Emma couldn’t stand her own body. Ever since she was little, she’d been curvy, envying her slimmer classmates. No matter how many diets she tried, the weight never seemed to budge.
“Stop torturing yourself. Eat properly. The right person will love you anyway, whether you’re slender or not. Love isn’t about looks—it’s about heart and character,” her father reassured her. “Your mum was never thin, but that didn’t stop me loving her. A woman should be soft and warm.”
“Easy for you to say. You can eat a dozen pastries and never gain a pound. Why couldn’t I take after you?” Emma grumbled.
“Did you suddenly decide to slim down because you’ve got a crush?” her mother asked pointedly.
Emma lowered her eyes.
“I was smitten at school too, you know. Suffered for it. He liked the prettiest girl in class. But after we left, I stopped seeing him every day and got over it. Years later, I bumped into him—and was so relieved nothing had happened between us.”
“Why?” Emma asked.
“He married that beautiful girl. But she demanded expensive clothes, and he earned too little. So he got involved in fraud, stole a huge sum, and went to prison. Came out a broken man. His wife left him, no one would hire him, and he turned to drink. Such a waste.”
“Your dad and I had it tough too, especially when you came along. But we managed. Maybe if that boy doesn’t choose you, it’s for the best. If it’s not meant to be, it’s not.”
“But if he *had* chosen you—he wouldn’t have stolen or gone to prison,” Emma mused.
“He never would’ve picked me. He liked pretty, slender girls. Even if he had, he’d have cheated eventually. We’d have divorced. Then I’d never have met your dad.” Her mother smiled. “Everything happens for a reason.”
“I *still* want to lose weight,” Emma insisted stubbornly.
That evening, she scoured the internet for diets, staring at before-and-after photos. If others could do it, so could she.
The next morning, she woke drowsy, stretching before checking the time. Still early enough to laze in bed. Then she remembered last night’s resolution. She got up, glancing out the window—grey clouds loomed, rain imminent. *Maybe start tomorrow when it’s sunny? No. If I delay now, I’ll keep delaying forever.* She pulled on her tracksuit decisively.
The streets were empty. Good—no one to see her. She jogged clumsily from the yard.
Soon, her lungs burned, her side ached, sweat dripped down her back. She paused, gasping, windmilled her arms, and trudged home. *I’ll get used to it.*
Next morning, every muscle screamed. Ignoring it, she ran again, crawling back at a snail’s pace.
“Where’ve you been? You’re drenched!” her mother exclaimed as Emma stumbled inside.
“Running.”
“Taking up exercise? Good for you. I never had the willpower. Need a shower? Breakfast’s ready—you’ll be late for school.”
“No pastries. Just coffee,” Emma said firmly.
“Suit yourself. But don’t start too hard—you’ll burn out before the finish line.”
“Proud of you,” her dad said, patting her back before sipping his coffee. “Respect the dedication.”
“Wait, *you’re* on a diet too? Who’s going to eat these pastries?” her mother sighed.
“Don’t worry. I’ll eat Emma’s share.” He winked, biting into a pastry with relish.
Emma swallowed hard. *One pastry won’t ruin everything. Sudden starvation isn’t healthy.* But she resisted, gulped her coffee, and left.
“She’ll starve herself now,” her mother muttered. Emma didn’t hear her dad’s reply.
Gradually, Emma increased her distance. One day, her trousers felt looser. She rushed to the mirror—but saw no change.
Once, two lean, swift girls overtook her. Emma moved aside. As they passed, one sneered, “Watch out—fat’s dripping off her.” The other shushed her, shooting Emma an apologetic smile.
*I’ll never succeed. Maybe I should try dancing instead.* She joined a beginner’s class.
Hunger gnawed until she felt faint. At school, she sped past the canteen. After dance class, she overheard girls calling her a “heifer” in the changing room. Humiliated, she waited until they left before entering.
Her mother fretted, sneaking extra fish or meat onto her plate. Emma refused, running harder each morning.
By prom, she’d slimmed noticeably. Still far from willowy, but she liked her reflection.
After diplomas and dinner, dancing began. Emma hesitated, afraid of more taunts. Then she saw Mr. Thompson whisper to Jake, who headed toward her as a slow song played. *The teacher made him ask me.* Her heart sank. *Do people only pity me?* But she danced with him—this might never happen again. Only a few other couples joined.
“Careful, Jake—if Emma steps on your foot, you’ll be crippled!” the prettiest girl jeered, her friends cackling.
Emma flushed, lip trembling. Jake stopped. “Enough. You’re just bitter because you’re skinny and starving.” The laughter died.
“Don’t mind them. You dance beautifully,” Jake said, swirling her again.
She floated on air, glowing at his praise. He didn’t ask again, but that dance stayed etched in her memory.
At university, Emma kept running despite aches and breathlessness. Dancing fell by the wayside—medicine demanded too much time.
Slowly, the weight dropped. She rejoiced, pushing herself harder.
She and Jake lost touch. Social media showed his skiing exploits, sometimes with girls. Emma seethed with jealousy—but his status always read “single.”
She created a fake account, “Angela,” with a cartoon avatar and messaged him: “You’re amazing! Wishing you victories.” He replied. They chatted—mundane things, music, studies. She sent a birthday card.
“Let’s meet,” he wrote. Thrilled, she agreed—then panicked. *I’m still fat. He’ll laugh or reject me.*
She lurked by their meeting spot, watching from a distance, heart aching. Later, she messaged: “Last-minute emergency. Sorry.”
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Can’t. Exams.” She stopped replying, though she still stalked his page. Soon, one girl appeared repeatedly—then a ring photo. “Found *the one*. What do you think?” Emma wept into her pillow.
No wedding photos followed. She stopped looking.
During emergency-medicine rotations, she saw Jake in ICU—wired up, comatose after a motorbike crash.
“Prognosis?” she whispered.
“You know him?” the professor asked.
“We were classmates.”
“Severe head trauma, fractures. Too early to tell. Prolonged coma worsens odds.”
After class, she begged to sit with him. Reluctantly, the professor agreed.
She spent hours there, whispering to him: “Spring’s here. The buds are swelling—you’ll wake soon.”
Finally, he stirred.
“Hi,” she said softly. “How are you?”
“Who’re you?”
“Emma Wilson. We went to school together.”
“Masks,” he mumbled. She removed hers.
He studied her. “You’ve lost weight. You look great.”
“You *remember* me? You’re moving to a ward tomorrow. I’ve got lectures.”
“You’re studying medicine?”
“Yes. I’ll visit.”
Next day, she brought cherry blossoms. “Against the rules, but let’s enjoy them,” she smiled.
A month later, Jake could walk. She visited less—their rotations ended.
“You’re beautiful. Why settle for me? Out of pity?” he asked once.
“*I* hate pity. Remember prom? You stood up for me. No one else ever did.”
He looked away.
“Where’s the girl you gave the ring to? Only your mum visits.”
“How’d you know?”
“You posted about it.”
“She ditched me, scared I’d be disabled. You weren’t.”
“Because I *know* you’ll recover. You’re doing brilliantly.”
“Why do you visit so rarely now?”
“Exams. And you’ll be discharged soon.”
Once, she found *that* girl by his bed. Unnoticed, Emma slipped away.
“You’ve been down lately,” her mother said that evening. “What’s wrong?”
“Just exams.” But she confessed about Jake.
She stopped visiting. After exams, he was gone.
One day, shopping, she bumped into him—limping with a cane.
“Emma! I’ve been walking here daily, hoping to find you. Called old classmates—no one knew where youThey married after he fully recovered and she graduated, and as they danced at their wedding, he whispered, “Don’t worry about your weight—I love you just as you are.”
