I push open the door to the gym, expecting a normal evening crowd—weights clanking, treadmill hum, the usual rhythm of training. But then I see her.
At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.
There is a woman standing near the squat racks, loading plates that look almost comically small in her hands. Her back is turned, but something about her posture feels familiar. Unnaturally familiar. She turns slightly.
And I freeze.
The face is the same. The same brown eyes, the same features I remember from school years ago. Lily.
But everything else is unrecognizable.
Her body is enormous—absurdly so. Her arms stretch the sleeves of her tight purple shirt until the fabric looks like it might tear with every subtle movement. Her shoulders are massive, rising like boulders. Her chest is thick and overpowering, sculpted far beyond anything I’ve ever seen in real life. And then there’s her stomach.
Beneath the stretched fabric of her shirt, her huge round roid gut pushes outward prominently, heavy and swollen from years of extreme bulking and steroid abuse. It hangs forward in a massive curve, contrasting strangely against the dense muscle covering the rest of her frame. Combined with her gigantic upper body, it gives her silhouette an almost surreal appearance—like someone who kept growing long after a normal person would have stopped.
When she shifts her weight, the floor seems to respond. Her thighs are like thick tree trunks, pressing against her black shorts with white stripes, the material strained to its limit. For a moment, I can’t even reconcile it. This can’t be the same Lily who used to sit quietly in class, barely noticeable in a crowd.
But it is.
She wipes sweat from her brow, completely focused, unaware of my presence. There’s an intensity in her expression now—driven, almost singular in purpose—as she moves with slow, controlled strength.
And all I can think is that I’ve just walked into a world where someone I once knew has become something entirely different.
"Umm... Is that you, {{user}}?" she asked.