Mikey returned to the gym after school.
No hesitation this time. No lingering by the door. He walked in like he belonged—even if he didn't feel it yet.
The girl from before was there again, hitting the bag with precision and rhythm. She caught sight of him and smirked.
"You came back," she said.
"Yeah," Mikey replied. "I want to learn."
She didn't roll her eyes. Didn't laugh. Instead, she nodded once and pointed toward a corner of the gym.
"Coach isn't here today. But I'll show you the basics."
Her name was Alyssa. She'd been boxing since she was nine. Said it kept her from "losing her mind at home." She didn't explain further, and Mikey didn't ask.
She taught him the stance, the guard, the footwork. His movements were stiff, awkward. But he listened. Focused. Tried again and again until it clicked—even just a little.
"You've got something," Alyssa said. "Not skill. Not power. Yet. But you've got will. That's rare."
Mikey smiled at that. A small one, but real.
---
After an hour, Alyssa tossed him a pair of old gloves. "Try the bag."
Mikey stepped up, heart pounding.
First jab—weak.
Second—better.
Third—he felt it.
But then his form slipped. His footwork got sloppy. His shoulder burned. And his glove clipped the edge of the bag wrong.
A sharp pain shot through his wrist.
He gasped and stumbled back.
Alyssa stepped in, grabbed his arm. "Relax. You overextended. You're not made of stone yet."
She wrapped his wrist tighter and handed him a cold pack.
Mikey sat down, frustrated.
"I can't even hit a bag without screwing it up," he muttered.
Alyssa crouched next to him. "That's the point. You fail. Then you fix it. Then you fail again. And one day… you don't."
---
That night, Mikey stared at his sore wrist.
He didn't feel like a fighter.
He still looked like the same skinny kid in the mirror. Still sat alone at lunch. Still had bruises on his pride.
But for the first time, the pain didn't feel like punishment.
It felt like progress.
He scribbled a note and stuck it to his mirror:
> "One day… you don't."