Daniel had been learning the guitar for eight months. He practised every evening, calluses building slowly on his fingertips. But the progress felt invisible — his fingers still fumbled on chord changes his teacher made look effortless. One night, after a particularly bad session, he put the guitar in its case and slid it under the bed. He told himself it was temporary. But weeks passed, then months. He had given up, though he couldn't quite say when the decision had been made. The hardest part wasn't the failure — it was realising how easy it had been to give up on something he once loved. Most people don't give up dramatically. They just stop showing up, one quiet evening at a time.

A year later, Daniel found the guitar while looking for a box. He sat on the floor and played a few notes — badly, rustily. His teacher had once told him: the only students who ever get good are the ones who stick it out through the boring middle. Not the early excitement, not the final skill — the long, unglamorous middle where nothing feels like progress. Daniel understood that now. He put the guitar on his desk that night. Not under the bed. He didn't promise himself he'd be great — he just promised he'd stick it out a little longer this time. Some weeks were still hard. But he was learning that the decision to stick it out isn't made once. It's made again, quietly, every single day.