Turn 2 of 28
wear her old clothes for as long as possible. she enjoys showing off.
Lena pulls open her closet door and surveys the row of clothes that have been her wardrobe for years. Slim-cut blouses, fitted skirts, the dark jeans with the missing button she folded over the chair last night. She runs her fingers along the hangers, feeling the narrowness of each garment, the tailored seams meant for a body that no longer exists. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. She reaches for the jeans first, stepping into them with deliberate care, pulling the stiff denim up over thighs that have grown noticeably thicker since she last attempted this. The fabric grips her legs, resisting every inch, and she has to wiggle her hips side to side to work them past the widest part. The seam groans softly. She doesn't stop.
She gets them up to her waist and tries to fasten the button, the one she popped off yesterday, but the edges of the waistband won't meet. She holds them together anyway, feeling the strain, the way the denim cuts into the soft new flesh of her belly, pressing a visible ridge into her skin. She finds a rubber band in her nightstand drawer and loops it through the buttonhole, hooking it over the button stub. It holds, barely. The waistband gaps at the back, and her belly spills over the front in a soft curve that the zipper can't contain. She turns sideways in the mirror and tilts her head, admiring the way her body fights the fabric, the way every seam looks ready to surrender. Something hot and bright sparks in her chest.
She chooses a fitted white button-down next, the kind she used to wear to the office, and threads her arms through. The shoulders still fit, mostly, but the fabric pulls tight across her chest where her breasts have grown heavier, and the buttons between them strain open in a small V that shows the curve of skin beneath. She works the middle buttons closed and watches the fabric stretch thin across her belly, the buttonholes pulling into ovals, white threads visible between each fastening. The shirt clings to every new curve, outlining the roundness of her stomach, the soft width of her sides, the way her back has broadened. She looks like she's being poured into something two sizes too small. She looks, she thinks with a strange thrill, like she's bursting out of her old life.
She turns front to the mirror and places one hand on her belly, feeling it push against the strained buttons. The shirt has already ridden up at the hem, showing a sliver of skin where the fabric can't stretch far enough to cover her. The rubber band holding her jeans groans. She takes a breath and watches the buttonhole gap dangerously, the white fabric pulling taut across her chest. The reflection staring back at her is someone she barely recognizes — softer, rounder, fuller in every direction — and yet the recognition is there, warm and deep. This is her. This is what comfortable looks like.
She moves through her morning routine with her clothes protesting at every step. Bending to pick up her phone stretches the jeans tight and she hears a stitch pop in the seat. Reaching for a mug makes a button at her belly groan, the thread pulling thin. She eats breakfast standing at the counter, feeling her belly press forward against the shirt with each bite, the fabric growing tighter as the day's warmth makes her swell just a little more. She catches herself in the hallway mirror and pauses, turning to take in the full picture — the straining buttons, the overflowing waistband, the seams pulled to their absolute limit. A quiet, satisfied hum settles in her throat. The voice drifts through again, warm and approving: Show them. Let them see what you're becoming.