I flex my pecs in the mirror. Thick veins worm down my biceps. I look incredible. I hold the pose until a cramp forces me to relax.

In the mirror, I see Grant approaching me.

“Looking pretty good, bro,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say as I bend down to pick up my water bottle and take a sip.

I’m deliberately showing indifference toward his compliment. Grant is my gym rival, and I want him to know (to think) I don’t care about his words. Inside, though, I’m gushing.

“The bulk is going pretty well, I can tell,” he says.

I feel a jab of something at that sentence. My eyes involuntarily focus on him.

“Like, sure, you’ve put a layer around your waist, but the muscle mass is insane,” he adds.

“I’m not bulking right now. I’m cutting,” I say and realize that was probably his plan all along.

“Oh.” He acts surprised. “I see. Well, keep it up."

With that, he walks away, and I’m left staring in the mirror.

That motherfucker. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s working.

The imperfections that had been invisible just moments prior now surface with a blinding glow. I no longer notice the pump in my pecs and shoulders. I’m hyper-focused on my waist. My fat fucking waist.

I look in the mirror to see where Grant is, and once I make sure he isn’t looking, I pinch the skin around my belly. It’s thin. I can practically press my thumb and forefinger together, but it feels excess at that moment.

Deciding not to empower Grant’s words, I take another sip of my water and place the bottle down. My eyes briefly fall on the imprinted muscle man double-flexing his biceps. My girlfriend Amy bought that bottle for me recently, and I’ve been using it ever since.

I continue focusing on my workout. I compare myself to other people in the gym for motivation. Most of them look like shit. Flabby bellies, droopy shoulders, stick-thin arms, boney legs. I’m so glad I’m not like them. I’m so glad I look as good as I do, even if I have flaws of my own.

The real boost of self-esteem comes from comparing myself to the gym veterans, though. The ones who looked better than me when I first started out—a skinny teen with nothing more than a dream and a poster of Arnold in his bedroom, because that was the golden era of bodybuilding, not all this HGH bubble gut bullshit in today’s bodybuilding.

I’ve surpassed all those gymgoers, and there’s an immense feeling of satisfaction to be derived from that.

I finish my workout, pick up my things, take a few post-workout pics for my IG where I tag my only sponsor, Grow Big Supplements, and head out. On my way out of the gym, raucous laughter catches my attention. I see Grant talking to the gym baddie, Selena. She’s twirling her curly hair and laughing at something he said.

A pang of jealousy jolts me. Selena’s body is perfection. With the way her muscles are sculpted, she’s a goddess walking among people. Sometimes, I wish a girl like her would take interest in me. I would never cheat on Amy, but maybe I just want the confidence boost of a gym hottie being interested in me. Or maybe it angers me that Grant is the one she’s taken a liking to.

Sometimes, I wish Amy was like Selena, but Amy doesn’t care about fitness. I tried to get her to go to the gym with me, because I wanted to make a Selena out of her, but she’s not interested in it. She would rather do some bullshit like yoga or pilates. Besides, she could never stay committed to a diet.

Selena looks in my direction as I walk past her and Grant. I flash her a smile, but she looks back to Grant without acknowledging me. I hear another laugh behind me, a high-pitched, exaggerated sound that makes me want to shake her by the shoulders and tell her to open her fucking eyes, because Grant is a fucking slimeball.

When I return home, Amy greets me from the couch. She’s on her phone and I can see that dinner isn’t ready yet.

“How was your workout?” she asks.

“It was good. Hey, is dinner gonna be ready soon?”

I’m already bracing myself for a negative answer, bottling up the urge to snap.

“Yeah, in about forty minutes,” Amy says and continues staring at her phone.

“Forty minutes? Are you kidding me?” I ask.

She looks up from her phone, probably having heard the frustration in my voice.

“The chicken needs some time, babe,” she says.

“I need my protein as soon as I return from the gym, you know that.”

What I really want to say is, What the fuck are you doing sitting on your phone instead of making dinner?

“I just got home from a ten-hour shift, Jake. Dinner will be ready soon. I need a break, too, you know.”

I’m about to start shouting, but I stop myself. I don’t need the stress. “Forget it. I’ll just drink a protein shake. I can’t wait for that long.”

“It already took you half an hour to drive back home. Forty minutes isn’t going to make a difference, babe. Nothing’s gonna happen to your muscles in that time.”

I don’t have the strength to explain this to her for the millionth time. If I don’t get my protein in right after working out, catabolism is going to eat my muscles. I need proteins stat. She does not seem to understand it.

If I drink a protein shake now, though, then I’ll have to reduce my next meal, and my macros are going to be completely messed. That’s why I have every meal carefully tailored. There are bags of rice sitting in the pantry. Chicken breast has been weighed and separated into bags placed in the freezer, 8 ounces each. I consume three bags a day. The first and last meals consist of eggs, because I need my fats.

“Okay. I’ll wait for the meal,” I say to avoid further escalating things.

By the time dinner’s ready, I’ve calmed down and I’m thinking of apologizing to her for being such an ass. That’s until I sit at the table and see the meal she’s cooked.

“Um… What is this?” I ask, looking at the unidentified meat drowning in some white sauce.

The potatoes on the side are glistening with grease, too.

“Chicken and potatoes,” she says as she sits.

I don’t even ask what the sauce is. I push my plate away and say, “I can’t eat this.”

“What? Why?”

“This is way more than what I can eat in a meal.”

“It’s just a tablespoon of heavy cream, babe. Just to give it a little bit of taste.”

“You don’t understand. One tablespoon of heavy cream contains empty calories I can’t afford. The competition is in a few months. I can’t keep fucking up my diet, Amy.”

“Come on, Jake. It’s just one meal.”

“No, it’s not just one meal. It’s one meal now, one meal in a few more days. I cannot keep talking to you about this every time you cook, Amy. Just plain chicken and rice. Plain chicken and rice. That’s all I need. Why is that so hard to understand? Jesus!”

Amy is sitting at the table, silent. She had taken one bite of her meal, but now she’s not moving. I push my chair back and head into the foyer.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

I can’t tell her I’m going out for a walk because I want to strangle her.

“To take a walk,” I simply reply.

I put on my shoes, swing open the door, and exit.

I’m walking fast down the street. I’m hoping someone bumps into me so I have an excuse to clock them. I head to the nearby park. Might as well get some steps in. I never run, just walk. Running burns off too much muscle.

In the park, I find a bench to sit on. I wait for my head to cool off. The silence is helping. It doesn’t last long before a figure approaches the bench where I’m sitting.

“Is this seat taken?” an old man in a coat points to the seat.

I look around. There are no other benches nearby. I really don’t want him sitting next to me, and I’m about to say yes, but the word that comes out of my mouth is, “No.”

I’ve replayed this moment in my head many times since. I’ve considered what my life would be like now if I had just said the seat was taken, if I had just not entered the park that night, if I had just eaten Amy’s meal.

Something tells me he would have found me anyway. Our encounter was a coincidence. That’s the only thing I’m sure of. That knowledge is hardly a consolation in the face of everything I’ve been through since.

***

An hour later, I’m back home. Amy is sulking on the couch. I can hardly even remember why I got angry.

“Hey,” I say and sit next to her. I’m keeping one hand behind my back.

She doesn’t respond. I put a hand on her thigh, lean closer, and say, “I’m sorry. I know I’m insufferable these days. You don’t deserve that.”

She dignifies me of a look. I pull a rose from behind my back. I can see her lips curving into an effervescent smile. It’s how I know I’ve won her back. Tentatively, she takes the flower. She’s no longer trying to hide the smile.

“You’re lucky I love you enough to put up with your outbursts,” she says.

I give her a peck on the cheek. “I’m thinking we can go out on a date tomorrow.”

“A date? Where?” she asks as she smells the rose.

“I don’t know. Dinner at a restaurant? It’s been a while since we did that.”

“But your diet…”

“I thought about what you said. You’re right, babe. One meal once in a while isn’t going to hurt.”

***

As the weeks go by, I’m looking better and better. I cannot describe the feeling I get from seeing the perfection my body is slowly becoming. And still, it’s not enough. I’m thinking of further reducing my calories to be ready for the competition.

In the locker room when I take my shirt off, a guy changing clothes says to me, “You look amazing, man.”

He’s a powerlifter, I think. He’s huge but fat as fuck. I would like to have his strength, but not his looks. I don’t know how he’s not disgusted by himself when he looks in the mirror.

I firmly believe every powerlifter is a failed bodybuilder. They try dieting, but then come the bouts of hunger and sugar cravings, and the decreased strength during workouts, and the irritability, and they realize maybe they’re better off bulking. Permanently.

Training is easy. Sticking to the diet is the real challenge. It’s where boys are separated from men. It’s where you get to see just how mature or disciplined someone is. Control what goes on your plate, and you can control pretty much everything in life.

“Thanks,” I say to him and flex in the mirror. “Prepping for the upcoming competition, but I still have a long way to go. Don’t know if I’ll have enough time to achieve the goal I have in mind.”

“Are you on something right now?” the dude asks.

I love it when people think I’m on steroids. It gives me an extra boost of confidence when I get to tell them I’m natty.

“Nah,” I say.

“Really? Well, that’s amazing. I would never compete without gear, though. I used to do bodybuilding myself, and let me tell you, the amount of muscle you lose during peak week…” He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Not to mention everyone competing is on the gear. Bodybuilding without gear is like basketball without shoes.”

He’s right. I competed in the past, and I didn’t do too well. All the other guys were bigger. A lot more shredded, too. I suspected they might be juicing, but I hadn’t given it too much thought.

I take a sip of dextrose from the bottle Amy bought for me.

“I guess I’ll have to make do with what I can.” I shrug, and I suddenly look even smaller to myself. “What’s it like, taking gear?”

“Dude, it’s amazing. You can eat like shit and still grow like crazy. You can practically reduce your calories to three digits and still not lose any muscle. It’s insane.”

I nod. It sounds intriguing, I gotta say.

“If you’re interested, I can hook you up,” he says.

“No thanks."

“Suit yourself. If you decide you wanna go the proper route, let me know. I can fix you up.”

I get dressed and go home, but the conversation with the guy rings out in my head. I keep thinking about the potential I might reach with steroids. The amazing muscle gain and strength gain—all while cutting.

The advantage I would have over Grant.

Maybe Selena would then finally notice me. Maybe she would flirt with me, and not him.

Suddenly, steroids seem very appealing. But then I remember I’ve always been against them. I’ve considered steroids cheating. And then I remember all the big fitness influencers who have sponsors and Instagram careers. They’re all on steroids, they’re just pretending they’re not. They’re lying to their audience of teens who see their muscles and think they can achieve the same looks by drinking a certain brand of protein and amino acids. In truth, it’s the concoctions in small vials transferred into syringes that give them such looks.

I try not to think too hard about it for the rest of the night. When I have sex with Amy, I’m picturing Selena.

***

I scooted to the side, allowing the old man to sit on the bench next to me. I didn’t know why I didn’t just tell him to buzz off. It’s like there was an invisible lump in my throat stopping me from saying anything hostile to him.

He uncapped a bottle and took a sip. I suspected it was alcohol.

“Nice evening, isn’t it?” he asked.

Great. A talker.

I didn’t look at him when I said, “Sure.”

I hoped my one-worded response would make him understand I was in no mood for small talk.

“I like to come here every night. Nobody’s here at this time,” he said. “Peaceful. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I haven’t noticed.”

“Isn’t the whole point of coming to the park to feel something you don’t feel surrounded by concrete?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a fan of parks. Just happen to be here.”

“Well. Something did bring you here. Let me ask you something,” he said. “When you look at these people around you, what do you see?”

I looked at the passersby. Families pushing babies in strollers. Joggers. Couples holding hands.

“I don’t think about it,” I lied.

“Come on, Jake,” the old man said.

I flinched at the mention of my name. When I looked at him, he was staring at me with an expectant smile.

“How do you know my name?” I asked.

I was starting to feel unnerved by his presence. I wanted to get up and leave, but I couldn’t. My ass was glued to the bench.

“What do you really see when you look at these people?” he repeated.

I turned to the people again.

“Mediocrity. Weakness,” I said.

“Oh?” The old man sounded surprised.

“I mean, look at them. They’re settling for an average life. They’re happy with what little they have. They’re not the kind to push their own boundaries, to test the limits of human capabilities. They’re happy with popping kids out, paying taxes, and slaving away at a corporate job.”

“And you're not like that? And that makes you better?”

“Yes,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure I truly believed it.

“Is that all you see in those people?” the old man asked.

I didn’t tell him I was glad I’m not them. That I’m above average. That I look better than all of them. That I pity them for eating bagels and donuts with no regard for their own health, and for working nine to five jobs and skipping the gym in favor of watching TV because they’re “too tired.”

“What else is there to see?” I asked.

“Maybe there isn’t anything,” the old man says. “Maybe you just aren’t giving yourself a chance to linger in the moment, to see things more deeply. But I bet you don’t ever do that. You don’t linger on your victories. You just claim them and move on to the next one, am I right?”

I looked at him, and only just then got a good look at him. He was the most unremarkable old man. Nondescript face, a scraggly, grizzled beard. Teeth incongruously white.

“You think you know me after a minute of talking?” I asked.

“I can usually tell these kinds of things. It’s the intense stare. With you, it’s even more obvious. What is it that prevents you from stopping? What are you afraid is going to catch up to you?”

I could have crushed this old man with one hand behind my back, but something was still rooting me where I sat, stopping me from expressing my hostility in an appropriate manner.

“Fuck you,” the words came out of my mouth, but they sounded timid even to me.

The old man offered me an amused smile.

“I have one question for you, Jake,” he said. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t look away. “If there was one thing you could have in this world—one thing, and it could be anything you want—what would it be?”

I thought hard then gave him my answer.

***

The gym is particularly empty today. As I finish up with the bench press, Selena walks in. She stops in front of the mirror and starts warming up. I look around. Not a lot of people. Grant is nowhere in sight.

I’m feeling especially bold today. I figure, screw it, I’m gonna try to talk to Selena. Nothing committal, just a conversation in passing. A little coquetting to stroke both our egos.

I get up, walk up to her, and I see her looking at me in the mirror.

“Hi,” I say with a smile, because I want her to know my intentions are benevolent.

“Hi.” She smiles back and continues warming up.

“What muscles are you doing today?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Upper body, probably.”

She looks away and continues to warm up. I can see I’m losing her, but I’m not ready to give up just yet.

“You’re looking pretty good. Whatever you’re doing, keep it up,” I say.

“Thanks.” She smiles again and grabs the headphones hanging around her neck.

This is not going the way I hoped it would. I’m thinking fast of what I could say before she muffles all external noise.

“So, how many times a week do you come here?” I ask.

It’s so awkward, but I’m grasping here. I didn’t even know I’m so bad at flirting until I’m actually talking to Selena—a one-way conversation, apparently.

“Three or four,” she says. The headphones are already over her ears. “Excuse me, I should get back to my workout.”

“Oh, yeah. I get you. Can’t let those muscles go cold,” I say in an attempt to save face, but she’s already looking away from me, continuing her warmup without having heard me.

Hot-faced and embarrassed, I walk away. What a fucking bitch. She’s not even that hot. Probably a slut, too. Amy is better than her. Who cares if she’s not into fitness?

Halfway through my workout, Grant appears. He approaches Selena from behind while she’s doing lateral raises, gently puts a hand on the small of her back, and smiles. Her face immediately lights up with a grin. She quickly finishes her set, sets down the dumbbells, slides her headphones off, and hugs Grant.

He’s getting all touchy with her, but not in a couple-y way. She doesn’t seem to mind. For the briefest moment, I can see Grant glancing in my direction while he’s still smiling. I’m both fuming and feeling like a total loser.

I turn to my exercise and harness those emotions to make the burn in my muscles grow. I’m groaning loudly with each rep. I’m imagining Selena watching me, admiring my pump, realizing what she’s missing out on.

When I enter the locker room, I can see the powerlifter changing clothes.

“Hey, bro,” he says.

He’s about to leave, but I stop him.

“Hey, are you still able to get gear?” I ask him.

“Yup. Interested?”

Maybe I’m just impulsive. Maybe I’ve already made up my mind.

“Hell yeah I am,” I say.

***

“The perfect body,” I told the old man.

I kept thinking about what I would want. What would make me happy? Nothing would fulfill me as much as the body I’ve always dreamed of. Who cares about money? With a perfect body, I would have plenty of it. The love of my life? The body would bring her to me. Happiness? Body.

The old man stared at me, as if trying to read whether there was something else hidden behind my words.

“I see,” he finally said. “Well, I suppose we all have our own goals and dreams, but…” He looked ahead, frowned pensively, then said. “That goal feels sort of shallow, wouldn’t you say?”

“Maybe it is, but it’s what I want.”

“Let me ask you something. Why that? Of all the things you could choose, why a perfect body?”

“Because then I’d have everything. I’d be happy with myself, people would respect me, and I would be able to do what I love for a living.”

“And when you no longer have the perfect body? What then? What will happen to that self-satisfaction, and to that respect, and to that career?”

“All things come to an end, but I want to experience what it’s like to be at my physical peak while I’m alive. Human bodies were designed for that.”

I could tell he didn’t agree with me, but he nodded nonetheless.

“I see. In that case, I hope your wish is granted,” he said.

“It’s not going to be granted. I’m going to earn it, because a perfect body isn’t something someone is handed. It’s not something you can buy.”

“I have one more final question for you, Jake. What are you willing to sacrifice in order to achieve the perfect body?”

I inhaled, thought for a brief moment, because that’s all I needed.

“Everything,” I said.

***

I told you, don’t call me while I’m working out, I send a message to Amy.

It’s a good thing she’s not in front of me, because the last thing I want is to snap at her. Again.

Ever since I started using steroids, it’s become a frequent occurrence. The smallest inconvenience causes my anger to skyrocket in an instant. With no one else in my crosshairs, Amy suffers the brunt of my outbursts. I try not to get angry, but it’s stronger than me. Taking steroids and being on a huge caloric deficit is not a great combination, but it’s necessary to achieve the perfect physique.

I can see the difference. Only four weeks in, and I’m already a lot bigger and leaner. I don’t know why I didn’t start taking steroids sooner. These things are amazing. So what if I got acne on my back and chest? So what if I’m irritable?

The competition is only six weeks away. As it draws nearer, my diet will become increasingly harder. In the week leading up to the competition, I’ll have to weigh my carbs and salt in teaspoon increments, because every lick is going to make a huge difference on the stage.

Overall, I’m feeling great. I feel like I can tackle the whole world. When I look in the mirror, I see a man with the body of a Greek god. It’s going to be difficult staying off of steroids. I had promised myself I would do only one cycle, but I can already tell that’s not going to happen.

After working out, I post a pic on Instagram with my sponsor’s protein in the back.

Excellent workout. Grow Big supplements help me maintain my physique.

 My phone dings when I’m in the car. A comment from a user with no profile pic and no posts says “eat a burger, you look miserable.”

I ignore it, but my irritation gets the better of me by the time I’m home. Most of the time, I don’t get into arguments with people online. I decide to make an exception just this once.

I reply to him, “Maybe if you spent less time being a troll on the internet and more time going to the gym, you wouldn’t feel the need to express your pathetic insecurities on posts from people you don’t even follow.”

I eat my second meal of chicken and rice (unseasoned, because I don’t eat for the taste), and I receive a message on Instagram. It’s from my sponsor. They're warning me to tone it down with the negative replies, because they don't want to be associated with that.

I think about justifying my action to them. After typing out a lengthy message, I delete it, because it sounds too aggressive. Instead of responding, I double-tap to like his message and delete my reply to the troll who commented on my post.

I open the fridge to grab a diet coke, and I see chocolate pudding sitting on the shelves.

“Amy, there’s chocolate pudding in the fridge,” I say.

“Oh, I bought it earlier. I know it’s your favorite, and I wanted you to have it for when you’re off your diet,” Amy says.

“I’m not off my diet right now, and having these things in the house can fuck up my diet.”

It’s another one of those things we talked about. Don’t buy sweets, especially the ones I like, because I’ll eat them. Especially right now when all I’m eating is chicken and rice and broccoli, I cannot be anywhere near sugar.

“We talked about this,” I say.

I don’t wait for her to respond. I scoop the pudding out of the fridge and toss it in the trash. Hard. Amy is immediately on her feet.

“Jake! What is your problem?!”

“What’s my problem?! What’s yours?! How many times do I have to tell you to not buy sweets?!”

“It’s not my problem you can’t control yourself! I like to eat something sweet from time to time, too!”

“Yeah, it’s visible.”

She pulls her head back, offended, but I’m not done yet. I know my next words are going to be destructive for my relationship, but I can’t control myself. The roid rage is taking the reins.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

“You wanna lecture me about control? Look at yourself, Amy! You’re a fucking joke! You sit on your ass all day long shoveling junk food in your mouth, and then you have the audacity to whine about your fucking weight! You don’t know what it’s like not having the luxury to eat whatever you like. Try eating one meal like me. One! No wonder you’re so pathetic.”

Amy’s mouth drops open. She looks like she’s contemplating saying something, but then she squares her shoulders.

“Fuck you, Jake,” she says and storms out.

I don’t try to stop her.

***

It’s difficult working a day job and dieting. The competition is only two weeks out, and I’m looking better than ever. Just a little longer now.

I open up my Instagram to see a bevy of comments on my posts. Most of them these days are hateful. They talk about how I’ve ruined my physique and that I must have some medical issue that I need to get checked out. I ignore most of them. To some, I’ll reply politely by telling them that I work hard, and that it’s okay to have different opinions on looks.

Today, I have an evaluation meeting with my manager. I'm sitting in her office, staring at Amy's muscle man double biceps water bottle.

“Sorry for being late, Jake. How are you today?” The manager waltzes into the office and takes a seat.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Okay. Well, let’s jump straight into it.” She clicks a few things on her laptop, then turns to face me. Her face is grievous. “Jake, I’m not going to lie. Your performance has not been great this quarter.”

“I know. As I’ve already explained, it’s because of the competition I got, but it’s going to be over in two weeks, and then I can finally dedicate myself to my job more.”

My manager looks down, as if weighing what to say next. “Jake, this is a full-time job. We expect complete commitment to it.”

What a bunch of bullshit. People have lives outside of work. It’s unreasonable to ask for total dedication to the company.

“Not only has your performance dropped, but we lost three clients because of it. Not to mention you dodged an HR meeting because of your outburst in the kitchen.”

That was justified, too. Andrew was talking too much about his boring kids, which no one gives a fuck about. I just told him to shut up because I don’t care about his personal life.

“And lastly, some coworkers are worried about you, Jake,” she finishes. “They fear you might be taking this bodybuilding thing a little too far. You don’t look too good. Are you feeling sick?”

I grit my teeth. “I’m fine.”

She nods. “I see. Well, there’s no point in postponing the bad news anymore, Jake. I’m sorry, but we have to let you go.”

An anvil drops to the pit of my stomach. I blink a few times, trying to process her words. I can’t figure out if she’s screwing with me or not. The deadpan stare on her face says she means what she said.

Everything else is a blur to me. All I remember is heading home and finding Amy on the couch. It’s her work-from-home day. She asks me what I’m doing home so early and I blurt I got fired from my job. There are a lot of questions, which I somehow answer in my stupefied state.

In the end, what I do remember is Amy holding me and telling me it doesn’t matter I lost my job, because I didn’t like it anyway, and I could find a new one after the competition, and I can now focus full-time on pulling through these last two weeks without anything in my way.

She’s such a good girlfriend. I don’t deserve her.

***

Only a few days remaining. I look in the mirror, and I’m still not happy. I’m looking better and better, but not enough for the competition. I reduce my calories once again, for the fifth time in the last five weeks.

Amy walks into the bathroom and sees me flexing.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“I… It’s definitely not something I’m used to,” she says.

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s good. It’s good.” But her voice is shrill. “I’m thinking, maybe you should just tone it down a little after the competition, babe. I feel like you’re growing a little too thin.”

“Thin?! Babe, this is lean muscle and no fat.”

“I know, I know. I just think you should maybe take it a little easy.”

“Fine,” I say, but only because I want her off my back.

***

Less than a day remaining. I’m so thirsty I feel like I’m going to pass out. I can’t drink any water before the competition, and I’m taking diuretics to look as dry as possible on the stage. My muscles are cramping up way too easily, and I had to reduce the intensity of my workouts. My caloric intake is pretty much nonexistent. Tomorrow, I’ll probably eat a rice cake with some jelly to look fuller, and that’s going to be it.

The evening before the competition, I get a notification on Instagram. It’s my sponsor tagging me in a post. I reread it for what feels like a hundredth time, but the text doesn’t change. They’re dropping me. They don’t explain why. It might be the comments. It might be because they suspect I’m taking steroids.

I check my private messages and see there’s a message from the sponsor there, too. They’re confirming what they said in the post. Additionally, they say I should go to a doctor.

I don’t reply to them. I sense anger inside me growing to a boiling point. I suppress it. I can’t allow myself to be distracted.

Once I win the competition, new doors will open for me. I will get other sponsors. And I might even be able to transition to doing bodybuilding as a full-time job.

***

“No, you have to— Okay, can you stop?” I ask Amy.

She stops applying tanning cream on my back.

“What?” she asks.

“It’s not even. You have to even it out.”

She tries again, unsuccessfully.

“Amy, look at how the front was done. Just copy it on the back.”

“I’m trying to, but I don’t understand how you want me to—”

“You know what? I’ll do it myself. Just…”

I start applying it on my own. Amy stalks out of the room.

An hour later, I’m finally ready to step on the stage. I’m eyeing the other competitors. They’re looking impressive. Grant is among them. They’re giving me weird looks. Looks of jealousy, perhaps?

Amy has been staring at one spot for a while now.

“Where do you want to grab a bite after this?” I ask Amy. I've been dreaming of pizza for a while now.

She doesn’t respond.

“Hey. Ames?”

She looks up at me. I don’t recognize that look. It’s the look of a stranger.

“What happens after the competition, Jake?” she asks.

“We eat somewhere.”

“No, I mean after. I assume you’ll continue competing after this.”

“Of course. This is my life.”

“That means more steroids,” she says.

“It’s a necessary part of this sport.”

She crosses her arms, looks nowhere in particular, then turns back to face me. “I did a lot of thinking, Jake.”

“About what?”

Dread is piling in my gut. I can tell what she’s about to do, but I’m screaming inside at her to not do it. Not now of all times.

“About us. I don’t think this is going to work out, Jake.”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

“You know what I see when I look at you, Jake? I don’t see a man with the perfect body. I see a vulnerable little boy running from himself. Good luck in the competition, Jake. I wish you all the best,” Amy says.

If there ever was a more obvious goodbye, it’s this one.

“Amy, what do you mean? Amy? Amy!”

But Amy’s already walking away. A few heads turn to see what the fuss is all about. That fucking bitch. Unsupportive, selfish fucking bitch.

My eyes are on the prize. I can’t allow myself to be distracted. I have to win the competition. Then I can worry about everything else.

The competitors are called on stage. When I step into the spotlight, I hear a few gasps in the crowd. I’m smiling in front of the judges. The announcer introduces us, people cheer, and the competition begins.

As the judges call out for each pose, we flex our muscles. My muscles are screaming with cramps, but I’m not letting up. I need to win this. Even my facial muscles are stiff from the incessant grinning.

It’s over fast, and it’s time to announce the winner.

“And the gold medal goes to…” The announcer drags it on, pauses. Pauses. Pauses. “Number six!”

My heart plummets. I look at Grant. He’s heading up to the official who’s adorning him with a gold medal. He shakes hands with the official, turns to the cheering crowd, and raises his arms. People applaud.

No, this has got to be rigged. It has to be.

The announcer calls the numbers for the second and third place. It’s not me.

I’m not fourth, either. Or fifth.

Each number that’s called out is like a jab in my heart.

In the end, I’m last. Fucking last.

I spend a solid thirty minutes looking at myself in the mirror, wondering what could have gone wrong. Other competitors are outside, eating the well-earned meals brought by the organizers. Not me. I feel like I don’t deserve that meal.

When I head outside, I roam the hallways looking for Amy. I want to apologize to her, tell her I was wrong, ask her to forgive me. Then I see her.

And she’s not alone.

Grant is leaning on the wall and talking to her. His medal is still hanging around his neck. They’re smiling. I can see her brushing her hair behind her ear.

Suddenly, anger pours into my veins. An accumulation of everything that’s happened in the past few weeks erupts like a volcano. I’m no longer in control of myself.

Vaguely, I register that I’m crossing the distance between myself and Grant, and I see my fist flying toward his face. I’m on top of him, pummeling him, but it feels like hitting something in a dream, that’s how weak I am. Amy is screaming behind me. Other voices have joined the cacophony.

The room is spinning, the corners of my eyes are growing dark. My voice sounds like it’s trapped inside my head and the words are slurry. And then I’m on the ground, and I can’t breathe. My body is all tingly. I just barely register that people are flocking to me before I pass out.

***

The doctor walks into my room. I’ve been forced to see him in the past three weeks, and the entire time, he’s looked like he can’t wait to be rid of me. He tells me I'm free to go.

I don’t respond. I listen as he drones on about all the damages to my liver and kidneys. All I hear is how difficult my life is going to be from here on out, and how I’ll never be able to train again, let alone compete in bodybuilding competitions.

I try not to pay attention to the viral videos titled “skinny guy joins a bodybuilding competition, but it’s hard not to see them. They pop up on my feed or people send them to me via messages to mock me.

In the videos of the competition, I’m the smallest guy. Scrawny as hell, muscles pretty much nonexistent. Ribs are poking through my skin, and so are my vertebrae. My legs are so skinny they look like they can snap with one wrong step. When I first saw the video, I thought it was someone else. I laughed at the skinny guy. Then I saw his face.

My face.

When I enter the hospital bathroom, I look at myself. I’m a wreck. All my muscles are pretty much gone, replaced by smooth layers of fat. My chest, once firm as a rock, is sagging like female tits. Gynecomastia developed from steroid use. My lower back hurts like hell. Disc degeneration from lifting too much weight. I don’t even want to think about the internal damage that isn’t visible.

I’m disgusted by myself.

No one looks in my direction on the bus ride back home. There are no gawks of admiration. I’m just like them now. An average Joe.

The bus I’m taking passes next to the park where I went that one night when I met the old man. And then it all clicks. I hadn’t thought about him at all this entire time, and now when I remember, exhilaration bolts through me.

I need to find him. He did this to me. He can undo it. And if he can’t? Then I’m going to make him pay for what he did.

I get out at the next stop. I rush inside the park and look for the bench where I met the old man.

I don’t expect to find him there. That’s why I’m surprised to see him sitting on the same bench, sipping water from his bottle.

“You!” I shout, pointing a finger at him.

Even as I cross the distance between us, I realize I’m no longer the strong beast I used to be. I feel so weak I’m not even sure I can beat this old man in a fight.

When I approach, he looks at me, but he seems nonplussed. The smile that crosses his face flickers with familiarity.

“You did this to me! You ruined my life!” I accuse, because I don’t know what else to say.

I want to pummel him just as I did Grant, but once again, something is stopping me. An invisible barrier warning me of dire consequences.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” the old man asks.

His voice works like a charm. I obey without a complaint.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?” he asks.

I don’t even know how to start. Why should I explain it to him, anyway? He knows exactly what he did to me.

“I lost everything because of you,” I say.

“How do you mean?”

“You had asked me what I would wish for, and I said I wanted a perfect body. And now look at me.”

“And you think my question is so potent it can topple a person like that?” When he asks that question, I feel stupid for blaming him. “Well, if that were the case, I would be spending a lot less time at this park.”

He lets out a chuckle. It makes me want to kill him.

“Stop fucking with me! I know you did something! You threw a curse on me or something! I know it! You asked what I would be willing to sacrifice, and I said everything! Well, I lost it all.”

He’s unfazed by my accusation. “Everything that happens in life, Jake, is a product of our own decisions. We reap what we sow. Let me ask you, when you see all these people around you, what do you see?”

“You already asked me that the first time we met.”

“And I’m asking again.”

I look around, and I see something there for the first time. A man walks by eating a chocolate-glazed donut and talking on the phone. A father with a protruding belly and balding scalp is walking with his daughter hand in hand. A scrawny couple is sharing a kiss under a tree.

“They’re… happy,” I say. “They don’t care about how they look. They’re living their lives.”

“That’s right. Because they know there are far more important things than physical appearance. When they’re old and look back on their life, they’re not going to pride themselves in the weeks they went without eating a single carbohydrate or how much they bench-pressed. They are going to remember moments such as these.”

He points to the couple that’s sharing a loving glance. I look toward the father walking his little girl. He’s beaming. By all rights, he should be miserable, but he couldn’t look happier.

It suddenly dawns on me. All this time, I thought I was better than everyone. In truth, I was worse than these average Joes.

A vulnerable little boy running from himself.

Tears well up in my eyes. I have spent so long chasing perfection that I lost the true beauty in the process. And now what do I have? Nothing but my own despair to simmer in.

“I have to get going, Jake,” the old man says. “I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you’re able to stop and enjoy the moment. I think you’ve earned it.”

Something inside me screams not to let the old man go, because if I do, I’ll never see him again. But there’s nothing I can do. I watch as he stands, gives me a tip of his head, and leaves. The next time I look in his direction, he’s no longer there.

I sit in silence, staring at the water bottle he left on the bench.

At the imprint of a muscle man double-flexing his biceps.