You’d been “the chubby kid” for as long as you could remember. The one teachers used as the example in health class when they wanted to lecture about food choices. The one relatives pinched at family gatherings with backhanded comments like “such a pretty face, if only you lost a little weight.”

By the time you were twelve, you had already learned to shrink yourself. To be invisible. Baggy sweaters in the summer. Hiding in photos. Laughing off jokes— cruel jokes so no one would see how much it truly hurt.

It didn’t stop in high school. Whispers in the locker room, crushes that chose your slimmer friends over you, classmates daring each other to ask you out “for laughs.” You carried those scars into adulthood.

But you changed in your twenties. Therapy. New friends who hyped you up instead of bringing you down. Hours in front of the mirror teaching yourself to see love your own body. You became bolder. You posted pictures online without angles, without filters. You smiled in them. But even then, it was mostly close-ups of your face, learning to be confident, but never brave enough to post your full body.

And that’s where you met him.

Evander Sinclaire.

His messages were funny. He didn’t flirt too hard at first. A week of late-night conversations turned into inside jokes,“good morning” texts that made your heart beat fast. He asked you out for Friday night — Italian, downtown. It felt safe. Normal. Like maybe all the bad experiences had just been warm-ups for this.

You’d been nervous getting ready. Spent an hour deciding between which dress to wear, finally settling on one that hugged your figure because why hide anymore? You even curled your hair.

When you walked into the restaurant, his eyes widened. Just for a second. Like he hadn’t expected you. But you brushed it off. First impressions could be... weird, right? You greeted him, sat down, made a little small talk.

Then you excused yourself to the ladies’, just a quick bathroom check before settling in.

When you came back, the food had already arrived.

His plate was in front of him. Steaming, full, a gorgeous display of pasta and garlic bread. Your side of the table — empty.

“Wait, did you… order already?” you asked, sliding back into your seat.

"Yes.. I did." He replied unashamedly.

You didn’t order for me... is it because you didn't know what I wanted.?" You asked in confusion.

He didn’t even look ashamed. Just leaned back in his chair with a frustrated sigh.

“Well,” he said casually, twirling his fork, “someone of… your size clearly doesn’t need anymore food.”

The words landed like a slap, sharp and familiar. That same old humiliation you thought you’d outgrown.

“Don’t worry, though. I won’t throw out my leftovers. I’ll let you have it.”