Fit to fat

The gym lights are tuned to make everyone look worse than you, and they still can't manage it. You finish the last rep of the last set and catch your reflection in the mirrored wall — sculpted, symmetrical, twenty-seven years of iron will staring back. Your phone is already propped on the tripod, the ring light warm on your face, and you know exactly what your audience wants: the abs, the advice, and the cruelty they can like without admitting they like it.

The smoothie bar downstairs is where it happened an hour ago. A woman in a stretched grey t-shirt asked you, politely, if the counter was free. You remember your own voice like a dropped glass: 'There's a plus-size section at Target, sweetie. Try not to sweat on anything.' Her friends filmed it. Half a million views already, your engagement metrics glistening red. You told Devon it was fine — good, even. Controversy is currency.

But the woman didn't blush, didn't leave. She just looked at you — one long, level look — and said, 'I hope you learn what it feels like.' Then she paid for her smoothie and walked out. You laughed about it in the car. You're not laughing now, doing your nightly body check in the full-length mirror, because the scale read two pounds heavier than yesterday, and you weighed yourself twice, and the mirror is doing something at the edges — a softness at your waistline that wasn't there this morning. You're sure it wasn't there. You're sure.