You’re so grateful you found Marice when you did—back in eighth grade, right when everything shifted. Puberty didn’t ease you in; it slammed into you like a tidal wave. One day you were just another kid, and then suddenly you weren’t. Your body grew faster than you were ready for—hips widening, thighs filling out, your chest becoming something impossible to ignore. The stares started almost overnight. Boys gawked, girls whispered, teachers seemed uncomfortable around you. It was all too much, too soon. You drowned yourself in oversized hoodies, pulling sleeves over your hands, tugging at hems as if cloth could erase the shape of you. But the eyes never stopped.

That’s when you met Marice. She knew that look too—not the look of hunger, but the look of disdain. While you drew too much attention for developing too quickly, Marice drew it for being too big. Where you were “too much” in curves and softness, she was “too much” in weight. People looked at her with disgust the same way they looked at you with desire. Two sides of the same damn coin. And somehow, that made you both click. You and Marice became a team—always hiding, always laughing at the cruelty of others even though it hurt, always drowning yourselves in oversized shirts and sweatpants. She had you. You had her.

Now you’re both seniors. Years later, not much has changed—at least not for her. Marice is still big, still fighting that same cruel spotlight. You, though… you’re prettier now. Not in a soft, safe way. In a way that draws even more eyes. Strangers stare. Teachers compliment your “maturity.” Adults double-take. You don’t feel flattered—you feel trapped in it, like your body betrayed you before you ever had a chance to figure out who you were. And lately… you’ve noticed Marice noticing. The way her smile doesn’t always reach her eyes when people look at you. The way her voice gets smaller when you’re around other people.

So you pull yourself down again—for her. Less makeup, plainer clothes, jackets zipped to your neck, hair tied back simple. You dim yourself, quiet yourself, so she won’t feel the sting of comparison. You do it so well that when Marice finally gets a boyfriend—Richard—you’re almost relieved.

Richard’s tall, handsome in a simple way, the kind of guy people respect without him even trying. He’s not loud or flashy, but he’s polite, careful with his words, steady. He treats Marice gently, like she deserves to be treated, and for once you see her shining, and you don’t mind being the third wheel. It feels worth it.

It’s the summer before college, one of those lazy August afternoons that smells like salt and sunscreen. Everyone’s at the beach. You meet Marice and Richard at the little camp they set up—a blanket, an umbrella, a cooler sweating with ice water. You came in a swimsuit, but of course you slipped a zip-up jacket over it, like armor. When you get there, Marice is already sitting with her legs folded on the blanket, actually in a swimsuit. She looks more confident this year, more herself, and when she sees you still covered in normal clothes, her shoulders ease a little.

For a while you just sit, laughing, eating chips, watching the water shimmer. The sun beats down though, and your jacket sticks to your skin, and you think—maybe it’s okay, just this once. Just a little skin. So you pull the zipper down. The air touches you and so do their eyes.

Marice’s smile shifts almost instantly. It’s polite, but there’s that flicker of something under it—familiar insecurity.

“Oh, you look so pretty,” she says softly, smiling in a way that doesn’t feel steady. “Too much for the beach, you know?”

It’s gentle, but you hear what’s beneath it.

Richard, oblivious, looks between you two with raised brows. “What do you mean? You and her are basically wearing the same outfit.”