"Are you who you are meant to be?" blared the intercom as the principal wrapped up his speech.
Like every other student in the class, I tuned out most of it.
But those words (are you who you are meant to be )kept echoing in my mind as I scanned the room, wondering if anyone else had actually listened, or if anyone knew what they were supposed to become.
When the bell rang, signaling the end of the day, my classmates sprang to life. Some drifted toward friends, chatting and laughing, while others hurried to stuff their belongings into their bags.
I stayed rooted to my seat, lost in thought, until a tap on my shoulder pulled me back.
"Josh, still zoned out?" My friend Steve grinned down at me.
"No, just thinking about what the principal said," I replied, standing up.
"Come on, grab your bag. Let's go home."
"Alright, alright. Don't rush me, I was waiting on you," Steve said, swinging his bag over his shoulder, that grin never leaving his face.
"Tall bastard," I muttered.
I'm not self-conscious about my height. I'm a perfectly normal 16-year-old — 5'6", and when I wear boots, a shocking 5'8"! But Steve could make anyone feel short. Skinny as a pole, with light brown hair and dark green eyes, he stood at an impressive 6'5".
"I heard that," smirked my vertically gifted companion.
"Why are you thinking about that?" he asked.
I shrugged, slinged my bag over my shoulder, and started walking.
"How would I know who I'm supposed to be? I don't even know what classes I want next year."
"Haha, what makes you think you're going to pass?" Steve teased.
He wasn't wrong. I could do better in class…
I'm not the best student. Barely keeping my above failing grades. I don't think I'm dumb, I'd just rather spend my time playing games or reading a light novel at night. Memorizing math equations or the history of some long dead general doesn't seem like it'll affect my life much. I don't expect to become some major historian who can tell you a general's favorite breakfast from 300 years ago, or discover the next equation that explains the laws of the universe. I just want… an average life.
As Steve and I made our usual walk home, we did what we always did — talked about classes, complained about homework, and, most importantly, nerded out over our favorite shows, anime, and games.
Steve's my best friend. We met on the first day of third grade after I transferred to a new school. We happened to sit next to each other and bonded over comics and video games. Back then, we were the same height — if I'd known he'd grow into a giant, I might've kept my lunch to myself.
Today was no different.
"I'm stuck on the fifth boss," Steve groaned. "It autosaved right before the cutscene, so now I have to rewatch it every time I die."
I grunted something half-sympathetic, not really listening. He'd been complaining about that same boss for three days straight. As we neared the fork in the road — where Steve went one way and I the other — my mind drifted back to the principal's words.
Are you who you are meant to be?
"Yo, Josh, I'll see you tomorrow," Steve said, raising a fist for a bump.
"Huh? Yeah, man. See you." I bumped his fist, still distracted.
"You good? You seem kinda out of it," he asked, stopping mid-step.
"I'm fine, just tired," I lied.
"Alright. Get some rest — I'll need you in top shape to help me beat that boss this weekend," Steve called as he turned left.
"Who said I'm free this weekend? What if I've got a date or something?" I yelled after him.
"I'll give you my life savings if you can name a girl who isn't your mom or in our class!" he shouted back, laughing.
"You could at least pretend to believe me, Mr. Long Legs," I muttered.
"I heard that!" Steve called over his shoulder, still grinning.
The world's unfair — if you're gonna grow ten feet taller, you should at least lose your hearing to balance it out.
As I walked home alone, still cursing the universe, those words echoed again.
Am I who I'm supposed to be?
If I asked my ten-year-old self, would he be happy with who I am now?
My steps felt heavier. The sky looked higher, the setting sun smaller. Even the city noise seemed muffled.
I say I want an average life, but like every other teenage boy, I have my daydreams — being a hero, saving the city, fighting aliens. I wonder what powers I'd have, how people would see me, whether I'd stand with the best — a named hero, a known hero.
How would it feel to fly above the buildings?
Still, I'm not delusional. I don't think I'm special or secretly the reincarnation of some god destined to save humanity.
I'm just a normal sixteen-year-old who wishes he was more — and I'm okay with that.
Forty years ago, after the meteor hit Earth, the first superhumans appeared. Some saved lives; others chased their own goals. The best of them became known as heroes — symbols of hope, nearly worshipped by the world. They're everything we could be at our best.
They stand for good, righteousness, and selflessness.
At the peak of all heroes stands Alpha — Humanity's Hero, Humanity's Hope. Our hero.
The only S+ rank hero in the world.
No one knows who he is or where he came from. He just appeared one day, guiding new supers, setting the example for what it meant to use power responsibly. He's defeated villains, saved cities, and founded the Association — a place where new supers can train to master their abilities.
Half-aware, half-zoned out, I realized the sky had gotten darker much faster than I expected.
Snap out of it. It's getting late, and you don't live in the safest part of town, I told myself, quickening my pace. Thankfully, home was only a few minutes away.
Unfortunately, a slow-walking sixteen-year-old kid with a full backpack at night tends to attract the wrong kind of attention.
"Hey, buddy."
A voice came from behind me.
Please don't be talking to me. I ignored it and walked faster.
"Didn't you hear me calling you?" the voice said again — this time closer. A large hand clamped down on my shoulder.
Startled, I looked down at it.
"Um, I'm sorry, I didn't think you were talking to me," I said, slowly turning around.
The man gripping me looked about five or six years older — taller, with a big nose and a smile that tried too hard to look friendly.
"Well, now you know I'm talking to you," he said, his grin widening.
"I don't like being ignored," he added, leaning closer, voice low and rough.
"Please, sir, I don't have anything. I'm just walking home from school," I stammered, trying to think of an escape.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" he snapped. The fake smile vanished as his grip tightened painfully on my shoulder.
"Please," I whimpered, trying not to cry out.
"I'm just trying to be your friend," he said, smile returning — wider, colder.
"Now, as a friend… why don't you come with me?" he whispered near my ear.
The pain in my shoulder flared as he dragged me toward a narrow alley, out of sight from the street.
God, Buddha, sweet science, and anything else that's listening — please don't let me die today.
He shoved me hard against the wall.
"Please, sir, I'm just a student," I said, my voice cracking.
"SHUT UP," he barked. "Empty your pockets."
I froze.
"I said empty them!" he roared and punched me in the stomach.
If you've ever been hit in the stomach when you weren't ready, you know the kind of pain I mean.
It's the kind that makes your legs give out, your world spins. My ears rang, and for a moment, I thought I'd gone deaf. My knees hit the concrete before I even realized I was falling.
As I hit my knees, I started cursing my principal and his stupid words that distracted me on my walk home.
If I die today, I hope I at least throw up on this guy's shoes, I thought, staring up at the man responsible for my pain.
A dozen useless thoughts crossed my mind as I knelt on the ground.
"Get up," he said, kicking me in the ribs.
"Blaghh—" I threw up.
Unfortunately, I missed his shoes. Maybe he'd be grossed out by my self-defense tactic.
"Dirty bastard," he muttered, right before a foot slammed into the side of my head.
I don't actually know his shoe size, but if I had to guess, that kick felt like a size 15. Suddenly, I was grateful I hadn't puked on his shoes—getting hit with a vomit-covered one would've been even worse.
My ears rang. The world spun. Tears and snot ran down my face.
I wished this was a dream and I'd wake up in bed.
But it wasn't.
A rough hand grabbed my collar and yanked me upright, slamming me against the wall.
"I said get up."
"Please—I have nothing," I stammered. Between the crying and the snot, I doubt he even understood me, but from the fury in his eyes, I'm guessing he thought I insulted his mother.
He shoved his hands into my pockets, pulled out my phone and wallet, and stuffed them into his own without even looking.
How many people do you have to rob before that becomes muscle memory?
"Give me your bag," he said, yanking it off my back.
"There's just books in there—please don't take them."
Why do I keep replying? I barely had time to think that before his fist crashed into my eye.
He let go, and I crumpled to the ground.
"Tell anyone who I am, and I'll find you," he said, kicking me in the ribs again before walking away.
The hit sent me bouncing off the wall, face-first into the puddle of puke I'd left earlier.
Somehow, that felt even worse than the shoe to the face.
I stayed down for a few minutes, waiting for the pain to fade.
I need to get out of here before he realizes I only had three dollars in my wallet, I thought, gripping the wall and slowly forcing myself up. I started limping toward my apartment.
Funny thing—he never even hit my legs, but I was still limping.
When I finally reached the main street, I tried to walk normal. Thankfully, there weren't many people around. I didn't want to imagine what I looked like.
After ten excruciating minutes—on what should've been a five-minute walk—I made it to the apartment building I share with my mom.
Just three flights of stairs, a hallway, and I'd be home.
I moved as fast as I could, climbing the stairs. Near the second floor, the door opened—a young boy and his mother started coming down. I lowered my head, mumbling a quiet "hello" as they passed.
Halfway up, I heard the kid whisper, "Mommy, why does he smell so bad?"
"Hush," she said, hurrying him out the door.
My ears burned.
God, this is so embarrassing, I thought as I finally reached my floor and limped toward our front door.
I live in an old but still-functioning apartment building with my mother. We're a single-parent household; she works nights, so she's usually home when I'm at school and gone by the time I get back.
A part of me feels relieved walking into an empty apartment. My head's spinning, and every step hurts. I feel like a rusted machine that hasn't been oiled in centuries.
As I drag myself toward my room, I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror.
You look like shit, I think, staring at myself.
My long black hair sticks to my face, matted and clumped where it landed in my own puke. One side of my face is red; I already know it'll be purple and swollen by morning. My dark red eyes look tired. Weak. Pathetic.
I look away fast, ashamed.
I should probably take a shower.
I change course toward the bathroom. Stripping down, I inspect the damage — skinny, frail, ribs bruised in deep red blotches that make breathing hurt. Scrapes burn along my knees.
This is going to hurt tomorrow.
I step into the shower and let the hot water run over me. The heat stings, but I just stand there, replaying everything that happened. The punches. The helplessness. Tears well up until they spill over, mixing with the water.
Alone. Tired. Scared.
But more than anything — angry.
Angry at myself for being weak. Angry at my life. Angry that if it happened again, nothing would change. I'd still be the one crying, hurt, and scared.