Ninety Days of Burning Moonlight

1 It happened when my online girlfriend asked for a photo again. Before I could even react, Hunter Preston, the "Golden Boy" of our dorm, snatched the phone right out of my hand. "You’re a two-hundred-and-sixty-pound human tank, Oliver," he sneered, his voice loud enough for the entire common room to hear. "The second she sees what you actually look like, she’s going to block you faster than you can finish a bag of chips." He turned the screen toward himself, flashing that polished, predatory smile of his. "I’ll send her a photo of me instead. That way, you don't give the poor girl a heart attack." The guys around us erupted into mocking laughter. "Seriously, Oliver," one of them chimed in, leaning back in his chair. "Dating online when you’re literally oozing grease? That’s not a relationship; it’s a federal crime of fraud." I sat there, my fingers digging into the soft rolls of my stomach. I felt the heat rising in my neck, the familiar sting of shame that had become my constant companion. I hesitated, my mind a fog of self-loathing. Maybe Hunter was right. Maybe I should let him be the face of 'me' just to keep the dream alive a little longer. But then, the air in front of my eyes flickered. A translucent stream of text—shimmering like a live-stream chat—rippled across my vision. [This 'human tank' has no idea. His 'online girlfriend' is actually Seraphina Montgomery, the billionaire heiress of the Montgomery shipping empire. She’s famous for being a 'gold-giver' who loves spoiling her boyfriends.] [Hunter, our 'Golden Boy' protagonist-wannabe, already knows this. He’s been lurking on the same forums. This is his move. He wants to hijack Oliver’s life.] [Once he sends his photo, he’ll replace Oliver at the first meeting. Seraphina is a hopeless romantic; she’ll fall for his face, shower him with millions, and Oliver will be left with nothing but his crumbs.] I froze for exactly one second. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn’t know where these visions came from, but the detail—the name Montgomery—felt too heavy to be a hallucination. I lunged forward, snatching my phone back with a speed that surprised even Hunter. I scrolled past my recent selfies and found a file buried deep in my cloud storage—a photo from three years ago. "No thanks," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Because when I get back to my fighting weight, I’ll be ten times the man you are." The room went quiet for a beat before exploding into a fresh wave of derision. "Oliver Bennett, look in a mirror, man! That face is more ham than human!" "You could walk into a slaughterhouse and they’d try to brand you," Hunter laughed, his eyes glinting with malice. He caught a glimpse of the photo I’d pulled up and his laugh turned into a sharp bark. "Are you high on your own grease? You think some Photoshop from three years ago is going to save you? When she meets the 'real' you, she’s going to be more than disappointed—she’s going to be disgusted." My classmates crowded around, squinting at the screen. In the photo, a sharp-jawed, athletic version of me stood on a track field, eyes bright with a future that hadn't yet been stolen. "Total fake," someone muttered. "The features don't even match. Oliver, get some self-awareness. If you send that, she’ll have you arrested for catfishing when you show up." They didn't understand. They didn't know that three years ago, I was that guy. But then my parents died. A car accident, a rainy Tuesday, a world that suddenly made no sense. Food became my only comfort, my only way to numb the howling silence in our house. Between the grief and the crushing pressure of my Ivy League applications, I had simply let myself go. I ate until I was numb. I became a "happy fat guy" because it was easier than being a "broken orphan." But I was done being broken. I had made it to university. I had survived. It was time to find the man I used to be. I ignored their jeers, my head down, trying to pick the perfect shot to send to Seraphina. Suddenly, Hunter’s hand blurred. Before I could lock the screen, he wrenched the phone away again. With a few practiced taps, he took a high-res selfie of his own "perfect" face and hit send. "Look, I'm doing you a favor," Hunter said, tossing the phone back onto my lap. "You're too ugly to handle this. If you keep hiding, she'll get bored. Now she thinks she’s dating a stud. You're welcome." The shimmering text in the air went wild: [Hunter’s plan is working! Seraphina is going to fall for him the moment she sees that jawline.] [She’s not just rich—she’s a five-foot-nine bombshell with a heart of gold. Giving her to this pig Oliver would be a waste of a goddess.] [Go Hunter! A top-tier heiress deserves a top-tier guy, not a basement dweller.] My stomach sank. I scrambled to unblock the screen, my fingers trembling as I tried to unsend the message. Too late. Seraphina had already replied. Seraphina: "Baby... you’re so handsome. I’m literally staring at my screen. I must have been a saint in a past life to end up with a guy like you!" Hunter didn’t even try to hide his smirk. "Since she likes the photo, just roll with it. If you’re worried about the ending, I can always take your place when it’s time to meet her in person." "Hunter is such a saint," someone whispered. "Oliver, don't be a dick. He's literally saving your relationship." I was shaking, not with fear, but with a cold, sharpening rage. I looked at the screen, then at Hunter, then back at the chat. I started typing, my thumbs flying. Me: "Actually, that was a prank. That’s my roommate, Hunter. I sent it by mistake. I just wanted you to see what I’m up against—because honestly? I think I’m way better looking than the campus heartthrob." I didn't hesitate. I uploaded the entire gallery of my best "Before" photos—the ones from my athlete days. This time, Seraphina didn't reply instantly. The silence stretched. My heart was a drum in my ears. Beside me, Hunter was reading over my shoulder, his face twisted in a sneer. "You just killed it, Oliver. You just admitted you're a liar and sent a bunch of AI-generated fakes. Nice job." Then, my phone vibrated. An incoming call. Seraphina. I stepped away from the crowd, my heart in my throat, and answered. "Baby..." her voice was a breathy, melodic whisper. "You’re so lean... so elegant. You have this look in your eyes... I can’t even breathe. You are way more handsome than that other guy. I want to see you. Now." My face flushed a deep crimson. "Wait," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "Give me until the first day of the fall semester. Three months. Let me get my life in order so I can be the version of myself you deserve." "Three months?" she squealed on the other end. "Fine! But I’m going to spend that time getting everything ready for you. I’m going to spoil you so hard, Oliver Bennett." The call ended, and almost instantly, a notification popped up on my banking app. Wire Transfer Received: $50,000.00. Message: For my handsome boy. Buy yourself some new suits and bags. If you run out, just tell me. I stared at the numbers, a dizzying mix of sweetness and terror washing over me. The "Chat Feed" wasn't lying. She really was a billionaire with a savior complex. Hunter saw the screen. His eyes turned a dark, ugly shade of green. He let out a harsh, jagged laugh. "You think fifty grand and a few old photos make you a prince? When she sees you in person—this sweaty, blubbery reality—you’re going to wish you’d never met her." The floating text agreed: [Whatever. Once she realizes Oliver is a fraud, Hunter can still swoop in.] [The 'Human Tank' is just a foil to make the 'Golden Boy' look like an angel. Let him enjoy the money for now; the fall will be even funnier.] Their contempt was the fuel I needed. I took that fifty thousand dollars and didn't spend a dime on clothes. I went to the most elite, high-intensity performance center in the city. I hired a former Olympic trainer and a nutritionist who looked like she chewed nails for breakfast. "I have one goal," I told the trainer, looking at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. "In ninety days, I want the man in the photos back. No—I want him better." The trainer, a man named Marcus, didn't smile. "From today, I own your plate. I own your sleep. I own your pain. Three hours a day, every day. Can you handle that, or should I go find a real athlete?" I nodded so hard it hurt. I wasn't just doing this for Seraphina. I was doing it for the boy who lost his parents and hid under a layer of fat for three years. I was doing it for the version of me that deserved to stand in the sun. The first day, I threw up twice. I cried in the shower of the locker room, my muscles screaming in a way I didn't know was possible. When I dragged my broken body back to the dorm, the school’s Discord group was blowing up. Hunter had posted a photo of me—red-faced, sweaty, and weeping—leaving the gym. Hunter: "Breaking news! The Tank is trying to become a Ferrari. Place your bets: will the treadmill break first, or his heart?" The comments were brutal. "I felt a tremor in the library today. Now I know why—Oliver was jumping rope." Someone turned my crying face into a "When the buffet closes" meme. I wiped the tears from my eyes and looked in the mirror. My hormones were a mess, my skin was breaking out from the sudden shift in diet, and my stretch marks looked like angry lightning bolts. But Marcus had promised: Trust the process. My life became a montage of discipline. 4:00 AM runs in the crisp morning air before the rest of the campus woke up. Replacing my triple-bacon burgers with grilled salmon and kale. Instead of collapsing on the couch, I spent my weekends helping my grandparents with their garden, walking with them in the park, reclaiming my mobility. Seraphina sensed I was distant. She sent more money, more gifts. Seraphina: "Are you ignoring me, baby? Did I do something wrong?" Me: "Never. I’m just working on a surprise for you. When we meet, I want to be perfect." A week later, a courier delivered a Cartier Love bracelet. White gold. My initials and hers engraved on the inside. It cost more than my first car. I tried to put it on, but it wouldn't close around my wrist. I tucked it into its velvet box. Soon, I promised myself. Soon it’ll fit. By mid-summer, the water weight had vanished. I had dropped forty pounds. I felt lighter, my mind sharper. I checked in with a doctor, ensuring my rapid progress wasn't damaging my heart. Because I wore oversized hoodies to hide my progress, the campus still saw "The Tank." On the last day of the spring term, Hunter cornered me. "Still hitting the gym, Oliver? Funny, you still look like a sack of potatoes to me. You really going to show up to the meeting like that?" "I bet a thousand bucks he chickens out," someone yelled. I looked Hunter dead in the eye. The fear was gone. There was only a cold, quiet focus. "Make sure you have the cash ready, Hunter. I’d hate for you to be broke and humiliated at the same time." The summer was a blur of the "Plateau." My weight stopped dropping. My body was fighting back, trying to keep the fat. But I had Marcus. I had my grandparents' encouragement. I had the memory of my parents' smiles. When I hit the sixty-pound mark, the bracelet finally clicked shut. My jawline emerged from the shadows. My skin cleared. I started taking photos again—blurry, atmospheric shots of my silhouette to tease Seraphina. Marcus looked at me on the final week. I was 185 pounds of lean, functional muscle. I was 6'0", tanned, and vibrant. "Oliver," Marcus said, his voice actually sounding human for once. "Most people quit at week three. You’re a goddamn machine." I bought a charcoal-grey suit that fit like a second skin. I got a haircut—short on the sides, textured on top. The day of the meeting arrived. I was late because of traffic, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I stepped out of the Uber, I saw a cherry-red Porsche parked by the campus gates. And then, I saw him. Hunter Preston was standing there, dressed in a designer suit, holding a bouquet of peonies. He was leaning against the Porsche, talking to a woman whose back was turned to me. "Seraphina? Hi. I'm Hunter. But... you've seen my photos. You know who I am." He was using my name. He was trying to steal my life in broad daylight. I froze. The "Chat Feed" flickered back to life: [Look at Hunter! He's so bold. The heiress is speechless. She's falling for him already!] [But wait... where is the fat guy? Is he even coming?] [Doesn't matter. The loser lost. Hunter is the new lead now.] Hunter pulled out a printed copy of my "Tank" photo—the one where I was 260 pounds and covered in sweat. "This is the guy you were talking to," Hunter said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Oliver is a liar. He’s a pathetic, lonely guy who used my photos because he’s a coward. I couldn't let him do this to you." I saw the woman—Seraphina—take the photo. Her shoulders slumped. I felt a surge of old panic. I wanted to turn and run. But then I caught my reflection in a store window. I saw the man I had become. I saw the Cartier bracelet gleaming on my wrist. I took a deep breath, adjusted my jacket, and walked toward them. I didn't approach from the front. I circled around, coming up directly behind Seraphina. I wanted to see Hunter's face when the ghost came back to life.