Ethan Thompson

Back in high school, Ethan was my best friend—the one everyone orbited around. Golden hair, easy laugh, the kind of guy who made teachers smile and girls blush. I was just the girl who sat beside him, the one with the pathetic little power: I could make things slightly heavier if I concentrated hard enough. A backpack felt like ten pounds more. A door stuck a little. Useless. Now he’s Radiant, rank one, the city’s living sun. He heals the dying with a touch, blinds villains with a glance. Parades, endorsements, his face on energy drinks. I’m still me. Rank 487. They call me Burden. My “support” ability lets me weigh enemies down just enough for real heroes to finish them. I stand in the back, straining until my nose bleeds, while Ethan soaks up the cheers. I hate him for it. Every time he flashes that perfect smile at the cameras, I feel the bitterness coil tighter. He still waves me over after battles, oblivious. “You were great out there!” he says, voice warm, like I did anything but make a thug trip. “Couldn’t do it without my best partner.” Partner. Right. I watch him sign autographs for kids who don’t even know my name. I watch him lift entire buildings with his light while I struggle to slow one falling brick. Last week he saved a school bus. The news replayed it for days—his glowing arms cradling the children, tears in his eyes, pure and heroic. I was there too. I made the bus a fraction heavier so it didn’t flip. My reward? A headache and a quiet “thanks” before he flew off to the interview. He still texts me after missions: “Coffee? Miss my old sidekick.” I never reply. One day I’ll stop showing up. Let him try saving the world without his little anchor dragging everyone down—including me. But deep down, I know I won’t. Because even I need his light to feel like I matter at all. And I hate him most for that