Myth of the Superhuman

Back then, superhumans had existed for decades. The world had known about them since the Second World War. They were soldiers, celebrities, criminals, and legends. Some protected people. Others used their gifts to take whatever they wanted.

To a five-year-old sitting in the back of my father’s silent car, watching the rain blur the neon lights of Kuala Lumpur, they weren’t just news headlines or comic book panels. They were proof that the rules didn’t apply to everyone. They were evidence that some people were born above the fray, untouched by the mundane struggles of gravity and grief. They could fly over traffic jams. They could lift cars with one hand. They could survive explosions that would turn ordinary men to ash.

I didn’t want to be a hero. Heroes had to save people. Heroes had to be good. And goodness felt like a trap, a set of expectations I knew I couldn’t meet. No, I wanted to be a legend. I wanted to be the kind of person who took what they wanted because they could. I wanted the power to bypass the social contracts that left me feeling isolated and small. If I had superpowers, I wouldn’t need to learn how to make friends. I wouldn’t need to understand the subtle cues of body language that eluded me due to my autism. I wouldn’t need to beg for attention or manipulate situations to feel safe. I would just be. And the world would have to adjust to me.

My father was the closest thing to a superhuman I knew. He wasn’t bulletproof, and he couldn’t fly, but he possessed a different kind of invulnerability: emotional impenetrability. He moved through the world with a detachment that seemed supernatural. While others panicked in traffic, he remained still. While others sought connection, he remained self-contained. He was a fortress. And I thought that if I could just inherit his powers, if I could just learn to shut off my feelings, to harden my heart, to become as cold and efficient as he was, I would finally be safe.

So I tried to build my own superpower. I called it "control." I used my intelligence to coordinate secrets for high-end clients, manipulating logistics and NDAs like a supervillain plotting a heist. I used my charm to navigate relationships, treating partners like assets to be managed rather than people to be loved. I ended a nine-year relationship not because it was broken, but because I believed I deserved a better option, an upgrade, a more powerful ally. I treated my life like a strategy game where empathy was a weakness and honesty was a liability.

I thought I was becoming a legend. I thought I was rising above the noise.

But superhumans in the stories? They’re always lonely. The ones who take what they want end up surrounded by enemies or empty rooms. The ones who protect people often lose themselves in the process. And the ones who try to be both? They usually break.

I broke.

Not in an explosion. Not in a dramatic battle with a nemesis. But in the quiet, sterile silence of my own making. I realized that my "superpower" was just a mask for my fear. My control was just a way to hide my vulnerability. My detachment was just a defense against the pain of being human.

I am not a superhuman. I am not a legend. I am Saransh. I am autistic. I am anxious. I am guilty. I am lonely. And I am tired of trying to fly.

I want to walk. I want to feel the ground beneath my feet. I want to let people see me stumble. I want to let them help me up.

Because the strongest thing I’ve ever done isn’t controlling a room or coordinating a secret. It’s admitting that I’m just a person. And that’s enough.