Hi, I kind of have a problem; I signed up for gym but I never did sport of any kind, so after a week I decided to get an instructor, and I got this hunk, a straight guy I knew from school! The problem is: I always had a crush on him and he only got better, and if that was not enough, he keep wearing tights and compression shirts to workout, I cant stop looking him... now I already feel bad about being so meek and thin in comparison, how can I have a workout together without embarassing myself in front of him.
You’ve never liked gyms.
The fluorescent lights, the smell of iron and sweat, the heavy music pounding through tinny speakers — all of it feels hostile, like a place built for people who already know they belong here. You don’t. You’re the sort who double-knots your sneakers, triple-checks the locker number, and keeps your towel folded too neatly on the bench.
But you told yourself this year would be different.
A new you. Healthier, stronger, braver.
That’s what you said when you filled out the membership form online at 3 a.m., the cursor blinking beside your scrawny reflection in the laptop screen. Now, standing in front of a mirror smeared with fingerprints and chalk dust, you see what you were trying to fix — narrow shoulders, soft arms, skin that looks too pale under the harsh light. You tug your oversized T-shirt down, hiding your shape, trying to disappear.
The clang of a barbell makes you jump.
You look over — and freeze.
He was two grades ahead of you in high school. Back then, you were the quiet one in the theater club, and he was already the type who jogged shirtless during lunch period, earning wolf whistles from the cheerleaders. You’d had a crush on him once, or maybe still did — the kind that leaves you breathless, angry at yourself for feeling it.
Now he’s a trainer here. And he hasn’t changed, except maybe he’s become more impossible.
Thick arms, tan skin, grin too easy to look at. He’s wearing a compression shirt so tight it looks painted on. You catch yourself staring, eyes tracing the curve of his chest, the ridges of muscle down his arms — until his reflection meets yours in the mirror.
You look away fast, heat climbing your neck. You pretend to fumble with your water bottle, but it’s too late — he’s walking over.
“Hey, man,” he says, voice low and casual, all confidence. “You new here?”
You nod. “Uh, yeah. Just—trying to figure things out.”
Zack laughs. “Don’t sweat it. Everyone starts somewhere.”
Then he glances you up and down. “You ever lift before?”
You shake your head. He whistles softly. “Alright, we’ll start from scratch.”
You hadn’t planned to hire a trainer, but when he offers, you can’t think of a reason to refuse. He claps you on the shoulder — too firm, too warm — and it leaves your skin tingling long after his hand moves away.
The first session is humiliating.
You can’t even bench the empty barbell without wobbling. Your grip slips on the pull-up bar. Every time you catch Zack watching, you stammer out an apology like you’ve done something wrong.
“Relax,” he says between sets. “You’re tense as hell, dude. You gotta loosen up.”
You nod, swallowing down the burn in your throat. The air smells like iron and salt. His scent — something warm, human, animal — cuts through it all, and you hate that you notice. You hate how close he gets to adjust your form, how his voice drops near your ear.
By the end of the session, your arms are jelly and your legs shake. Zack hands you a protein shake and grins. “Don’t quit after one week like most people do. You’ve got potential.”
You want to believe him.
You want to believe you could change — not just your body, but everything.
The next few days, you return.
Zack’s there every time, waiting with that grin, pushing you harder. “C’mon, man, you’ve got this. One more rep.”
You do what he says. Your chest aches. Your hands blister. But somewhere beneath the pain, there’s a flicker of pride.
Then, after one especially rough session, Zack waves you over. “Hey, so, I noticed something.”
You tense up immediately. Did he see you looking at him again?
He leans against the bench, arms crossed. “You’ve been checking me out.”
Your stomach drops. “What? No— I—”
“Hey, chill,” he says quickly, smirking. “I don’t swing that way, but it’s no big deal. You’re not the first. I just don’t want things getting weird between us, you know?”
You want to sink through the floor. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
He waves it off. “Relax, man. Look, if you really wanna focus, I got something that might help. My buddy’s a supplement rep. It’s like… supercharged protein. Helps with muscle growth, confidence, stamina. Stuff’s expensive, but he owes me a favor.”
He holds out a small plastic container — inside, a single gray capsule.
You hesitate. “Is it… safe?”
Zack grins, teeth white against his tan skin. “Dude, I take it all the time. You trust me, right?”
You don’t trust yourself.
But you nod anyway.
He claps your shoulder again. “Take it before tomorrow’s session. You’ll thank me later.”
That night, you sit at your desk, the pill sitting in your palm.
You study it under the lamp — smooth, dull, ordinary. But your reflection in the window looks strange, like it’s waiting for something. You can almost hear Zack’s voice in your head — you’ve got potential.
Your chest tightens. Your hand shakes.
And then, before you can second-guess it, you pop the pill in your mouth and swallow.
The taste is faintly metallic, like blood.
At first, nothing happens.
Then, slowly, warmth starts in your stomach and spreads outward. You shiver. The heat builds under your skin, prickling, crawling. Your reflection blurs slightly in the window glass — the shape of you wavering, wrong somehow.
Your heart races. You can feel it in your throat, your temples, everywhere.
A bead of sweat rolls down your chest.
When you stand, your knees nearly buckle. The floor tilts, the walls stretch. Your fingers twitch. You tell yourself it’s just the supplement, just adrenaline. You’ll feel fine by morning.
But as you strip for the shower, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror — and your skin seems just a shade darker, your veins more defined, your eyes… heavier.
You blink hard, rub them, look again.
Normal. You tell yourself it’s normal.
You turn off the light.
And as the darkness settles, you swear you can still feel the warmth under your skin — pulsing, spreading, alive.
You don’t sleep much.
Every time you close your eyes, your body buzzes — like something inside you is running on a low hum. You wake before dawn, sweating through your sheets, your heart hammering. The mirror catches you in the dim light.
You look… different.
Nothing obvious — just little things. The shadows under your eyes are gone. Your jaw looks a bit sharper. Your neck thicker, maybe. When you touch your skin, it feels tighter, like it’s been pulled over something swelling beneath.
You tell yourself it’s all in your head. Maybe the pill worked fast — a placebo or something. You grab your gym bag and head out into the early gray morning.
The gym smells like metal and disinfectant, the kind of scent that never leaves your nose. Zack’s already there, setting up weights. His compression shirt clings to him like skin, his shoulders gleaming under the fluorescent light.
He looks up, grinning.
“Yo, early bird! Damn, look at you. You already look different, man.”
You laugh nervously. “Yeah? I feel kinda weird.”
“That’s how you know it’s working.”
He tosses you a towel. “Ready to sweat?”
You nod, and the session begins.
It’s heavier today. More sets, more reps. But somehow, it doesn’t feel as impossible. The bar doesn’t crush you this time. The pull-up bar bites your palms, but your arms don’t tremble as much. Zack cheers you on, his voice cutting through the music — “C’mon, bro, push through it! Don’t think, just lift!”
You don’t think.
You lift.
You breathe.
And the more you push, the hotter your blood feels, the more distant your thoughts become.
By the time you finish, your body’s trembling — not with weakness, but something else. A pulsing, animal rhythm. Your heart feels too strong, beating through your ribs like it wants out.
Zack slaps your back, laughing. “There we go! Told you, man — you’ve got it in you.”
You nod, chest heaving. The praise hits harder than you expect. You like the way it sounds, the way he says it. You like that it makes you feel… real.
But when you head to the locker room, something strange happens.
You strip off your damp T-shirt and freeze.
Your chest isn’t flat anymore. It’s faint — but there’s definition now, the faint press of a curve under your skin. You run your fingers over it, feel a solidness that wasn’t there before. Your biceps twitch, jump beneath your touch. You can’t tell if you’re imagining it or not.
Your head feels light. The air seems thicker, the buzzing louder. You can still hear Zack laughing faintly outside, and the sound pulls at you — sharp and magnetic, like gravity has shifted.
You turn on the shower. The water hisses to life, steam filling the tiled room. The smell of sweat and soap mixes with something new — something you. Your sweat smells different. Stronger. Sharper. Almost… chemical. You breathe it in without meaning to.
The heat of the water feels like it’s seeping into you, fusing with the warmth already burning under your skin. You lean against the wall, trying to steady your breath. For a second, your reflection in the metal faucet blurs — your shoulders too broad, your eyes unfocused.
You blink, and it’s gone.
Afterward, you meet Zack again at the front desk. He hands you a sports drink, smirking. “You’re killing it, man. You keep this up, we’ll have to start calling you Tank.”
“Tank?” you laugh weakly. “I don’t think I’m built for that.”
“Give it a week. You’ll see.”
Then, softer: “Take another tonight. Before bed. Trust me.”
You take the pill from his hand. Your fingers brush, and for a moment you feel that same pulse again — like a wire of heat connecting you both.
That night, you stare at the pill in your hand again.
This one’s darker — slightly oily, the surface glinting in the lamplight. You think about refusing. You think about calling your doctor. You think about telling Zack no.
But your body aches, humming with the memory of his voice: Don’t think, just lift.
Your throat tightens. And you swallow.
The heat returns almost immediately this time — faster, deeper, like something alive is crawling beneath your skin. You stumble to the mirror, panting.
Your reflection ripples. Your pupils dilate.
Your chest tightens, bones creaking. Your collarbones seem to press outward. The tendons in your neck stretch tight like wires. You can see veins under your skin, faint blue cords pulsing in rhythm with your heart.
It’s not pain, exactly. It’s too deep for pain — a heavy, wet pressure building from the inside. You gasp, clutching the sink. Your hands shake, but even they look different. Stronger. Broader.
The mirror blurs again — or maybe your eyes do. You blink hard, trying to focus, but all you see are shapes swelling, shadows stretching into a form that isn’t yours.
Your head pounds. Thoughts start slipping — words breaking apart before they reach meaning. It’s just noise. The hum. The pulse. The heat.
You sink to the floor, breathing hard. You can smell yourself — salt, sweat, something sharp and metallic beneath it. Your heart won’t slow down.
You don’t know how long you sit there.
When you finally look up, your reflection is waiting.
The light above flickers once, twice.
You almost don’t recognize the person staring back — thicker neck, hollowed cheeks, eyes that look just a bit too steady, too sure.
Your heart slows.
And for a moment, the fear melts into something else.
A low, strange thrill.
You look at yourself again.
You don’t hate what you see.
You wake up before the alarm.
The buzzing is gone now; what’s left is a heavy, slow throb under your skin, like something built overnight and settled in. The mirror above the sink shows you a stranger: neck thick, shoulders rounded, veins crawling like blue ropes under new skin. Your jaw juts out like a block. Even the hair at your temples looks coarser, darker.
When you speak your own name out loud, it sounds wrong in your mouth, too soft for the voice that comes out — a low, rough sound with no trace of your old carefulness.
You should be terrified.
Instead, all you feel is a restless impatience, a kind of hunger in your chest. You grab your bag and head to the gym.
Zack’s already waiting.
He’s laughing with a cluster of guys near the free weights — all thick arms, shaved heads, tank tops. For a moment you watch from the door, feeling an electric pull toward them, like you’re looking at a pack you belong to but don’t remember joining.
Zack spots you. “Yo, there he is!” His grin is too wide, his clap on your shoulder too hard. “Knew you’d show up. Damn, bro — look at you. Knew you had it in you.”
You want to tell him you’re scared, that something’s wrong. But when you open your mouth, what comes out is a grunt, a laugh you don’t recognize. It sounds like approval.
The workout is brutal.
Zack piles on the weight. You lift anyway. Your body moves like it’s on autopilot — heaving, grunting, veins swelling. You don’t think about form or breath anymore. You just move. Sweat pours off you, thick and sour. It smells different now — heavier, like iron and musk. It fills your nose until you can’t smell anything else.
Between sets, Zack leans in, his voice low. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
You nod, jaw tight, throat dry. “Yeah… feels real good.” The words come out slower, flatter, more like him.
“Keep going, man,” he says. “You’re almost there.”
You don’t know what “there” is. But you keep lifting.
Something breaks halfway through the session.
A sharp, electric jolt in your chest. Your vision tunnels; the music and voices in the gym become a single dull roar. For a second you can hear your old self screaming in the distance — words, names, memories — but they slide away before you can hold them.
You drop the barbell and stagger to the mirror.
The reflection isn’t yours anymore.
The neck thicker. The chest a slab of meat. The eyes flat and heavy-lidded. Even the way you stand — hunched, legs spread, arms loose and ready — isn’t yours. You’re breathing through your mouth, lips parted, nostrils flaring at the sour scent of sweat.
A slow, ugly smile pulls at your face.
It isn’t yours either.
You press your palms to the mirror. “Stop,” you whisper. The word sounds thin and brittle in your new voice.
Behind you, Zack puts a hand on your shoulder. “You’re done, bro,” he says softly. “No going back. Welcome to the club.”
The last part of you tries to fight — memories of books, politics, friends, the little shy boy who signed up for a gym membership because he wanted to be braver. It all flashes by in a rush.
The flood of new instincts rolls in, crude and hot and simple.
You laugh, a deep, barking sound that fills the locker room. It smells like sweat and deodorant and something almost animal. Your old name’s already fading, replaced with some dumb nickname Zack calls you — Tank, Bruh, Big Guy. It doesn’t matter. It feels right.
You walk out of the gym with Zack, shoulder to shoulder, like you’ve always known each other. He talks about lifting, about “chicks” and “dudes” and who’s weak and who’s not. You find yourself nodding, adding your own crude jokes, words spilling out of your mouth in a lazy, heavy drawl. You can hear how dumb it sounds — “bro,” “pussy,” “weak-ass losers” — and it doesn’t even sting. It’s just noise, and it makes Zack laugh, and that’s all you want.
By the time you reach the parking lot, you’re wiping your nose on the back of your hand, scratching at your crotch without thinking, belching out loud. You smell like the gym, like sweat and testosterone and cheap body spray. Zack calls you “my guy” and slaps your back. You fart, loud, and both of you laugh like idiots.
Somewhere far inside, a tiny voice whispers that this isn’t you. That you used to care, used to be different. But it’s faint, a dying radio signal under static. The new voice in your head — thicker, slower, coarser — drowns it out with talk of gains, girls, and the next lift.
You don’t even notice when the old voice stops completely.
And just like that, you’re one of them:
A big, loud, sweaty gym rat with a smirk and a nickname, Zack’s new best friend, already sneering at skinny guys as you pass them. Your old life is a joke you can’t quite remember. You roll your shoulders, cracking your neck, already thinking about the next workout.
The last time you see your reflection that day, it’s laughing back at you.
And Tank doesn’t look scared at all.
