All my life, I believed I never had a nickname.
Which was odd, because nicknames were practically a cultural requirement. Everyone had one — sometimes several — circulating inside friend groups like private currencies. But me? Nothing. Or so I thought.
I found out two years after finishing my bachelor’s degree, in the most ridiculous way possible: an anonymous chat. A former classmate — completely unaware he was talking to me — started describing someone from our department.
“There was this one person,” he said, “whom we used to call Short-circuit.”
And the guy telling me this wasn’t just anyone. He was the inventor of the nickname — and also the best friend of my crush from our bachelor’s class. The nickname had existed quietly inside their friendship circle. They used it all the time. Yet the one person completely unaware of it was the one it belonged to.
Now, Short-circuit wasn’t about my temper. My temper was fine.
My height, though… yes. That was short.
Not just the shortest in my class, but the shortest in the entire department. I used to stand behind the dais and only my head would be visible above it — like a live wire peeking over a podium.
But height alone doesn’t earn a nickname like that.
What really powered it was everything else.
I had — and still have — an electrifying mouth and a mind that refused to stay quiet in the face of nonsense. If something felt unjust, I spoke. Loudly, if necessary. If teachers were wrong, administration was unfair, or rules were absurd, I confronted them.
Arguments followed. Sparks flew. And somehow, people were left speechless.
Those with lesser intellect — or simply a strong survival instinct — learned quickly: don’t provoke this one. Because if I got angry, no one knew what would come out of my mouth. And whatever it was would be remembered forever. Possibly quoted. Definitely laughed about.
And yet — here’s the twist — I was also the person everyone relied on.
My handwriting was so clean and readable that even an illiterate person could follow it. My notes were structured, organized, and miraculously coherent. Before exams, students from every section photocopied my notebooks for clarity, sanity, and last-minute salvation.
So there I was — small in size, loud in presence — sparking debates, cracking wit, and leaving an imprint far larger than the space I physically occupied.
That’s what Short-circuit really meant.
Not madness — but intensity.
And the most mind-bending part?
For years, without my knowing, a nickname existed that captured me with unsettling accuracy — passed casually between people who saw me clearly, while I had no idea.
Now I can’t help but wonder if this has been happening my whole life. What if they’re calling me "Mighty Mite" at the office right now?
– from the collection *Zenith Diaries*
Original prose and artwork © Zenith Soulspace. All rights reserved.
