**Diary Entry**
I’ve always hated my body. Ever since I was a little girl, I envied the slender girls at school while I remained the “chubby one.” No matter how many diets I tried, the weight never budged.
“Stop torturing yourself,” Dad would say. “Eat properly. The right person will love you regardless of your size—it’s your heart and character that matter. Your mum was never skinny, but that didn’t stop me falling for her. A woman should be soft, warm—like home.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled. “You can eat a whole pie and not gain an ounce. Why couldn’t I take after you?”
Mum suddenly perked up. “Is this sudden dieting about a boy, Emma?”
I looked away, cheeks burning.
“Ah, I had a crush in school too,” Mum chuckled. “Fancied a lad who only had eyes for the prettiest girl in class. Broke my heart—until years later, I bumped into him again. And guess what? I was glad nothing ever happened between us.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Married that pretty girl, he did. But she demanded expensive clothes, and he couldn’t afford it. Ended up stealing, got caught, did time. Came out a broken man—divorced, jobless, drinking. Meanwhile, your dad and I scraped by when you were born, but we made it. Sometimes, rejection’s a blessing in disguise.”
“But what if he’d picked you? Maybe he wouldn’t have stolen—”
“He’d never have picked me, love. He liked slim, pretty girls. Even if he had, he’d have strayed eventually. And then I’d never have met your dad.” She smiled. “Everything happens as it should.”
“I still want to lose weight,” I insisted.
That night, I scoured the internet for diet plans, staring at “before and after” photos. *If they can do it, so can I.*
Next morning, rain lashed the windows. *Maybe start tomorrow?* No—I’d never begin if I kept waiting. I pulled on my trainers and ran.
The streets were empty—good. No one to see me wheezing, stitches burning my side, sweat soaking my back. I staggered home. *I’ll get used to it.*
Next day, every muscle screamed, but I ran again. Mum frowned as I limped inside. “Running? Good on you. But don’t cut out food entirely—you’ll crash before the finish line.”
Dad winked, devouring a scone. “Respect the grit, Em.”
I gulped my black coffee, ignoring the pastry’s buttery scent.
Weeks passed. My jeans loosened, but the mirror showed no change. Then two lithe girls overtook me. “Watch out—she’s dripping grease!” one sneered. The other shot me an apologetic smile.
Humiliated, I quit running and joined a dance class. In the changing room, whispers of “heifer” made me wait till everyone left. Mum sneaked extra roast potatoes onto my plate; I refused them, running harder.
By graduation, I’d slimmed—not model-thin, but enough to like my reflection. At the ball, when slow music played, Ryan crossed the room. *The teacher made him ask me.* My cheeks burned.
“Oi, Ryan!” a girl jeered. “Step on her foot, you’ll need crutches!” Laughter erupted.
“Enough,” Ryan snapped. “You’re just bitter ’cause you’re hangry.” Silence. “Ignore them,” he murmured, spinning me. “You move beautifully.”
That dance stayed etched in my heart, though he never asked again.
At med school, I kept running, shedding weight steadily. Ryan and I lost touch, though I stalked his socials—ski trips, occasional girls. My secret account, “Amber,” messaged him once. We chatted for months.
“Meet me,” he wrote.
I agreed—then chickened out, watching from afar. Later, photos showed a girl with a ring. *”Found the one I’d do anything for,”* his caption read. I sobbed into my pillow.
Years later, during clinical rounds, I saw Ryan—wired up in ICU after a motorbike crash.
“Fourth day in a coma,” the consultant said.
“Will he wake?” I whispered.
“You know him?”
“We were classmates.”
I begged to stay, whispering to his still form about spring buds, willing him awake. When he finally stirred, he didn’t recognise me—till I lowered my mask.
“You… you look great,” he croaked.
Visits became rare after his transfer. Once, I saw *her*—the ring girl—at his bedside and slipped away.
“He came back,” Mum deduced. “That’s why you’re moping.”
Later, I bumped into Ryan on the street, leaning on a cane.
“Emma!” He grinned. “I’ve been walking here daily, hoping to find you.”
We strolled. His leg ached, but he joked, “Worried I’d get too fit? Why’d you stop visiting?”
“I came. You were with *her*.”
“She bolted when she thought I’d be disabled. Came back to apologise when I improved. I forgave her—that’s all.” He paused. “Remember ‘Amber’? The girl I messaged for months?”
My pulse spiked. “That was me. I came to meet you—hid round the corner. I was still fat then.”
“You daft thing.” He hugged me. “I tried to find you. Come here.”
At home, Mum eyed him. “The ICU lad?”
We married after graduation. At the reception, Ryan whispered, “Eat, Em. Don’t worry—I love you as you are.”
I tugged him to dance, laughing.
Freud was right—happiness is childhood dreams fulfilled. But it takes grit, luck, and believing they’re worth chasing.
