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Post about the wish on OnlyFans, say it out load there too. Then text Diane a thank you without fixing anything. Then skip to the next Saturday movie night

Lena sits on the floor with the phone in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other and the apartment dark except for the console's blue glow. She opens the camera. She hits record. She doesn't angle the phone or fix the lighting or brush the crumbs off her belly. She just talks.

"I made a wish." The words come out steady and plain.

"I was standing in my bathroom and I was tired of feeling wrong in my body and I said it out loud — I just wish I could feel comfortable in my body for once. Really comfortable. And something happened. A warmth. And the next morning I was bigger and I haven't stopped getting bigger since." She pans the camera across the floor — the bottles, the bags, the stains, the wet wood, the couch with its ruined cushion — and turns it back to her face.

"This isn't a lifestyle. This isn't a fetish. I made a wish and it's being granted and I'm letting it happen because every pound it gives me is a pound of something I don't have to carry anymore. I weigh 295 pounds. I haven't showered in two weeks. I live on my floor. I eat and I game and I come and I win and the wish is still working and I don't want it to stop." She stops recording and uploads it and the views climb — 800, 2,000, 4,700 — and the comments fill fast. *this is the most honest thing i've ever seen on this site*, *i don't even know what to say*, *she said the word wish like she means it*, *i think i get it now.* The subscriber count reads 289.

She opens Diane's thread and types with one thumb. *Thank you for not trying to fix me. Thank you for seeing it and not trying to make it smaller. You're the only person who's done that.* She sends it and sets the phone on the floor and picks up the controller and starts a match and wins.

The week passes the way the last one passed — the floor, the food, the vodka, the weed, the gaming, the cycle. Lena's body settles into its new weight the way water settles into a basin. By Tuesday the scale reads 297. By Thursday it reads 298. The weight comes slower now — not the surge of last week but something steady and deep, the wish finding its pace. Her belly hangs lower against the floor when she lies on her side. Her breasts spread wider when she lies on her back. Her thighs press together from hip to knee and the skin between them stays warm and damp. She doesn't shower. She doesn't clean. She pisses and shits where she sits and wipes on the couch and the apartment accumulates another week of evidence — the bags piled higher, the bottles lined against the wall, the air thick and biological and entirely hers.

Saturday at six-thirty she peels herself off the floor. The hardwood has left impressions on her skin — the pattern of the grain pressed into her hip and her thigh — and she stretches and her body unfolds at 298 pounds and the ache is good. She walks out and the security guard looks up and looks down and the evening air moves across her skin and the Charleswood marquee glows a block ahead and Diane is at the entrance in her leather jacket and she sees Lena and her face does the thing it does — the quick scan, the assessment — and then she says, "You look like you've been on the floor for a week." Lena says, "I have been on the floor for a week." Diane almost smiles. She hands Lena a ticket and they walk in.