The magic feeder

The envelope is on your desk, and the postmark is dated three days from now. You've turned it over twice, checked the stamp, even sniffed it like that would explain anything. Inside: a small, absurdly good chocolate in a matte black wrapper, and a card in Marc's looping handwriting. 'Reannual. It works back in time. Eat it now and you'll have already had it. Trust me. — M.'

You've been telling yourself for weeks that Marc is just a phase your thumbs are going through. The texts are great — better than great, they make your whole chest and other places go warm — but there are the little wrong things. He mentioned your aunt's funeral two days before your mom called with the news. He predicted the exact grade on your portfolio review. And every time you almost bail, something arrives: a message, a memory, a feeling like you've already decided.

You eat the chocolate and feel the fold in reality - and through the fold a memory slips into your mind, that Marc has sent you chocolates like this for months now, almost immediately after you started texting ten or so months ago. You tug at your shirt that keeps riding up your hanging belly, showing pale flesh that has started losing the fight against gravity some time ago, then you stop. This mound of flesh feels bigger than it should, you think, and your shirt isn't normally this tight. You look at its size - 2XL - and are confused. Didn't you wear size XL a few minutes ago? As the fold in reality smoothens, your thought slips.

The chocolate sits there, gleaming, patient. You shake your head because you could swear you just ate it. You shove it into your mouth - it is immensely tasy but the change that happened last time doesn't occur again. You don't say no to free chocolate, even if it's from Marc and his gifts are sometimes a bit weird. You vaguely remember a fidget spinner-like toy that had a spiral pattern printed on it that made you dizzy when you played with it. To be exact, you don't remember the spinning, you just remember how much you ate that day ending up lying on the couch with open pants. Or that tiny box of chocolates that took you a whole afternoon and a pretty stuffed stomach to empty.

The chocolate sits there, gleaming, patient. Again. Or still. Outside your apartment window, rain is starting. Your phone buzzes on the desk — his name on the screen, of course, right now, as if he knew. Because he probably knew.