It started subtly. A tightness in their jeans, a little discomfort after meals. They chalked it up to puberty, growth spurts, anything but the truth that gnawed at them. Everywhere they looked, there it was: bellies. Round, full bellies, proudly displayed under t-shirts, resting comfortably on laps. Bellies that seemed to command attention, bellies that seemed… happy. And they envied them.

The envy festered, a low, simmering heat. It fueled a strange, almost imperceptible growth within them. Their appetite vanished, replaced by a constant, dull ache in their abdomen. Buttons strained, waistbands dug in. The mirror became an enemy, reflecting a distorted version of themselves, a version with a belly that was rapidly expanding, round and tight like a drum.

Panic set in. They tried dieting, exercise, anything to stop the relentless growth. But it was no use. The envy had taken root, manifesting itself physically, a grotesque parody of the bellies they so coveted. Their own, now a massive, uncomfortable burden, a constant reminder of their toxic emotions. It was a heavy weight, not just on their body, but on their soul.