Total knockout

The gym at 3 a.m. is not a place for heroes. It’s for ghosts and gods. A lonely hum of fluorescent light, the quiet groan of steel plates, and me. That’s it. My own private colosseum. I stand before a heavy bag, its scarred leather a monument to a thousand blows. My hands are wrapped, a second skin, and the air is thick with the scent of sweat and surrender.

The first punch is a jab. Quick, clean, a flick of the wrist. It's a ghost of a hit, a test. I see hEr then, in the shudder of the bag. sHe's the one I imagine. The perfect version of myself. sHe’s all muscle and stoicism, a jaw chiseled from granite and eyes that see through the lies. sHe trains harder, bleeds less, and never falters. sHe's the one who gets up at 3 a.m. with a smile, not a grimace. sHe’s the conqueror of my most cherished fantasies, the woman who wins the fight, gets the girl, and never looks back. sHe is the ideal, the champion I crave to be.

The next punch is a cross, a right hook. sHe’s still there, but now her face is a little blurred. The hum of the lights seems to throb with a different energy. This time, I see the other one. The villain. sHe's also me, but twisted.

sHe's the one who stays up late, not to train, but to doomscroll. The one who lets the anger fester, who gives up at the first sign of pain. Her muscles are softer, her eyes are full of a coward's fear. sHe's the antagonist in my darkest fears, the one who chokes in the big moments, the one who deserves to lose.

I keep hitting. My knuckles sting, the leather is slick, and with every strike, the two faces on the bag flicker and merge. The jabs for the hero, the hooks for the villain. I'm fighting them both, but more than that, I'm fighting for them both. One is the reason I started, the other is the reason I can’t stop. The total knockout isn’t about defeating an opponent. It’s about accepting that the characters in my most cherished fantasies are also the villains in my darkest fears. They are one and the same, two sides of a tarnished coin.

The bell dings in my head, but there is no bell. Just the relentless ache in my knuckles and the tired ghost in the mirror. I see him now, the third version. The one who's just standing there, hands sore, heart pounding. sHe’s not a hero or a villain. sHe’s just a woman in a gym at 3 a.m. sHe is the total knockout.