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They say you should love yourself for who you are. And you do—mostly. At least, you try. You’ve always been active and relatively fit for your size: weightlifting, rugby, track and field (the field part, specifically). But just because you were strong and healthy didn’t mean you were—well—thin.
It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself as you stare at your stomach in the mirror, fingers pinching a roll of fat between them.
And it really shouldn’t matter. You have a fulfilling career, a roof over your head, and three gorgeous girlfriends. It makes sense your body holds on to more weight—it’s built that way.
You’re strong.
You cling to that thought. Because if you’re not strong… then what are you? Just some fat fuck, unworthy of love.
Lately, the thought has been gnawing at you more and more. Especially at night, when Rumi, Mira, and Zoey are getting ready for bed—sharing clothes, walking around in various states of undress. They’re beautiful. It shouldn’t make you feel bad. Why should your insecurities dictate how they act?
So, instead of talking about it, you hide. Hoodies and shapeless clothes become your armor. You dodge photos. You always take the bottom spot in the cuddle pile—because you tell yourself you’re too big to be lying on anyone.
You push harder at the gym, jumping from three days a week to six. Sometimes twice a day. You meal-prep obsessively, cutting out sweets entirely and slashing carbs to almost nothing.
At first, it works—you lose a measly five kilos. Encouraged, you keep going. But then the weight loss stalls. Progress stops.
So you double down again. Every day becomes a workout day—three-hour sessions, twice or even three times a day. Breakfast disappears from your routine. Lunch and dinner shrink to "light" portions that barely fill you.
The others notice. Of course they do. You don’t cook with Mira anymore. You’re too drained to hang out with Zoey. And Rumi can’t remember the last time your smile actually reached your eyes.
They’re worried. Very worried.
You tell yourself they’re overreacting. That you’re fine. That this is what dedication looks like.
Besides, they're strong and thin and beautiful and you're… not.
You're the odd one out. So you keep pushing through the pain.
The mirror becomes your measuring stick. Not your strength, not your endurance—just the stubborn curve of your stomach and the way your thighs still press together. Every glance becomes a silent judgment. Every perceived flaw another reason to go harder, eat less, be better.
Mira starts leaving extra food in the kitchen, casually mentioning she made too much and you should have some. Zoey tries to pull you into her late-night movie marathons, offering you a spot under the blanket. Rumi suggests skipping the gym "just once" to join her for a lazy day in bed.
You refuse. If you stop now, you'll completely lose your resolve. And you can't lose all of your hard earned progress.
Eventually, your girlfriends can't take it anymore. Their worry morphs into fear, that turns into desperation. You were disappearing right before them and they didn't understand why.
One night, after your third workout of the day, you come home late. The lights in the living room are still on. All three of them are waiting—silent, watching you peel off your shoes. There’s no greeting, no teasing, just a thick, tense quiet.
Zoey is the first to speak. Her voice is small, but it cuts right through you.
"Babe… we’re losing you."
You force a laugh, like it’s a joke. Like you didn’t just feel your stomach clench at the words.
"Losing me? I’m right here." You move past them, heading for the kitchen. If you’re quick, maybe you can grab a glass of water and disappear into the shower before this turns into something bigger.
But Rumi steps into your path. She doesn’t touch you—just stands there, blocking the doorway. Her eyes are hard, but her voice is laced with concern.
"It's…not healthy. What you're doing to yourself."
Easy for them to say that. They don't have anything to prove.
"I’m not doing anything right now. In fact you're actively blocking me feom the kitchen."
"Blocking you from doing what?" Mira shot back, frustration sharpening her words. "Getting another glass of water? Maybe a couple slices of cucumber if we’re lucky?"
You have no comeback. Your chest feels tight, your limbs weighed down with exhaustion.
Rumi steps closer, her hands warm but steady on your shoulders. "We didn’t say anything when you started upping your workouts, or when you changed your diet. But now… you’re hurting yourself. You’re barely eating. You’re always at the gym. And when you’re not, you’re sleeping."
Zoey’s voice is quiet, but it cuts through you. "Can you at least just tell us why?"
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. The truth hovers there, sour and heavy on your tongue—too raw to give shape to.
Mira’s eyes soften, even as her brow stays furrowed. "We can’t help if we don’t understand."
You shake your head, staring at the floor. "You wouldn’t get it."
"Try us," Rumi says.
And suddenly the words slip, unguarded, before you can catch them. "Because I don’t want you to wake up one day and realize you could do better than me."
Silence. Thick and immediate.
Zoey blinks hard, her lips parting like she’s searching for something to say but can’t find it. Mira exhales slowly, her arms crossing over her chest, not in anger, but in self-protection. Rumi’s hands tighten on your shoulders just enough for you to feel her pulse through her fingertips.
"That’s what you think of us?" Zoey asks quietly, her voice breaking.
"That’s what I think of me," you mutter.
"You guys are… beautiful, and strong, and talented, and I’m… just here." Your voice trembles, but you push through it. "And it’s stupid, and it’s not your problem, but people talk—fans talk—and it just feeds the voices in my head."
You can’t meet their eyes. "Why are they with me? What do I add? I don’t fit."
The words spill faster now, like they’ve been waiting too long to escape. "So… I thought if I could make myself fit, if I could be smaller, better, less… maybe you wouldn’t wake up one day and realize you made a mistake. Maybe you wouldn’t open your eyes and see I don’t belong here."
The silence after is suffocating. You can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the faint tick of the clock on the wall, your own heartbeat thudding in your ears.
Then Mira steps forward, her voice shaking but steady enough to cut through. "We opened our eyes a long time ago. And what we saw—what we see—is someone who makes us laugh, who holds us together, who gives us more than we can ever explain. You don’t have to earn your place here. You already have it."
Zoey’s hand finds yours, her grip firm. "You think you’re just ‘here’? You’re home to me."
Rumi doesn’t speak at first. She just pulls you into her chest, wrapping her arms tight around you until you feel like you might dissolve. When she finally does speak, her voice is low and certain. "You belong. Not because you changed. Not because you shrank yourself. You belong because you’re you."
And for the first time in months, you feel something other than exhaustion—something fragile, almost dangerous.
Hope.
The dam inside you breaks and soon silent tears become violent sobs. Rumi moves first, pulling you into a hug you don’t know how to return. Zoey and Mira close in from either side, trapping you in the middle. Their warmth presses against you, unyielding, like they’re willing to hold you here until you believe them.
[8 months later…]
You wake to warmth and the comfortable tangle of limbs. Mira lies beneath you, her arms wrapped securely around your waist, her slow, steady breathing brushing against your hair. Rumi is pressed to your back, her legs hooked lazily over yours, and Zoey is sprawled across all three of you like a blanket that refuses to be folded.
For the first time in a long while, you’re not thinking about how heavy you are. You’re just… here. Held.
Your routine has shifted back to a manageable rhythm—three gym days a week, usually with at least one of your girls tagging along. Their presence keeps you grounded, keeps you from slipping into that relentless cycle of more, more, more.
You’ve started cooking with Mira again. She chatters as she chops, passing you little tastes of whatever’s in the pan. You still hesitate when it comes to indulgence, but you’re no longer surviving on cucumbers and water. Carbs have found their way back to your plate—pasta, rice, warm bread fresh from the oven. You take smaller portions at first, but you eat them.
Sometimes, the voice in your head still whispers. It tells you to work harder, to eat less, to shrink yourself. But more and more, it’s drowned out by other voices—the sound of Mira laughing when you drop a tomato, Zoey groaning dramatically when she loses at Mario Kart, Rumi humming while she brushes your hair.
You’re not "fixed." You still have days when the mirror feels cruel, when you reach for the hoodie before you can stop yourself. But now, you have arms to pull you back into the present, soft voices to remind you of your worth, and a steady warmth that makes you want to believe them.
And slowly—you do.