Wait… My Clumsy Classmate is a Secret Greek God?!

The familiar dread began the moment Akira's eyes fluttered open, clinging to the last wisps of sleep like a drowning man to driftwood. It wasn't just school; it was the aftermath. The photo. It hung in the humid air of his bedroom like a particularly nasty mosquito unseen but buzzing, waiting to bite.

He stood before the open closet, the cheap particleboard smelling faintly of dust and mothballs. Two options. Two identical, dark gray hoodies. They blurred into one oppressive mass. Gray or… grayer? His brain felt like static. How could such a simple decision feel like navigating a minefield? Every choice felt amplified, scrutinized, wrong.

A sudden, loud rip of nylon startled him. Grandpa Hiroshi, a whirlwind of questionable fashion choices, stood holding a garment the colour of a traffic cone in direct sunlight.

"Wear this!" Grandpa declared, his voice raspy from years of shouting directions on questionable film sets. "Criminals hate bright colours. Distracts 'em. Forces a double-take." He demonstrated, swivelling his head sharply.

Akira managed a weak groan that got caught in his throat. "I'm not fighting crime, Grandpa. I'm just… going to high school."

Grandpa Hiroshi scoffed, tossing the neon monstrosity onto Akira's bed. It landed with an offensive brightness. "Same difference, kid. Same difference. Now eat this." He thrust a small, hard-boiled egg into Akira's hand. It had been meticulously, bafflingly, carved into the rough shape of a clenched fist. "For courage."

The egg felt vaguely threatening. Akira stared at it, then back at the closet. Gray felt like surrender, but neon felt like suicide by visibility. The clock on the wall ticked with cruel indifference. He grabbed the grayest gray hoodie, pulling it on like a shield.

The walk to school was a blur of hunched shoulders and averted eyes. The hoodie felt scratchy against his neck, a physical manifestation of his discomfort. He could feel the glances, the subtle shifts in posture as people registered him. The whispers were a low hum at first, then sharper, little darts of sound aimed directly at his ears.

"Is that the guy?"

"Looks way different."

"No way, the photo guy was ripped."

"Maybe it's edited? Like, really edited?"

"He's so… nerdy in person."

Nerdy. The word felt like a brand. He ducked into the nearest sanctuary – the boys' bathroom. The fluorescent lights hummed, stark and unforgiving. He splashed cold water on his face, the shock doing little to clear the fog in his head. He looked at his reflection – the damp hair plastered to his forehead, the wide, slightly panicked eyes behind his thick glasses. He looked nothing like the anonymous, sculpted torso that had somehow gone viral.

He gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white. "You're a hologram," he whispered, the water dripping from his chin. "A ghost. None of this is real." His reflection stared back, unimpressed. "A… very sweaty ghost," he amended, a tremor running through his hand. The mirror offered no comfort. Just the stark, undeniable reality of his own anxious face.

The hallway between third and fourth period was a chaotic river of bodies, laughter, and slamming locker doors. Akira navigated it like a salmon swimming upstream, head down, trying to merge into the background radiation of typical high school noise. He clutched his history textbook to his chest, a flimsy barrier against the world.

He felt a sudden, sharp impact, a blur of motion, and the frantic squeak of a tiny animal. The world tilted, colours smeared, and his glasses, the anchors tethering him to visual clarity, were gone. He blinked, everything softening, edges blurring. He felt a hand grab his arm to steady himself, another hand fumbling near his face.

"Sir Nibblesworth, no!" A voice, high-pitched and frantic, cut through the noise. "Gotcha, you furry demon!"

He blinked again, trying to focus on the blurry shape in front of him. A girl. Messy ponytail, bright eyes. She was holding something small and struggling in one hand and… his glasses in the other.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry!" she gasped, shoving the squirming hamster into her jacket pocket. Her eyes, now sharper, focused on his face. The frantic energy drained away, replaced by a sudden, absolute stillness. She held his glasses like they were fragile relics. Her mouth parted slightly.

A different kind of sound began to ripple through the hallway – a sudden dip in the noise level, heads turning. Akira felt a prickle on the back of his neck.

The girl's voice was barely a whisper now, laced with a bizarre kind of awe. "Wait… no way…" She blinked slowly, then faster. "You're… you're the mystery hottie! The one from the photo! With… with the abs!"

Akira recoiled as if she'd slapped him. He stumbled backward, bumping into a science fair project poster leaning against the wall. "Nope!" he yelped, his voice cracking. "Never met him! Wrong guy! I'm his… cousin." He searched desperately for a number, any number. "Twice removed. Thrice! Maybe even… quadricely removed? From a different continent!"

Sakura – because of course it was Sakura Nakamura, the human equivalent of a glitter bomb – narrowed her eyes, her gaze intense. She took a step forward, pressing him back. He felt the cool cinder block wall against his spine. She wasn't shouting anymore; her voice was low, conspiratorial.

"Don't lie to me, 'Quadricely Removed.' The face matches the… everything else." She gestured vaguely at his chest, still hidden beneath the gray hoodie, making him flinch. "Okay, okay. New plan." She glanced around the hallway, where more and more eyes were starting to linger. "We need to disappear. Now."

She grabbed his arm – firmer this time, pulling him towards a door marked 'Maintenance.' He stumbled after her. The door swung open, revealing a small, cramped space smelling strongly of disinfectant and stale water. A collection of mops leaned against the far wall.

She shoved him inside, the door clicking shut behind them, plunging them into dimness broken only by the light filtering under the door. She backed him up until the handle of a mop pressed uncomfortably against his lower back.

"Okay, listen," she whispered urgently, her face close in the gloom. Her eyes seemed huge behind the thick lenses of his glasses, which she still held. "My older brother is driving me insane. He thinks every guy I look at is a creep. He keeps saying I need to date someone 'safe,' someone he approves of." She paused, her gaze sweeping over him again, lingering on his face, his hoodie, his generally rumpled appearance. "So… you. You're perfect."

Akira stared at her, bewildered. "Perfect? For what?"

"For fake-boyfriending!" she declared, her voice bouncing slightly off the concrete walls. "I'll tell him we're dating. You're clearly not a creep. You're… safely un-hot. Usually."

Safely un-hot?! The phrase echoed in the tiny space, louder than any shout. Safely un-hot?! I spend forty minutes every morning doing core work! I can bench-press your body weight, Sakura Nakamura! Twice! Probably thrice if I'm properly motivated by this conversation!

His chest felt tight with a confusing mix of indignation and panic.

Out loud, what came out was a strangled gasp. "F-fine," he stammered, pressing himself further against the mop handle. It poked him sharply. "But no… no touching. Or… or talking. Not about… this." He waved a vague hand between his chest and the viral photo. "Or… or breathing near me."

Sakura grinned, a sharp flash of teeth in the dim light. "Deal," she said, and shoved his glasses back onto his face. The world snapped back into focus, sharp and terrifying. She was holding Sir Nibblesworth up to her cheek like a fuzzy phone.

Fourth period felt endless, a slow crawl towards the unavoidable exposure of lunchtime. The buzz about the photo had only intensified. Akira could feel eyes on him even through the classroom wall. Sakura, seated two rows over, kept glancing back, offering tiny, unsettling thumbs-ups.

When the bell finally screamed release, his small, familiar group of friends – Kenji, with his perpetually smudged glasses, and Haru, who spoke exclusively in Dungeons & Dragons metaphors – converged on him near the door.

"Akira! Dude," Kenji began, adjusting his own eyewear. "You coming to the Astronomy Club meeting today? We're finally calibrating the new telescope!"

Akira felt a pang of longing for the quiet, predictable order of celestial bodies. "Uh, yeah, maybe. I—"

Sakura suddenly appeared at his elbow, a tray in her hands overloaded with brightly coloured food. "Oh, Akiiiiiraaa!" she chirped, loud enough to make several nearby heads swivel. She leaned in conspiratorially, though her voice carried perfectly. "Don't forget our… thing later!"

Akira's gut clenched. Our thing? What thing? The fake-boyfriend thing? Was she starting already?

He mumbled, trying to sound casual, "Uh, yeah, sure, Sakura."

Just then, Sakura stumbled slightly, a carefully orchestrated wobble. A large, full cup of bright green melon soda on her tray tipped.

"Oops!" she cried, the soda arcing directly onto the front of Akira's gray hoodie. It hit with a wet splat, soaking through the thick material instantly. It was cold and sticky.

"Aw, man!" Kenji exclaimed.

Haru squinted. "Critical hit, my friend. Looks like you failed your Dexterity save."

Akira stared down at the spreading green stain. It felt planned. It felt very planned.

"Oh my gosh, Akira, I am so, so sorry!" Sakura wailed, dabbing ineffectively at the stain with a napkin. "Here, take this!" She shoved the sticky napkin into his hand and gave him another thumbs-up that somehow managed to convey both apology and triumph. "You better change, you'll catch a cold! Meet me by the lockers when you're done?"

He nodded numbly, peeling the damp, sticky hoodie away from his skin.

Lunch was a nightmare. The air in the cafeteria vibrated with rumour. Akira sat with Kenji and Haru, picking at his lukewarm noodles, acutely aware of the dampness on his shirt.

Kenji leaned in, his voice low. "Dude, seriously though. You've been… different since that photo blew up. Everything okay?" He hesitated. "You're not… him, right?"

Akira forced a laugh that sounded like a startled bird. "Pfft. Me? That guy? Do I look like I have abs?" He gestured vaguely at his stomach, still covered by the slightly damp, clinging t-shirt underneath the hoodie. "I'm 90% ramen noodles and 10% crippling anxiety."

Haru nodded solemnly. "Indeed. Your Constitution score appears low. Perhaps you should take a long rest."

The sticky feeling was driving Akira insane. The melon soda was sugary, making the fabric cling in the most irritating way. He couldn't stand it for another second. Without thinking, driven purely by discomfort, he reached for the hem of his t-shirt.

He peeled it off, the damp fabric releasing from his skin with a faint, tacky sound. He intended to just hold it, maybe fan himself dry.

He was standing there, a gray, slightly damp t-shirt clutched in one hand, his chest exposed.

The silence began subtly, a ripple spreading from his table. It wasn't just a lack of noise; it was the cessation of noise. The clatter of trays, the murmur of conversations, the scraping of chairs – it all faded, one sound after another, until the only audible thing was the distant whir of the ventilation system.

Every head in the immediate vicinity turned. Then heads further away. Then heads all across the vast, echoing room. They weren't looking at Kenji or Haru. They were looking at him.

His bare torso.

The ramen-noodle-powered torso.

Which, through years of diligent, solitary workouts fuelled by a need for control in a chaotic world, happened to be… not noodle-like at all. Defined. Sculpted. Exactly like the torso in the viral photo.

A girl at a nearby table, who had been mid-chew, froze, her fork suspended in air. She swallowed hard. Her eyes widened behind her own stylish frames.

"Wait…" she breathed, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "Is that… is that the clone?!"

I'M A HOLOGRAM! The thought screamed in Akira's brain. But this time, the denial felt hollow, even to him. He saw the recognition flash across face after face. He saw phones being raised, cameras pointed.

He didn't stop to grab his hoodie or his tray. He didn't even think. His body reacted on pure, animal instinct. He bolted. Shirtless. Out of the cafeteria. Into the hallway. Away from the eyes, the whispers, the undeniable proof that his carefully constructed invisibility had just shattered into a million pieces.

Akira scrambled onto the school rooftop, the metal door slamming shut behind him with a jarring clang. The late afternoon sun beat down, hot on his bare back. He stumbled past air conditioning units, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He needed to be invisible. Undetectable. He pressed his back against the rough metal of a large vent fan, sliding down until he was crouched on the grimy rooftop concrete, trying to make himself small. His chest heaved. The sound of his own panicked breathing filled his ears. The city skyline spread out below, indifferent and vast. He felt utterly exposed, utterly ruined.

A few minutes later, the metal door creaked open again. He flinched, pressing himself tighter into the shadows.

It was Sakura. She stepped onto the roof cautiously, scanning the area. She spotted him and straightened up, holding his soggy gray hoodie gingerly by one sleeve.

"Akira?" she called out, her voice softer than it had been in the hallway. She walked towards him, extending the hoodie like a peace offering. "Hey. Found this."

He didn't move. He just stared at his knees, huddled in his little corner of despair.

She sat down a few feet away, carefully placing the hoodie beside her. "Look," she said, her voice earnest. "That… that was rough. Down there."

He finally managed to speak, his voice hoarse. "Rough? Sakura, my life just imploded. 'Rough' was getting melon soda on my shirt. This is… this is a multi-car pileup involving my identity and the internet."

"Okay, multi-car pileup," she conceded. "But I can help fix it! A little, anyway." She pulled out her phone. "My brother. If I just show him we're… like, dating, he'll back off. He'll see you're not some scary random guy." She gestured vaguely. "Just… smile. In one photo. Like we're… a couple."

Akira shook his head, pressing his forehead against the cool metal vent. "Smiling," he mumbled into the metal. "Smiling requires blood flow to my face. Currently impossible. All blood is busy fueling my fight-or-flight response, which is currently stuck on 'flight' and rapidly running out of fuel."

"Okay, no smiling," she said quickly, adjusting her plan on the fly. "Just… stand near me. Look… less like you're about to throw up."

He forced himself to sit up straighter, though his hands still trembled slightly. Sakura scooted closer, holding her phone out, facing them.

"Just… act natural," she instructed, which was the single most unnatural instruction he could imagine receiving. She angled the phone, her face brightening, giving a deliberately cheerful thumbs-up to the camera. Akira, next to her, managed only a grimace, his eyes wide and unfocused behind his glasses.

Click.

The sound was small, insignificant, but it felt deafening.

"Okay! Perfect," Sakura declared, looking at the image. "See? Totally convincing." She quickly navigated to her messaging app, pulled up her brother's contact, and started typing. Her thumbs flew across the screen.

Meet my new fake boyfriend! (Don't tell him he's kinda cute.)

She looked up, ready to hit send. Then, distracted by something – maybe Sir Nibblesworth squirming in her pocket, or a sudden gust of wind carrying the distant sound of a siren – her thumb wavered, slipping just slightly.

Her finger pressed down.

Not on her brother's name.

On the name just above it.

Class 2-B Group Chat.

There was a brief, sickening pause as the message sent. Sakura's eyes widened, staring at the screen. Her cheeks drained of colour.

"No," she whispered, her voice thin. "Oh, no. Oh god, no."

Akira, watching her face, felt a fresh wave of dread wash over him. "What?" he asked, his voice barely a croak. "What did you do?"

She slowly turned the phone screen towards him. The photo – his desperate grimace, her cheerful thumbs-up – sat in the group chat, accompanied by her perfectly honest, perfectly disastrous caption.

Meet my new fake boyfriend! (Don't tell him he's kinda cute.)

Below it, the first few messages were already appearing.

Wait, what?

OMG IS THAT AKIRA?

LOL "kinda cute"

THE PHOTO GUY?!

Akira didn't remember the walk home. He didn't remember unlocking the door or climbing the stairs to his room. All he remembered was the cold dread settling deep in his bones and the constant, frantic vibration in his pocket.

He'd left his phone face down on his desk. It had been vibrating for the last hour, a relentless, buzzing indictment of his existence. He could hear the faint dings of notifications even through the wood. He knew what was happening without looking.

He finally reached out a trembling hand and flipped it over.

The screen exploded with light and colour. Messages, notifications, likes, shares, comments – a furious storm of digital activity. The photo was everywhere. Screenshots of the group chat message were being shared wider. Hashtags scrolled across the top of trending topics.

#NerdOrHottie?

#AkiraGate

#KindaCute

#SirNibblesworthsWingman (Wait, what?)

Each notification was a tiny pinprick, adding to the overwhelming pressure in his head. His face, his awkward, mortified face, was now a meme. His attempt at damage control had become the disaster itself.

His door rattled, followed by a loud, booming voice from the hallway. "Kid! You in there? Your face is on the internet! Like, everywhere!"

Grandpa Hiroshi. Of course. Probably saw it on some obscure forum for viral misfortunes.

"You're doing better than my stunt reel from 'Ninja Zombies on a Train'!" Grandpa crowed, completely oblivious to the depth of Akira's despair. "Keep it up! Next thing you know, you'll have residuals!"

Akira couldn't answer. He felt the last reserves of his sanity drain away, leaving behind only a hollow ache and the relentless buzzing of his phone. He dropped the phone onto his bed as if it had bitten him.

He stumbled towards the bed, the chaotic energy of the internet following him like a pack of digital wolves. He didn't even bother to change out of his still-slightly-damp shirt. He just collapsed onto the mattress, burying his face deep into his pillow, trying to smother the sound of the notifications, the image of his viral face.

The muffled cotton felt like the only safe place left in the world.

"I'm changing my name," he mumbled into the fabric, the words thick and distorted. "Moving to Jupiter. Joining the aliens."

He lay there, vibrating slightly, the sound of the online world a distant, inescapable hum. The day his glasses fell had indeed taken his sanity with them. And it was only just beginning.