering just beneath the surface. The urge to scream, to punch something, to break the endless monotony of failure, clawed at his chest. But instead of releasing it, he swallowed it down, letting it boil within him.

"Why the hell do I keep doing this?" he whispered. His voice cracked, a raw edge of despair sharpening the words.

But even as he asked the question, he already knew the answer. He was trapped in a cycle of his own making. A miserable, mind-numbing loop where change was a promise he made to himself only to break it the very next day.

He pushed himself away from the kitchen table, his fists clenched. The anxiety bubbling within him was nauseating. And yet, mixed within it was a kind of sick resignation.

He was no better than the last time he'd tried to change. He hadn't grown, hadn't improved. All of his ambitions—building a stronger physique, acing his exams, mastering martial arts—remained nothing but fantasies because he lacked the discipline to make them real.

4:00 PMThe change was almost instinctual. Soren's thoughts became knives, cutting away the fog of despair with a cold, calculated focus.

No more spiraling. No more excuses.

His first task was simple: finish his assignments. If he couldn't even do that much, he was nothing more than a coward drowning in his own self-pity.

He opened his laptop, his fingers clicking and clattering over the keyboard as he polished off his biology assignment. The words came slowly at first, his focus wavering, but he refused to allow himself the luxury of distraction.

Next was chemistry. Refining and reformatting paragraphs, ensuring his arguments were precise and coherent. It took longer than expected. Every now and then, his thoughts would stray, but he yanked them back on track with a merciless efficiency.

By the time he moved on to finishing his literature essay, his body ached from sitting still for so long. His fingers felt stiff, and his eyes burned from the strain of the screen. But he pushed through, his mind unwilling to allow anything other than progress.

7:30 PMHe dropped his pen on the table and leaned back with a deep, exhausted breath. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't anywhere near enough to make up for the hours he'd squandered, but it was something.

He'd completed his biology assignment, polished his chemistry work, and finished his literature essay. Not the monumental productivity he'd dreamed of, but better than the nothingness he'd drowned in for the first half of the day.

He wandered into the kitchen, preparing a simple dinner of a cheese toastie. As he chewed, his mind drifted over the events of the day. His countless mistakes. The weakness he despised. But also, the small victories he had managed to claw out of the ruins.

This cycle—this endless loop of failing and trying again—it wasn't just going to break on its own. He needed to destroy it. Crush it beneath the weight of relentless effort.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, the word rough and uncertain but carrying a hint of determination.

He wouldn't allow himself to be sabotaged by a faulty alarm again. His phone had a habit of betraying him. The solution was simple: set a second alarm on his clock. No more relying on just one. And as an added layer of insurance, he decided to try something new.

Self-hypnosis. He'd read about it before, the power of suggestion, of priming the subconscious to accept change. Maybe it was nonsense. Maybe it wouldn't work. But he was desperate enough to try anything.

He spent the next half-hour cleaning his room, picking up discarded clothes and organizing his desk. His environment was a reflection of his mind, and right now, it was a cluttered mess. If he was going to make tomorrow count, he needed to clear away as much chaos as he could.

Finally, he sat down at his desk and typed out a simple note to himself, which he stuck on the wall above his desk.

"Wake up at 4:40 AM. Stretch. Gym. Breakfast. Work. No distractions. Make it happen."

He stared at the words until they became seared into his mind. His fists tightened, the muscles in his forearms trembling from the tension.

"I have to break the cycle."

9:30 PMHe climbed into bed, his body weighed down by exhaustion, his mind still racing with thoughts of failure and redemption. Tomorrow would be different. It had to be.

As he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts coalesced into a single phrase. A phrase he repeated in his mind over and over like a mantra.

"Wake up. And make it happen."

Summary

Achievements:

Completed his biology assignment, refined his chemistry assignment, completed his literature essay.

Organized his environment to facilitate productivity.

Set up a system to ensure he wakes up on time: a second alarm and the use of self-hypnosis.

Challenges:

Spent most of the day lost in mindless distractions.

Overwhelming self-loathing and despair over his repeated failures.

Goals for Tomorrow:

Wake up at 4:40 AM.

Stick to the morning routine: Stretching, gym, breakfast, oral care, hair care, facial exercises, and skincare.

Complete remaining schoolwork and begin martial arts research.