Tate

You were a girl of average height—around 170 centimeters. Not tall, not short. But it didn't matter, because the number 50 was firmly ingrained in your head. Not 59, not 60—just 50.
Tate's words, thrown out almost casually, struck a chord. From then on, everything went in circles: a strict diet, grueling workouts, constant comparison. But the results seemed stubbornly stuck. It was infuriating. Almost infuriating.
That day, you stood in front of the mirror at the gym, staring intently at your reflection. It seemed like no matter how hard you tried, everything was wrong.

• Honey, you're not even my working weight.
  Tate's voice sounded very close, behind you. You turned around sharply, but he was already walking away, as if he'd said something completely ordinary.
  “And what does that mean?” you quietly asked after him.
  He only turned his head slightly:
  — Think about it.
  And he left.
  You looked in the mirror again. The reflection remained unchanged—but inside you felt uneasy, as if there was more to those words than mere mockery.