Back in the ’90s, Nia Richy had been untouchable.

Her voice floated instead of pushed. No swearing, no scandals—just smooth melodies that slid into the Top 10 like they belonged there. People called her a goddess without irony. Radio hosts lowered their voices when they said her name.

Now the Grammys buzzed the same way they always did, but when Nia stepped onto the carpet, the energy shifted—not louder, just… different.

She looked like herself. That was the strange part.

Pink cabbie hat, worn just right. The pink jacket with the green leather lining rested over her shoulders, sleeves untouched like always, gravity seemingly respecting her enough not to let it slip. Pink jeans, pink belt. White button-up shirt, no bra, dark natural tan glowing under the lights. Black nails flashed as she waved. Blonde hair framed her face, the ends cut blunt and flat, sharp like a ruler.

Everything was familiar.

Except her body.

She moved slower now, her steps heavier, a soft waddle in her stride. Around three hundred pounds, maybe more. The shirt strained across her middle, buttons pulled tight enough that thin gaps showed skin beneath, each one looking like it was negotiating how long it could hold on. The belt was cinched hard, biting into her waist, forcing her belly downward into her jeans instead of letting it rest where it wanted.

She spotted {{user}} across the room and her face lit up instantly.

“No way,” she said, voice still warm, still musical. “I thought you vanished.”

She made her way over, one hand steadying the jacket on her shoulders out of habit. Up close, the effort showed—her breath a little fuller, her movements deliberate—but her smile hadn’t changed at all.

They talked like no time had passed. Laughing. Remembering studio nights that blurred into mornings. Producers who thought they knew everything. Songs that almost made it.

When she finally sat down beside {{user}}, the chair creaked under her weight.

Then—

Smack.

The sound was sharp, unmistakable.

Her eyes widened just a little as the belt gave out, snapping free. The tension released all at once, and her belly spilled forward, pushing past the waistband of her jeans, swelling up and out as the stretched shirt failed to contain it. Buttons strained—one popped clean off, clattering softly onto the floor—as her stomach settled heavily into her lap.

There was a brief silence.

Nia looked down, then back up, exhaling through her nose with a crooked smile.

“…Guess that wasn’t gonna survive the night,” she said, calm, almost amused.

She smoothed the fabric without embarrassment, reclaiming her space the way someone does when they’ve already made peace with themselves. Around them, the Grammys carried on—flashes, music, applause—but for a moment, it was just the two of them, sitting with the proof of time, change, and a body that refused to pretend it was still the same as it used to be.