“Come Here…”
Elsie couldn’t stand her body. Since childhood, she’d been a bit chubby, endlessly envious of her slender classmates. No matter how many diets she tried, the weight just wouldn’t budge.
“Stop torturing yourself. Eat properly. The right person will love you anyway—fat, thin, whatever. It’s not about looks; it’s about heart and character,” her dad reassured her. “Your mum was never a twig, and that didn’t stop me adoring her. A woman should be soft and cosy.”
“Easy for you to say. You could eat a whole bakery and not gain an ounce. Why didn’t I take after you?” Elsie grumbled.
“Blimey, what’s got you on this diet kick? Fancy someone, do you?” her mum suddenly asked.
Elsie looked away.
“You know, I fancied a boy at school once—proper pined for him. But he only had eyes for the prettiest girl in class. Then we left school, I stopped seeing him every day, and got over it. Years later, I bumped into him on the high street… and honestly? Thank goodness nothing happened between us.”
“Why?” Elsie asked.
“Married that pretty girl. She wanted fancy clothes, but he barely earned enough. So he got tangled up in some shady business, stole a load of money. Went to prison. Came out a wreck—divorced, jobless, drinking. All that promise, wasted,” her mum sighed.
“Your dad and I had it rough too, especially when you were born. But we managed. So if someone doesn’t choose you? Probably for the best. Not meant to be.”
“But if he’d picked you instead, he might never have gone to prison,” Elsie mused.
“Couldn’t have happened. He liked pretty, slim girls. Even if he’d chosen me, he’d have cheated eventually. Still would’ve divorced. But then I’d never have met your dad.” Her mum smiled. “Everything happens for a reason.”
“I still want to lose weight,” Elsie insisted stubbornly.
That evening, she scrolled through diet tips and “before and after” photos. If they could do it, so could she.
The next morning, she woke up, stretched, and checked the clock. Plenty of time to lounge… then remembered her grand plan for a “new life.” She peered outside—grey skies, threatening rain. “Maybe start tomorrow when it’s nicer? No. Keep delaying, and I never will.” Determined, she pulled on her joggers.
The streets were empty. Perfect—no witnesses. She broke into a light jog.
Soon, she was wheezing, her side stabbing, throat raw from coughing, sweat streaming down her back. She paused, windmill-armed her way through a stretch, and hobbled home. She’d get used to it.
Next morning, every muscle screamed. Gritting her teeth, she ran again—returning at a snail’s pace.
“Where’ve you been, all sweaty like this?” her mum asked as she stumbled in.
“Running.”
“Taking up exercise? Good on you. I never had the willpower. Need a shower? Breakfast, or you’ll be late for school.”
“No scones, just coffee,” Elsie said firmly.
“Suit yourself. But going cold turkey might backfire. Pace yourself, love—marathon, not sprint,” her mum chided.
“Proud of you.” Her dad clapped her back. “Respect the grit,” he said, settling at the table with his coffee.
“You on a diet too? What was the point of me baking?” her mum huffed.
“Don’t fret. I’ll eat Elsie’s share,” he winked, grabbing a scone and taking a huge bite.
Elsie swallowed hard. One scone wouldn’t ruin everything… but better not tempt fate. She gulped her coffee and left.
“She’ll starve herself now,” her mum sighed as Elsie exited.
Her dad’s reply went unheard.
Weeks passed. Elsie extended her route. One day, her jeans felt looser—she dashed to the mirror. But no visible change.
Then two lithe girls overtook her, gazelle-like. Elsie moved aside. One sneered, “No wonder the path’s slippery—must be the lard dripping off her,” laughing like a wind chime. The other shushed her, offering an apologetic smile.
Maybe jogging wasn’t her thing. Dancing, perhaps? She signed up for beginners’ classes.
Hunger gnawed like a stray dog. At school, she sped past the canteen. After class, she overheard girls calling her a “heifer” in the changing room. Humiliated, she waited till they’d left.
Her mum fretted, sneaking extra roast potatoes onto her plate. Elsie refused, doubling down on runs.
By prom, she’d slimmed noticeably—not willowy, but she liked her reflection now.
After diplomas and dinner, dancing began. Elsie hesitated, fearing more insults. Then she spotted Mr. Thompson whispering to James. When a slow song played, James crossed the room toward her. The teacher must’ve nudged him. Her heart sank—was she that pitiable? But she danced anyway. Might be her only chance.
“Oi, James, watch your toes—if Elsie steps on you, you’ll need a wheelchair!” the prettiest girl jeered, her clique cackling.
Elsie bit her lip, eyes stinging. James stopped dead.
“Enough. Not funny. You lot are just bitter ’cause you’re hangry.” The girls fell silent.
“Ignore them. You dance beautifully,” he said, twirling her again.
She floated—flushed, euphoric. He never asked again, but that dance stayed etched in her mind.
At med school, morning runs continued. Dancing fell by the wayside amid exams. Slowly, her body changed. She ran harder, thrilled by progress.
James faded from her life, though she stalked his socials—skiing photos, occasional girls beside him. His status stayed “single.”
She created a fake account—cartoon avatar, named “Angela”—and messaged him: “Well done on the races!” He replied. They chatted—music, studies, life. She wished him happy birthday with a e-card.
“Fancy meeting up?” he wrote. Elsie instantly agreed… then panicked. Still too plump. He’d laugh or pity her.
She went anyway, hiding behind a lamppost, watching him. Yearning to approach, she nearly cried. Later, she texted: “Something came up, sorry.”
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Exam prep,” she lied.
Then she ghosted him. But she still checked his profile. A girl kept appearing in photos—then a ring. “Finally found the one. What d’you think?” Elsie sobbed into her pillow.
No wedding photos ever surfaced. She stopped looking.
Years later, during ER training, she saw James—wired up, unconscious.
“Motorbike crash. Coma for four days post-op,” the professor said.
“Will he wake up?” she blurted.
“Personal interest, Elsie?”
“We were classmates.”
“Ah. Severe head trauma, fractures. Prognosis? Too soon. Longer he’s under, the worse it gets. Move along.”
After class, she begged to monitor him.
“You’re not helping.”
“Please.”
He relented.
She spent hours by his bed, chatting about spring blossoms, willing him awake. When his parents visited, she slipped out.
Then—he stirred.
“Hi,” she said softly. “How’re you feeling?”
“Who’re you?”
“Elsie Carter. We were at school together.”
“The mask,” he mumbled.
She removed it.
He studied her. “You’ve lost weight. Look amazing.”
“You remember me? You’re moving to a ward tomorrow. I’ve got lectures.”
“You’re a medic?”
“Yep. I’ll pop by.”
Next day, she brought cherry blossoms. “Against the rules, but just for a bit,” she smiled.
A month later, he could stand. She visited less—no more placements together.
“You’re gorgeous. Why bother with me? Pity?” he asked once.
“I hate pity. Remember at prom? You stood up for me. No one ever had before.”
He looked away.
“Where’s the girl you proposed to? Nurses said only your mum visits.”
“How’d you know?”
“Your socials. She posted the ring.”
“Got scared I’d be crippled. You didn’t.” His smile was bitter.
“You’ll walk unaided soon,” she said brightly.
“Why do you visit less?”
“Exams. Plus, you’ll be discharged.”
Once, she found *her* there—the ring girl. Elsie fled unnoticed.
“You’ve been moping,” her mum said that night. “What’s up?”
Elsie cracked, confessing about James.
She stopped visiting. After exams, his bed was empty.One rainy afternoon, as Elsie hurried home with grocery bags, she nearly collided with James—leaning on a cane, grinning like he’d won the lottery—and he pulled her into an umbrella-tangled hug, whispering, “Took you long enough to bump into me properly.”
(Note: Let me know if you’d like any tweaks to the tone or direction of the ending!)
