Turn 6 of 21

wake up and assess the damage - body, apartment scale. weight went from 160 to 170. Tits, ass, belly all bigger. Her red hair more limp and greasy. More red body hair. Apartment is pigsty, with containers, and bottles all over. She is turned on by all changes. Thankfully its Saturday, so she can deal with her hangover with more alcohol, weed and greasy food. Burps + farts increase and more wet.

Lena wakes up because her bladder insists, and the act of sitting up is a production — her belly has grown so round overnight that she has to rock forward twice before momentum carries her upright. The couch cushions are damp beneath her, stuck to her back with dried sweat, and the room smells like a bar floor at closing time. Beer cans glint across the coffee table and the carpet and the kitchen counter. Pizza boxes sit open and empty, the cheese congealed to wax. A trail of garlic knot crumbs leads from the couch to the bathroom door like a breadcrumb path in reverse.

She makes it to the bathroom and catches herself in the mirror and stops. The woman looking back is visibly larger than yesterday — not just softer but wider, her silhouette reshaped overnight while she slept. Her breasts hang heavy and full, each one broader than her hand can cup, the skin warm and stretched. Her belly pushes outward in a firm round curve that rests against her upper thighs when she stands straight. She turns sideways and her ass has expanded too — wide and plush, spreading into a broad shelf that she can feel bounce when she shifts her weight. She lifts one arm and the red hair there is thicker, darker, a coarse thatch under each arm. Her legs are rough with days of growth, the stubble visible even from across the room. Her red hair hangs flat against her skull, greasy at the roots, the color dulled to a muddy copper.

The scale reads 170. She stares at the number and feels a pulse of heat move through her — not embarrassment, not dread, something sharper and more electric. Twenty-five pounds in just over a week. She is 5'7" and she weighs 170 pounds and her body is still changing, still warm, still softening in places she didn't know could soften. She runs both hands down her sides, feeling the new width of her hips, the new depth of her belly, and her breath catches. The warm voice rises like a whisper from the bottom of a well: Beautiful. Keep going.

The hangover hits when she steps off the scale — a dull throb behind her eyes and a sour churn in her stomach that she knows from experience only one thing will fix. She shuffles to the kitchen, naked, stepping over beer cans, and opens the fridge. There's leftover curry in a container and half a box of cereal and three IPAs still cold from the back. She cracks one and drinks it standing in the kitchen light, hair hanging in her face, belly pressing against the cold fridge door, and the first swallow is cold and bitter and perfect. The headache begins to recede.

It's Saturday. There is nowhere to be. She carries the beer to the couch and sinks into the mess of cushions and reaches for her phone. The delivery app is still open from last night. She orders breakfast — pancakes and bacon and hash browns and a side of sausage gravy — and adds a pre-roll to the order from the dispensary. When the food comes she eats it naked on the couch with her legs spread wide and her belly resting heavy between her thighs, grease running down her wrists, and a deep wet belch rolls out of her midway through the pancakes that tastes like maple syrup and old beer. She doesn't wipe her mouth. She takes another bite. A long, rumbling fart escapes into the cushion and she shifts her weight to let the next one come easier, and the apartment fills with the warm, heavy smell of her — unwashed and unbothered and growing by the hour.