Come to me…
Emily detested her own body. Since childhood, she had been plump, envying the slender girls around her. No matter how many diets she tried, the weight refused to budge.
“Stop torturing yourself. Eat properly. The right person will love you no matter what—thin or curvy. Love isn’t about looks; it’s about heart and character,” her father consoled her. “Your mum was never a stick, but that didn’t stop me from adoring her. A woman should be soft and warm.”
“Easy for you to say. You can eat a whole pie and not gain an ounce. Why didn’t I take after you?” Emily grumbled.
“Sudden interest in losing weight? Got a crush, have you?” her mother teased.
Emily looked down.
“I had a schoolboy infatuation too. Pined for ages. He fancied the prettiest girl in class, of course. Then school ended, I stopped seeing him every day, and I moved on. Years later, I bumped into him on the street—and thank heavens nothing ever happened between us.”
“Why?” Emily asked.
“Married that beauty from class. She demanded designer clothes, but he barely scraped by. So he got involved in some fraud, stole a fortune. Went to prison, came out a different man. His wife left him, no one would hire him, and he turned to drink. Such a promising start,” her mother sighed.
“Your father and I struggled too, especially when you were born. But we made it. So if someone doesn’t choose you? Maybe it’s a blessing. Means they weren’t yours.”
“But if he’d chosen you, he might not have stolen. Might not have gone to prison,” Emily mused.
“He couldn’t have chosen me. He liked girls who were pretty and slim. Even if he had, he’d have changed or cheated eventually. Still, then I’d never have met your dad,” her mother smiled. “Everything happens for a reason.”
“I still want to lose weight,” Emily insisted stubbornly.
That evening, she scoured the internet for diets, staring at before-and-after photos. If they could do it, so could she.
The next morning, Emily stretched and checked the clock. Time to laze a little. Then she remembered—last night, she’d vowed to start anew. She padded to the window. Clouds hung heavy; rain was imminent. “Maybe delay till tomorrow, when it’s nicer? No,” she decided. “Keep postponing, and it’ll never happen.” She pulled on her tracksuit with determination.
The streets were empty. Good. No one to see her. She broke into a clumsy jog.
Soon, her chest burned, her side stabbed with pain, her throat clogged with damp coughs, sweat streaming down her back and face. She paused, gasping, windmilled her arms, and hobbled home. She’d get used to it.
Next morning, every muscle ached. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself out again. She crawled back, slow as a snail.
“Where’ve you been, all soaked?” her mother asked as Emily stumbled in.
“Running.”
“Taken up exercise? Good on you. I never had the willpower. Tired? Shower, then breakfast, or you’ll be late for school.”
“No bacon sandwiches. Just coffee,” Emily declared.
“Suit yourself. But diving in headfirst isn’t wise. Marathon runners pace themselves, or they burn out,” her mother chided.
“Well done,” her father said, clapping her back. “Respect the dedication.” He settled at the table, sipping his coffee.
“What, you on a diet too? Why did I bake, then?” her mother sighed.
“Don’t fret. I’ll eat Em’s share.” He winked, snatched a sandwich, and bit in greedily.
Emily swallowed hard. One bite wouldn’t ruin her. But no—no temptations. She gulped her coffee and fled.
“Starving herself now,” her mother muttered as Emily left.
She didn’t hear her father’s reply.
Time passed. Emily pushed further, lengthening her route. One day, her trousers felt looser. She dashed to the mirror—but saw no change.
Once, two lithe girls—swift as deer—overtook her. Emily yielded the path. As they passed, one giggled, “No wonder it’s slippery—fat dripping off the heifer.” The other shushed her, tossing Emily an apologetic smile.
Hopeless. Maybe dancing would work? People said it helped. So she signed up for beginners’ classes.
Hunger gnawed till she swayed. At school, she sped past the canteen. After dancing, she overheard girls in the changing room call her a cow. Humiliated, she waited till they left before entering. Too shy to undress with others watching.
Her mother fretted, sneaking extra fish or a slice of meat onto her plate. Emily refused, doubling down on her runs.
By graduation, she’d slimmed noticeably. Still far from willowy, but she admired her reflection now.
After diplomas and speeches came the dance. Emily hesitated, fearing more taunts. Then she noticed Mr. Thompson, the teacher, murmuring to James. When a slow song played, James crossed the floor toward her. Her heart sank—asked out of pity. But she joined him anyway. Might never get another chance.
“Oi, James, watch it! Let her stomp on your foot, and you’ll limp for life!” the prettiest girl jeered, flanked by her giggling clique.
Emily’s cheeks burned. Tears welled. James stopped dead.
“Enough. Not funny. You’re just bitter ‘cause you’re all skin and bones.”
Silence.
“Ignore them. They’re jealous. You dance beautifully,” James said, twirling her again.
Bliss. She glowed under his praise—but he never asked again. No matter. She’d treasure that one dance forever.
University swallowed her days. She kept running, battling stitches and breathlessness. Dancing fell aside—no time amidst medical studies.
Slowly, the weight melted. She rejoiced, running harder.
James faded from her life. She stalked his socials—skiing now. Winter photos showed him with girls. Each one stabbed her with jealousy. But his status always read “single.”
She made a fake account—Angela, cartoon avatar, flowery posts. Messaged him: “You’re amazing! Wishing you victories!” He replied. They chatted—mundane things, music, studies. She sent a birthday card.
“Meet me?” he wrote.
Her heart leapt—she agreed instantly. But two hours later, fear gripped her. Still too big. He’d laugh, shatter her.
She went anyway, peeking from behind a lamppost. Ached to approach, nearly wept. Later, she texted: “Sorry, last-minute emergency…”
“Tomorrow?”
“No, got exams…”
She ghosted him. The chats died. Still, she checked his profile. One girl appeared often. Then—a ring photo. “Found the one I’d do anything for. What d’you reckon?”
She sobbed into her pillow. But no wedding photos ever followed. Had they married? She stopped checking.
During ER training, she saw him—wired to machines, unconscious.
“Motorbike crash. Four days comatose post-op,” the lecturer explained.
“Will he—?” Her voice shook.
“Personal interest, Emily?”
“We were classmates.”
“Ah. Severe head trauma, fractures—ribs, femur, pelvis. Too soon for prognosis. But prolonged coma… not promising.”
After class, she begged to sit with him.
“You won’t help. He’s getting expert care.”
“Please,” she pleaded.
Sighing, he relented.
Now she spent hours by his bed, shooed away when his parents visited. She told his sleeping form: spring had come, the sun delirious, buds swelling—he’d wake soon.
And he did.
“Hey,” she whispered. “How d’you feel?”
“You are…?”
“Don’t recognise me? Emily. We shared a class.”
“The mask,” he mumbled.
She peeled it off.
He stared.
“You—you shrank. Look brilliant,” he croaked.
“You remember me? Tomorrow they’ll move you. I’ve lectures now.”
“Med student?”
“Yes. I’ll pop by tomorrow.”
Next visit, she brought cherry blossom. The room bloomed with scent.
“Against the rules, but just a while,” she smiled.
A month later, allowed to stand, James asked:
“You’re gorgeous. Why bother with me? Out of pity?”
“I hate pity. Remember graduation? You stood up for me. No one ever had.”
He looked away.
“Who was that girl? The one you gave the ring? Nurses said only your mum visits.”
“How’d you—?”
“Your socials. Posted it yourself.”
“She bailed. Scared I’d stay crippled.” His smile turned bitter. “You didn’t run.”
“Because I knew you’dShe leaned in, whispering, **”I always believed in you,”** and in that moment, the weight she’d carried for years—both on her body and in her heart—finally felt light.
