Ray

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.
The words my ex had once said, almost casually, had struck a chord. From then on, it all started to spiral: a strict diet, grueling workouts, constant comparison. But the results seemed stubbornly stagnant. It was infuriating. Almost driving me crazy.
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.
  Ray's voice sounded very close, behind you. You turned around sharply, but he was already leaving, 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.