I didn’t go to school.
Didn’t brush my hair. Didn’t change my clothes. I wore the same oversized hoodie I’d cried in last night. It still smelled like sweat and tears. I didn’t care.
I didn’t shower. Didn’t eat.
I sat on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, my back against the cabinet, knees pulled up to my chest. The lights were off. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. Not again. I didn’t want to see my face, the bloat in my cheeks, the puffiness from crying.
I didn’t want to see what Marcus saw. What everyone saw.
A joke. A fat girl trying to be something she wasn’t.
I sobbed until my throat burned. Until my nose was raw from wiping it on my sleeve. I didn’t even try to hold it back. It wasn’t the pretty kind of crying. It was the kind that sounded like choking.
And then I did it.
I leaned over the toilet and threw up. Not because I ate. I hadn’t. But because I wanted to feel empty. I wanted to punish my body. I wanted it gone.
When I was done, I stayed there, forehead resting on the seat, trying to breathe.
Marcus had called five times. Texted more. I hadn’t read them. I couldn’t.
I didn’t want to hear apologies. I didn’t want explanations.
He let me believe I was safe with him. And then he made me the punchline of the cruelest joke.
I hated him.
But I hated myself more.
For thinking he’d really choose me. For thinking I could ever be the girl who gets the guy, who gets the fairytale.
That wasn’t me. That had never been me.
I was the cautionary tale.
The reminder that no matter how hard you try, some girls don’t get to win.
And then I heard the front door open.
Of course.
“Betty,” Stacey called out, too casual. Too light. “Are you hiding?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t even lift my head.
The bathroom door creaked open, light spilling in. I blinked against it.
She stepped inside like she belonged there. Like this was just another regular afternoon and not the worst day of my life.
She didn’t even look surprised.
“Wow,” she said. “You look rough.”
I turned my head just enough to glare at her. “What the hell do you want?”
She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. Her voice was light, fake-concerned. “Just checking in. You kinda melted down in front of the entire school.”
I sat up slowly, back against the cabinet again, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. “You won already. What more do you want?”
Her smile vanished. “I told you. I tried to warn you.”
I laughed bitterly, even though it hurt. “Oh, come on. Don’t pretend this is about protecting me.”
“It’s not,” she said. “It’s about reality. You don’t get happy endings, Betty. You’re the fat sister. The side character. The footnote.”
“Shut up,” I whispered.
“You really thought he loved you?” she asked, stepping closer. “Does he want to be seen with you long-term? That he’d bring you to college parties and introduce you to scouts and let you ruin his image?”
I didn’t respond.
She kept going, relentlessly. “You’re not girlfriend material. You’re a pity date. A favor. A stepping stone. And you got too comfortable.”
I swallowed hard, but my voice still came out shaky. “Why do you even care?”
“Because I’m sick of watching you pretend,” she snapped. “Sick of watching you strut around like you belong. You don’t. You never have. You’re a walking embarrassment.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I shouted, standing up on shaking legs. “You think I haven’t heard it a thousand times? That I haven’t lived every day hating my reflection?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I know I’m fat,” I spat. “I know I’m not pretty. I know I’ll never look like you. You don’t have to keep reminding me.”
She blinked.
“And yeah, I believed him,” I said, voice cracking. “Because for one second, I wanted to believe someone could see me. Really see me. Not my weight. Not my clothes. Me.”
A pause.
Then her smile returned, crueler than before. “Well. Now you know better.”
She turned on her heel and walked out, her footsteps echoing down the hallway.
I sank to the floor again.