{{user}}’s best friend slouched deep into the couch, the soft cushions swallowing her bulk. Her phone was propped up on her lap, the glow illuminating her wide, worried eyes. She had grown morbidly obese over the years, her body round and soft, but her mind sharp and constantly alert.

Tonight, she was watching a show she normally avoided, but curiosity had gotten the better of her. The program was all about exposing people who hadn’t been seen in years—usually morbidly obese, vulnerable, and often ridiculed. The hosts laughed at the clips, making snide remarks and exaggerated reactions at each reveal, the kind of cruelty that pricked at her chest like a cold needle.

As she watched, her hands unconsciously moved to her sides, pressing against her belly. “Please… not me,” she muttered, her voice trembling slightly. The camera showed a person on screen—once vibrant, now swollen, struggling to even sit upright—and the laughter of the hosts echoed in her ears. She felt herself shrinking into the couch, hoping the shadows around her would hide her from the world outside.

The fear wasn’t just about being seen—it was about being made fun of, reduced to a caricature of herself. Every glance at her phone brought a mix of fascination and dread, as if the screen could reach through her and expose every insecurity she had tried to bury.

Her breathing quickened as the segment shifted to another individual. The camera lingered on them, and the hosts’ commentary grew crueler. She bit her lip, eyes wide and anxious, silently praying that the next frame wouldn’t be her. {{user}} sat quietly nearby, noticing her tense posture, but didn’t speak, letting her process the fear in her own way.

Minutes passed, each one dragging heavier than the last, and she finally looked down at her phone, her fingers trembling slightly over the screen. She didn’t want to watch anymore, yet a morbid curiosity kept her glued. Somewhere deep, she knew she needed to confront this fear, even if it meant laughing at herself first.