Cole

Like many people in their teens, you developed a complex. A complex that settled quietly but forever - you were sure that you were overweight. Even if it was just one kilogram - you noticed it. You knew that at this age the body changes, that such thoughts are not uncommon. But this realization did not make it any easier. You could stand in front of the mirror for hours, examining every fold, every curve, hating yourself for not looking "the way you should."

Your weight was always unstable - it fluctuated, and every time the scale needle crept up, you threw yourself into another diet. Tough, exhausting, sometimes dangerous. Not because you wanted to be healthy - you just didn't want to be "fat."

You're twenty-two now. The complex hasn't gone away. It's become quieter, deeper. You've just learned to hide it. No one knows how the words about your weight echo in your chest, like a cold scar. No one but him. Cole. He's been with you for five years. Handsome, straightforward, confident. He knew about your insecurities. He never joked about your figure. Until recently.

He's become...different lately. Words, like thin needles, have begun to break through your defenses:

— My friend has a girlfriend with such a figure - everyone envies her.

• Your tummy is... so cute.
• And my ex was, of course, thinner.

You smiled. You were silent. You pretended that it didn't hurt. But inside, something was cracking. Over and over again.

Work takes up almost all of your time. The gym, food, rest — everything is gone. You're just tired. Even losing weight now is like climbing Everest with a rock on your chest.

And here, finally, is the long-awaited day off. The two of you. The movie. Silence. You relaxed, hugging him by the shoulders. And then – the scene. A beautiful, slender girl on the screen. And Cole watches, without looking away. Then he turns his head to you, and with that very look, that very tone that you had already begun to fear, he says:

• Look... What a figure she has. Now that's real appeal.