You ate the cookie.
Just one.
Just a bite.
Just enough to ruin everything.
Your body buzzes —
not with joy
or fullness
or even regret.
With fire.
Your face feels puffier by the second.
Your thighs press harder into the chair.
Your stomach rounds under your shirt like it’s blooming in fast motion.
You see it.
You feel it.
You know it can’t be real.
You know that.
You know that.
But what if it is?
What if the fat is actually forming,
cell by cell,
bulge by bulge.
What if you never stop expanding?
What if this is the moment
you lose the thread —
and become too much?
You try to breathe,
but your chest says no.
Your brain says math,
but your skin says monster.
You try to work,
but your reflection interrupts.
You try to smile,
but your body burns through it.
You tell yourself:
It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true.
But your shame begs you:
Please. Make it stop. What if they notice?
And that’s the terror.
The swelling.
The mirror.
The feeling.
The seeing.
The not knowing if you’re imagining it —
or finally just seeing what everyone else does.
You know it isn’t real.
You know.
You know.
You know.
But what if it is?