Name: Ishan Yadav (His name meant 'Light and splendour' but his mood was always - 'Dim and Despair')

Age: Looks like 20 (You won't believe he is 35!)

Personality: Gym freak, Depressed; probably because he can't gain any muscles (Please make my handsome man happy by commenting on his story TT)

Occupation: Model (Thanks to his face, he still hasn't been kicked out of this industry)

Lover: Has high standards (Never had one)

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Ishan looked at the mirror, his gaunt form staring at him back.

“Mirror, mirror” he sighed, “who’s the most useless of them all?” The mirror remained silent, but Ishan knew the answer all too well.

He had always been the kind of man who could stop traffic with his looks but struggled to open a jar of pickles. He had chiselled cheekbones, piercing brown eyes, and flowing jet-black locks, which made him look like he had walked straight out of a fairy tale.

However, his physical prowess—was something he wasn't so proud of. People nicknamed him "Princess" because, despite his striking beauty, he was as delicate as an Orchid.

He rolled up his sleeve to look at his non-existent muscles which never seemed to bulk up even if he spent hours in the gym.

It was as if his body had signed a pact with itself: “Thou shalt remain delicate, no matter how many protein shakes thou consumeth.”

He sighed again, louder this time, in hopes the universe would hear his lament. [Spoiler Alert: The universe didn't care]

Ishan's phone buzzed, snapping him out of his extra-dramatic melancholic mood. It was a text from Naima, his agent. “Don’t be late, Ishan. We can’t afford another delay because of you.”

'Ah, Naima, always nagging around. Does she think she is my mother?', he wanted to speak it out loud but decided to remain silent.

“Charming as always, Naima,” he exclaimed.

He threw on a stylish yet comfortably loose outfit, that emphasized his small feeble frame—a pair of slim-fit jeans and a crisp white shirt. It was a safe choice that wouldn’t highlight his glaring lack of muscle tone.

Fashion: 1

Muscles: 0

He left his apartment, catching a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror. One more chance to reflect on his existential crisis.

“Great, you look like a Greek god,” he said, “A malnourished Greek god.”

He started walking again, his eyes refusing to pull back from the mirror.

THUD! CRASH!

A collision occurred that would have made Newton proud. Ishan stumbled back, nearly losing his balance.

“Oh my God! What did I crash into?” a woman’s voice exclaimed in panic.

She had clear, flawless pale white skin without blemishes or dark spots. The woman appeared to be in her early twenties her skin even made him feel inferior.

“Miss, you must look where you are going. Did you get hurt?” he asked politely while brushing off the dust on his hands, trying to sound more composed than he felt.

“My babyyyyy!” she screamed, frantically searching for something.

“Um, what? Where? Where is the baby?” Ishan started looking around just like her, panic rising. Had he just knocked over a stroller?

“My sunscreen rolled down... Move!” she pushed him aside as she picked up her precious “baby” and started dusting it off with exaggerated care.

Ishan stood there, dumbfounded.

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'Beauty without brain?' is what he thought.

In the meantime, she glanced at her watch. “Oh, my GODDDDD!” With a scream, she started running, probably faster than Usain Bolt.

Ishan was left, agape, his brain still processing what had just happened.

“Did the fall affect her brain?” he mused.

He shook his head and continued on his way, “Well, that was weird even by my standards,” he thought, trying to shrug off the encounter as he walked out.

The taxi ride to the studio was nothing special, giving Ishan ample time to lament over his shortcomings.

At 35, he looked barely 20—a fact that should have been a blessing in the modelling world but felt more like a curse. No one took him seriously. He was the boy who never grew up, the man with the face of an angel and the physique of a scarecrow.

Arriving at the studio, he was greeted by the usual chaos. Stylists, makeup artists, photographers, and assistants ran around like headless chickens, each absorbed in their tasks.

But as Ishan entered, as if a glitch occurred everyone stopped, the room momentarily quieted, all eyes turning to the man who looked like a demigod but probably couldn’t lift a grocery bag.

“Princess Ishan has graced us with his presence!” Kahir’s voice reverberated across the set. Kahir the youngest, who was indeed in his twenties, of course, was the epitome of everything Ishan wasn’t—tall, muscular, and effortlessly charismatic. If Ishan was the delicate orchid, Kahir was the mighty oak, annoyingly perfect.

“Hey, Princess,” Kahir said, “Need help lifting that hairspray again?”

Ishan forced a smile, trying to suppress the urge to fling the nearest object at Kahir’s perfectly chiselled face.

“Very funny, Kahir,” he muttered, reaching for the hairspray. His hands, traitors that they were, trembled slightly. The can slipped and clattered to the floor. “Just testing the grip,” he added, trying his best to laugh it off.

“Sure you were, princess,” Kahir smirked, exaggeratedly flexing his biceps before walking away. The surrounding crew members snickered, and Ishan felt the familiar pain of humiliation.

Naima’s sharp voice interrupted the laughter. “Ishan, over here!” She approached, her stilettos clicking against the polished floor.

Naima was a powerhouse in the industry, her sharp features and steely demeanour made others respect her “We don’t have time for your little accidents today. The client is already on edge.”

“Sorry, Naima,” Ishan mumbled, standing up straight, trying to look composed.

“Just get to make-up,” she snapped, turning on her heel and striding away with the grace of a general marching to war.

Ishan slunk over to the makeup station, where a team of artists awaited him like a pit crew ready to fix a damaged race car. As they worked on his face and hair, he thought, he had always been delicate, a fact that had haunted him since childhood. He was the frail boy who couldn’t play sports, the one who got sick easily, the one who was always protected rather than admired.

“Hold still, Ishan,” one of the makeup artists chided gently, bringing him back to reality. He nodded, forcing himself to focus.

The makeup was done, and he was ready for the set. The photographer, directed him into various poses, each one more awkward than the last.

“Relax, Ishan,” the photographer said “You look too tense.”

“Sorry,” Ishan muttered, trying to loosen up. But it was hard. He could feel the eyes of the crew on him, their judgmental gazes were the things he hated the most.

He knew all too well, that he was a beautiful shell, empty and fragile, struggling to hold himself together under everyone’s expectations.

The sun began to set and it was already evening. Ishan walked aimlessly, his mind a mess.

He had everything he had ever dreamed of—fame, fortune, beauty—yet he felt more lost than ever.

He found himself at a small park, where he sat on a bench, watching the children play. Their laughter and joy seemed like a world away from his own reality.

A small girl with curly hair and a bright smile approached him, holding out a dandelion.

“Mister, do you want to make a wish?” she asked, her innocent eyes looking at him closely.

Ishan took the dandelion, forcing a smile. “Sure,” he said softly. He closed his eyes and blew the seeds into the wind, wishing for something he couldn’t quite define—

'I want to be strong, stronger than anyone. I don't want to be just a fragile beauty anymore.' He pleaded.

The girl ran off to join her friends, Ishan watched the seeds drift away, disappearing into the evening sky.

He half-expected—no, who was he kidding—he fully expected his wish would come true.

But nothing happened.

"Of course, nothing happened," he muttered to himself. "What was I even expecting?'' He laughed his voice devoid of emotion.

He stayed on the bench a little longer, until the stars came out which now seemed to mock him too.

"Look at you, the great Ishan Yadav, reduced to making wishes on weeds."

Eventually, he stood up, stretching his thin arms as if the universe might take pity on him if he looked just pitiful enough. [Spoiler Alert: the universe still didn’t care.]

He sighed, looking at the sky with a forlorn expression.

And then, something weird happened.

His line of sight was suddenly higher than before.

'Hm? Did I grow taller? is it even possible at my age?' he thought to himself.

As he looked down, he noticed his arms had turned a vibrant shade of green. "What in the world?" He looked utterly bewildered. He blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes, and his hands but they still had the vibrant hue of green.

He looked around in confusion, spotting the little girl, peeking at him from behind a tree, and giggling.

"Hey Kid, what did you do to me?" He cried out.

Before he could question her further, her voice reverberated in the park

"Congratulations! Now you’re the strongest."

"Huh?"

NEXT CHAPTER: PREVIEW

"Embrace the change, let your heart roam,

For in the forest, you’ll find your home,

With claws and fangs, and a goblin’s gleam,

Live your life, and chase your dream."

To be continued...