Turn 4 of 28

get up and walk to the break room for more food. Once its complete, order more. Continuously eat throughout the work day. Increase your slob behavior. Leave stains on increasingly tight clothes. Continue burping and farting without abandon. Revel in all changes.

Lena pushes back from her desk and the chair rolls with her, the armrests pressing hard enough into her hips that she has to angle herself to slide free. She stands and the torn shirt shifts, the gap at her ribs widening to show a crescent of soft skin. The button that survived the morning groans as she moves, the fabric pulled so thin across her belly that she can see the shadow of her navel through it. She walks toward the break room with a slow, deliberate stride, feeling her thighs rub together with every step, the jeans creaking at the inseam. Marcus doesn't look up, but she can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he is very carefully reading something on his screen that he isn't actually reading.

The break room is empty. Lena opens the refrigerator and pulls out the container of pasta she brought, then a yogurt, then a granola bar from the cabinet above the sink. She eats standing at the counter, forkful after forkful, and sauce drips onto the white shirt — a red smear across the tight fabric over her belly that she doesn't wipe away. She finishes the pasta, sets the container in the sink, and pulls out her phone to order delivery. Two large sandwiches, a side of fries, a milkshake. She types the order with sauce on her fingers and doesn't clean the screen. The warmth pulses beneath her skin as she submits it, a quiet reward.

She eats the yogurt in two long spoonfuls and a belch follows, low and resonant, bouncing off the break room tile. She feels pressure lower in her body and shifts her weight to one hip, letting a long, rolling fart escape into the empty room. The sound of it — unapologetic, bodily, real — sends a thrill through her that she doesn't try to examine. The voice curls warm and satisfied through her mind: Why pretend you're something other than what you are? You're taking up space now. All of it.

Back at her desk, the delivery arrives at eleven-fifteen. The delivery driver — a tired-looking woman in a green polo — hands over the bag and glances at Lena's shirt, at the sauce stain, at the missing buttons and the belly pressing through the gaps. Lena takes the bag with a smile and carries it back to her desk. She unwraps the first sandwich and bites into it with her full weight leaned back in the chair, which creaks and pops softly under her. Crumbs scatter across her chest. A drip of milkshake runs down her wrist and she licks it off without pausing.

Marcus finally speaks. "Lena, are you — is everything okay?" His voice is careful, measured, the tone of someone trying very hard to sound casual.

"Better than okay," Lena says, and takes another bite. A crumb falls into the gap between two remaining buttons, landing on the skin of her belly. She picks it up and eats it. She feels the warmth pulse again and her shirt tightens incrementally, the fabric pulling at the collar, the surviving buttons straining forward. She is still growing. Right here, in the middle of the office, in front of Marcus and the fluorescent lights and the silent judgment of everyone pretending not to watch. She reaches for the fries.

Her phone buzzes — three more Instagram likes, and a comment from someone named Priya: "Wait is that you?? You look AMAZING."