I Am In an Alien Prison

Chapter 1 - The Run That Went Cosmic

I’m Alex, just Alex, my last name a private keepsake, like a faded photograph from my Mumbai childhood. At 29, I’m a gym coach, a whirlwind of zeal with a smile that could light up a stadium and enough stamina to outpace a city’s frenetic pulse. Single? Absolutely—my heart’s pledged to sweat-soaked sprints, cricket matches on dusty lots, and the thrill of a pickup football game under stormy skies. I’m no professional athlete, but throw me into any sport—tennis, basketball, or a fierce street relay—and I’ll leave opponents gasping while tossing quips sharp as a well-aimed dart. My clients at FitFreak Gym, nestled near Juhu’s sandy shores, call me “Coach Bounce” for my tireless energy, darting around like a caffeinated jackrabbit, barking, “Push harder, not smarter!” as they groan through lunges. Enthusiasm? I’m a human spark plug, thriving on the rush of a good workout and the joy of a challenge met.

My days are a vibrant blur of exertion and laughter. Mornings, I’m at the gym, sculpting desk-bound dreamers into fitter versions of themselves. “One more rep, Priya! You’re tougher than a rainy-season storm!” I shout, dodging her playful glare and flashing a grin that disarms complaints. Afternoons find me weaving through the city on foot or by bus, coaching private clients or joining local kids for a quick cricket game, my spin bowling sending their wickets tumbling. “Gotcha!” I crow, high-fiving a kid who’s all grins. Evenings belong to my bootcamp squad, powering through circuits to pulsing music, my voice cutting through their huffs: “Move like you mean it!” Being single suits me—nobody minds my late-night protein shake experiments or my habit of running when the city sleeps. Dating? I tried it. My last attempt ended with a bet over who could do more squats. I won; she vanished. No hard feelings—I’d rather chase a personal best than a text reply.

Tuesday night, I’m on my ritual run near Juhu Beach, where the city hushes, leaving only the whisper of waves and the crunch of my sneakers on pavement. These solitary jaunts are my sanctuary, the world narrowing to my breath, my stride, and the open path ahead. I’m hunting a 15K record, earbuds pumping a bass-heavy track that fuels my legs. The alley’s empty, streetlights flickering like tired sentinels, casting shadows that dance across cracked concrete. I’m in my element, dodging a stray bottle like it’s an obstacle in a gym gauntlet, my mind scripting a heroic narrative: “Here’s Alex, the Juhu Juggernaut, carving through the night, unstoppable!” I laugh aloud, startling a stray cat that darts into the gloom. It’s just me and the stars, my heart pounding a fierce rhythm, my thoughts drifting to tomorrow’s plans—maybe a gym challenge, a speed drill to wow my clients, or even that date my friend keeps nudging me toward. “She’s cool, Alex, not scared of your plank obsession,” he swore. I smirk, imagining charming her with a sprint-off.

The alley narrows, the air thick with sea salt and silence. I’m flying, legs burning gloriously, hyping myself up: “You’re a beast, Alex! Faster than a lightning bolt, smoother than a movie star’s charm!” I vault over a puddle, landing with the swagger of a batsman who just smashed a six. Life’s electric—sweat on my skin, the promise of a late-night snack stand nearby, freedom in every step. Single, untethered, invincible—nothing can slow me down.

Then the sky ignites. A blinding flash, sharper than a festival firework, sears my vision, as if the stars themselves exploded. My legs seize mid-stride, my body lifts, weightless, yanked upward like a marionette in a cosmic play. No sound, no warning—just me, suspended, earbuds still throbbing with music. My pulse races, outstripping my fastest sprint. Aliens? Seriously? I just want my dosa and a nap!