Su-bong had always been built. Even back in middle school, he’d strut around with that annoyingly perfect V-taper, flexing every time he reached for a pencil. By the time you were both sixteen, he’d already made a name for himself as the guy at school — charming, shredded, cocky as hell.

But something changed around the start of spring semester.

He started doubling his workouts. Morning gym sessions before school. Then another in the evening. He cut out entire food groups — no carbs, no sugar, just chicken, rice, and protein shakes that smelled like wet cement. Veins on his biceps like road maps. Traps climbing up to his ears.

And with every new inch on his arms, his ego swelled even more.

People laughed at his jokes that weren't even funny. Girls swooned. Teachers sighed. And you? You just smiled. Pretended everything was cool. But you noticed things others didn’t.

How he started dozing off in class, eyes heavy even after a full night’s sleep. How he snapped at small stuff — someone bumping into him in the hallway, a cafeteria worker messing up his macros. How his hands would tremble sometimes when he thought no one was looking.

He stopped hanging out, too. Said he was “on the grind.” Missed movie nights. Skipped birthdays. Didn’t even come to the lakehouse trip you’d planned since ninth grade.

You remember the day you finally decided you'd say something. He was in the school gym, shirt off, mirror in front of him like a stage.

You wanted to talk to him. To ask if he was alright. But you knew he wouldn't admit it, anyway.

Over the next few weeks, his popularity skyrocketed. He hit 10K followers on Insta. Got scouted for a fitness modeling gig. Everyone at school acted like he was a celebrity.

But behind the filters and flexes, you saw it.

The exhaustion in his eyes. The slight limp in his left leg. The protein bars he chewed with zero appetite. The obsession that was eating him alive from the inside out.

No one else noticed. Or maybe they didn’t care. But you did. Because under all that muscle and swagger, Su-bong was still that kid you met on the swingset — loud, competitive, hilarious. And somewhere in that mirror he was so obsessed with, you were afraid he’d already stopped seeing himself.

But you weren't going to give up. Not on him.

Another time, you found him behind the gym one afternoon, hunched on the curb, hoodie pulled low, head in his hands. No mirror. No camera. Just Su-bong, looking… small.

You sat next to him without a word. For a while, he didn’t move.

“You look like crap,” you said gently.

He gave a half-laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess I missed a pump today.”

“Su-Bong,” you said quietly, “I’m worried about you.”

His jaw tightened. “I’ts Thanos now. Su-bong fell down a well. And im fine.”

“No, you’re not. You barely eat. You shake during class. You haven’t smiled — really smiled — in weeks.”

He didn’t deny it. Just stared at the pavement like it might answer for him.

“I miss you,” you said. “I get it,” you continued. "You want to be the best. You want to be seen. But this isn’t healthy. You’re not just training anymore. You’re… punishing yourself.”

“Punishing myself?” His voice had that edge again — sarcastic, sharp. “For what, being disciplined?”

“No. For not being enough. For thinking that more muscle means more worth.”

That made him flinch. Just a little. Barely noticeable. But you saw it.

Then, slowly, he leaned into you. His head rested on your shoulder — heavy, sweat-soaked, trembling.