CHAPTER ONE: DUMB FROM BIRTH
The universe had a sense of humor.
A strange one.
Because somewhere out there, among stars and galaxies and divine mysteries, it decided to birth two boys who shared one braincell between them.
And on bad days, neither of them had it.
Dumbo A: Miyo ( ◜‿◝ )♡
Miyo had been dumb since the womb.
If you ask miyo's mom when exactly our sweet miyo became stupid, she'll say, "Since the ultrasound."
Which is extremely rude, but honestly? Fair.
Miyo entered the world peacefully—too peacefully.
Doctors swore they'd never seen a baby look cute that early. Delicate, sweet, pink-haired, eyes wide like he had just discovered existence was optional. Nurses cooed. Parents wept.
The doctor held him as a newborn and said,
"He's… very calm."
Which was polite medical language for he's staring at the wall like it's whispering secrets to him.
And miyo never really outgrew that expression.
Growing up, Miyo proved the universe right in every possible way.
At age four, he hugged a cactus because "it looked lonely."
At age six, he followed a stray cat for three hours only to realize it wasn't a cat, just a perfectly round trash bag moving in the wind.
By age ten, he was banned from touching the microwave after he tried to "reheat ice."
And School didn't help.
Miyo studied the same way he lived his life: with complete faith and zero strategy. His notebooks were filled with cute stickers, neat handwriting, and absolutely no relevant information. He once wrote an entire essay about how mitochondria are "probably tiny fish."
His parents—saints, truly tried tutoring him.
"Miyo, solve this equation."
"Okay!" he'd chirp softly, then proceed to confidently write down the wrong answer—
every. single. time.
Same wrong answer. No variation. Absolute commitment to the bit.
But Miyo wasn't hopeless. He was just… Miyo.
And by some beautiful cosmic oversight, he survived school long enough to land in high school, where teachers alternated between wanting to protect him and wanting to scream into a pillow.
And By the time he reached high school, students knew two things about him:
1. Miyo was very pretty.
2. Miyo was an… airhead.
Not in a tragic way.
Just in a quietly blinking, pastel-scented, delayed-reaction kind of way. He walked like he was drifting through a gentle breeze.
He talked like he was choosing words from a menu inside his head. He smiled softly at everything—teachers, cats, vending machines, his desk.
And people forgave his stupidity because he looked like a delicate spring fairy who might disintegrate if spoken to too harshly.
So when he failed multiple important subjects and classes?
Nobody was surprised.
Not even him.
He just blinked, looked at the paper, and said, "Oh… I thought it was gonna be one digit..."
He got a Fifteen. God knows how.
Dumbo B: Luca (~￣³￣)~
Luca, on the other hand, was a different breed of dumb.
Some babies come into the world crying.
Some come quietly.
Luca came out smiling.
The nurse held him up and said,
"Oh… he's happy!"
Which was the polite medical translation of:
This child has no idea what planet he's on.
His first recorded act in life was trying to grab the doctor's glasses.
His second was trying to eat the ultrasound gel bottle.
Luca grew up in a household where volume was more important than logic.
A dad who shouted at Sports matches like someone was burning hum alive.
A mom who believed carbs cured all problems.
Three siblings who treated the living room like a wrestling arena. He was the youngest and used to get beaten up and boss around a lot by his elder sisters.
And a dog that was somehow smarter than all of them.
It wasn't a home—it was a sports commercial with questionable supervision.
And He was Raised loud, big, and so bright-eyed you could mistake him for a golden retriever if he wagged his tail just once.
The Dinner conversations in Luca's home went like: "Mom, what's a metaphor?"
"It's like… a snack you can't eat, honey."
This was the educational environment that shaped Luca's mind.
And he started showing early signs of concern: By age five, teachers suspected he was "special."
Not in the gifted way. But in the way how he tried to climb into a locker because he thought it was a portal way.
He once got lost inside a revolving door.
He waved at a mannequin for ten minutes before realizing it wasn't a real person.
And then apologized to it.
His parents proudly assured teachers:
"He's just enthusiastic!"
The teachers looked at him trying to eat a brown crayon because it looks like the color of chocolate and whispered,
"He's enthusiastic, alright…"
But Luca's life changed at age nine when a coach noticed two important things:
1. He was tall.
2. His brain did not interfere with his physical ability whatsoever.
He could jump.
He could run.
He could throw himself at a ball with the determination of a golden retriever going after a frisbee.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
This was what he was born for.
Not math.
Not science.
Definitely not geography (he once said Europe was "the fancy part of America").
But sports. Pure, brainless sports.
Volleyball became his whole personality so fast his family didn't even notice.
His grades were a sacrifice.
His brain cells—already endangered—were redirected exclusively into his legs and arms.
So By high school, he was popular, hot, charming, and a top athlete.
But academically?
He once used a calculator to check if he was hungry. Don't ask me why... I don't know either.
He raised his hand in history class and asked if "ancestors" is another word for "old people who look like you." Many teachers didn't liked him so much.
He had confidence for days.
Charisma that made teachers sigh.
Muscles that justified half his popularity.
And a brain that went: Volleyball? Yes.
Academic thought? File not found.
Everyone loved him, though.
He was friendly, warm, and so heart-thumpingly earnest that even when he said something stupid like "Do fish drink water?" people just patted him on the back and moved on.
One day, The school counselor gently asked if he needed extra tutoring.
Luca—smiling like the sun—said:
"No, I'm good! I learn better when I'm having fun!"
Mhm... He was having fun.
He was not learning.
As an alpha, people expected dominance, maturity, and leadership. Instead they got, A soft, friendly, eager puppy with zero emotional intimidation and Someone who hugs too hard and apologizes too much. An oversized golden-retriever energy wrapped in a tall, handsome shell.
Even his pheromones were warm—like sunshine mixed with the faint smell of sports drink.
Alphas growl.
Luca… wags.
So if we would try to conclude it... He isn't dumb because life betrayed him.
He's dumb because life never challenged him and he never questioned anything.
Born smiling.
Raised loudly.
Coached into volleyball greatness.
Carried through school by charm and biceps alone.
And now? He too failed multiple classes and subjects... It didn't affected him before, As long as he could have fun. But He isn't too carefree anymore when he learns, if he fails this class... Well, guess he will have to say bye bye to going to nationals.