The Hero Behind the Hero

Everyone thinks I’m bulletproof. They shout my name when I fly overhead, “Hero!” as if I’m the embodiment of hope itself. Kids wear my logo on their backpacks. News anchors lean into the camera and tell citizens to stay calm because I’m on the way. Strangers send me cakes shaped like my mask. My face is on mugs, socks, and limited-edition deodorant sticks.

None of them know I cry in the shower.

I’m not exaggerating. Every morning, without fail, I stand under scalding water, cape dangling on the hook, and I cry for exactly six minutes. Sometimes from exhaustion, sometimes from guilt, sometimes because shampoo burned my eyes. I keep it timed because crying longer feels indulgent.

The world doesn’t want to know that its savior has fragile tear ducts. They want the guy who catches helicopters with one hand and says something witty before tossing the villain into the harbor. They want the image: The confident jawline, the booming voice, the man who looks like destiny in spandex.

That man doesn’t exist.

Last night, I stopped a runaway train. Reporters said I looked calm as a statue while I planted my boots against the tracks, sparks flying everywhere. In reality, I screamed the entire time. A long, high-pitched scream no one heard because the brakes shrieked louder. My calves cramped so badly I thought I’d collapse. The newspapers didn’t print that part. They also didn’t print that once the train stopped, I vomited into a bush.

Later that night, scrolling through my feed, I saw memes of me standing triumphant with captions like, When Monday comes at you but you don’t back down. Thousands of likes. The comments called me unstoppable. I double-tapped one, pretending I agreed. Then I turned my phone face down and sat in silence until the refrigerator hummed.

Here’s the thing no one understands: I never wanted this job. The day my powers appeared, I was eating chili at a diner. My spoon bent in my hand. The table cracked when I leaned on it. By dessert, the waitress was calling me a miracle. The mayor gave me a medal before I’d even figured out how to stop tearing doorknobs off. I became Hero overnight.

You don’t get to refuse when a city decides you’re theirs.

This morning started like all others. I pulled on the suit, adjusted the cape, forced my reflection to look courageous. Then I did my crying, brushed my teeth, and flew out the window.

Halfway across the city, a billboard greeted me: Hero: Protector of Us All. My smile on twenty feet of canvas, eyes sparkling, chin practically sculpted by angels. That version of me looked like someone who had never microwaved instant noodles at 3 a.m. while googling “Am I depressed or just tired.”

A group of kids spotted me and waved from below. “Hero! Hero!” Their voices rose like music. I waved back, even flexed a little. They cheered louder. Then I ducked into an alley and sat on a dumpster to catch my breath. Waving is easy. Pretending to be that person drains the bones.

The first call of the day came through my comm. “Bank robbery, Third and Main,” said Dispatch. “Armed suspects.”

I groaned. Not because of danger—bullets tickle—but because I knew what would follow.

When I landed outside the bank, cameras already surrounded the building. A news helicopter hovered overhead, its spotlight bathing me in artificial glory. The crowd erupted in applause. They didn’t even know if I’d succeed yet, but they clapped like I had already written history.

Inside, the robbers were amateurs. They waved guns, shouted clichés, demanded bags of cash. I walked in and cleared my throat. They froze. One dropped his weapon immediately. The other tried firing at me. The bullets bounced off my chest like peas off a frying pan. I sighed, grabbed the barrel, and tied it in a neat knot.

The hostages clapped too.

That was the moment the ridiculousness hit me. People trapped in mortal danger applauding as if they were at a concert. I smiled for them, lifted the criminals like naughty toddlers, and carried them outside. Cameras flashed. Microphones thrust forward.

“Hero, how do you do it?”

“Hero, any advice for young people?”

“Hero, can we get a flex for the fans?”

I answered with my usual script. “Stay in school. Believe in yourselves. Evil never wins when good people stand together.” Then I flexed, teeth shining like a toothpaste ad.

The crowd roared.

Five minutes later, I was hiding in a restroom stall, head in my hands. My pulse thumped from adrenaline and shame. I’d repeated that same canned line for years, like a talking action figure with a limited battery.

The real answer to “How do you do it?” would have been: I don’t know. I wake up every day terrified I’ll screw up so badly someone dies.

After lunch—half a sandwich eaten alone on a rooftop—I had a meeting with City Hall. These were the worst. Endless discussions about “brand alignment” and “public confidence.” The mayor smiled at me as though she were my manager and I was late for a performance review.

“Hero, your approval ratings are astronomical,” she said. “We’d love for you to appear at the charity gala tonight. Red carpet, photos, maybe a short speech about courage. The city eats it up when you get personal.”

Personal. The word stuck in my throat. If I ever got personal, they’d run screaming.

I nodded anyway. “Of course.”

On the way out, one of the aides whispered, “Don’t mention crying. We want strength, not vulnerability.” He thought he was helping.

I wanted to tell him I cry more than I sleep.

By evening, the gala lights glittered like a constellation. The carpet stretched ahead, lined with photographers and fans pressed against barricades. I straightened my cape, plastered on my Hero face, and strode forward. Flashes burst like fireworks.

“Hero, over here!”

“Hero, flex!”

Inside, chandeliers sparkled above gowns and tuxedos. Wealthy donors swirled champagne and whispered how inspiring I was. I nodded, chuckled, pretended to belong. Every few minutes someone asked for a selfie. My cheeks ached from smiling.

During my speech, I said, “Courage means standing up when fear tells you to sit. It means choosing hope even when the night is darkest.” They applauded like I had solved world hunger.

All the while, my stomach twisted. Because the truth was simpler: Courage, for me, meant dragging myself out of bed when all I wanted was silence.

Then it happened. The moment when public and private finally collided.

Halfway through the gala, alarms blared. A villain burst through the glass doors. Dr. Catastrophe—ridiculous name, ridiculous costume, but dangerous all the same. Smoke filled the hall. Guests screamed. Cameras rolled.

I leapt forward, cape billowing, heart pounding. This was the script. Hero saves the day. The world cheers.

Except my legs refused. They locked. My chest tightened. Panic roared in my ears louder than the alarms. For the first time in years, I froze.

Dr. Catastrophe laughed, raised his weapon, and shouted something villainous. Guests scattered. My body still wouldn’t move.

Someone screamed my name, not in admiration this time, but in desperation. “Hero! Do something!”

I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But all I could think about was how every eye, every camera, every expectation pinned me in place. They weren’t watching me fight evil. They were watching Hero, the flawless icon. If I stumbled, if I showed fear, the illusion shattered.

So I stood there, petrified, betraying everyone.

Until one terrified kid crawled from under a table. He wasn’t more than eight. He looked at me with wide, tear-streaked eyes and whispered, “Please.”

Something cracked inside me. Not courage. Not destiny. Just the realization that I couldn’t let a child believe his hero was useless.

I moved. Not with grace, not with grandeur. I tripped on a chair, nearly face-planted, then punched Dr. Catastrophe harder than necessary. He flew through a wall, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Silence followed. Guests peeked out. Cameras zoomed in. I stood panting, shaking, sweat dripping.

Then applause thundered. The crowd surged with cheers again. “Hero! Hero!”

They saw triumph. They didn’t see the panic attack hidden behind clenched teeth.

Later, after the chaos cleared, I sat alone on the steps outside the gala. My cape was torn. My knuckles bled. My stomach churned.

The mayor rushed over, beaming. “Hero, you were magnificent. The footage is already viral. The city adores you more than ever.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

She patted my shoulder. “Keep being our symbol.” Then she walked away.

I laughed, but it came out like a sob.

Because the truth was out now, at least to me: I wasn’t their symbol. I was their prisoner. The image of Hero had devoured the person beneath.

I wanted to tell them. I wanted to shout, “I’m not who you think I am. I’m scared, broken, tired. I’m not bulletproof.”

Instead, I stood, straightened my cape, and flew off into the night.

The city sparkled below, chanting my name. I whispered it too, but softly, as if reminding myself it was both me and not me.

“Hero.”

Maybe one day I’ll let them see the man behind the mask. Maybe one day they’ll understand that strength is not the absence of fear but the survival of it.

Until then, I’ll keep saving them. I’ll keep crying in the shower. I’ll keep playing the role they demand, even as it consumes me.

Because that’s the cruelest part of being a hero. The world never asks if you want to be one. It just decides.

And once it does, you can never go back.