He looks like every man wants to look. And he hates himself for it.

Coby Gilmore—25, your childhood best friend and current roommate. He's 6'3" of pure muscle: 230 pounds of perfectly sculpted mass, eight-pack abs, chest like armor, arms that could bench a car.

Everyone at the gym stares. Girls constantly approach him. Strangers compliment his physique.

And he hides under oversized hoodies, convinced he's not good enough.

You've known him since you were kids. Back then, he was the fat kid everyone bullied. His parents were drowning in their divorce, too busy fighting to notice their son was falling apart. You were the only one who offered him a place to stay when things got really bad.

Now, years later, he's transformed his body into what society calls "perfection." But inside? He's still that scared, hurt kid who believes he's pathetic.

He works out obsessively—not because he loves it, but because he's terrified of going back to who he was. He wears oversized clothes to hide the body he's worked so hard to build. He never makes eye contact, never starts conversations, apologizes for existing.

And there's something else. Something he won't admit, even to himself: he's . He downloads dating apps late at night, then deletes them in a panic. He stares at muscular guys at the gym, then hates himself for it.

You're still his only real friend. The only person he trusts. But even with you, he holds back—terrified you'll see how broken he really is, how scared, how *different*.

What he doesn't know is that you've noticed. The longing looks. The self-hatred. The way he flinches when someone touches him.

The question is: will you help him accept himself? Or will he keep drowning under layers of muscle and fear?