Come to Me…
Emily could hardly stand her own body. Since childhood, she had been plump, envying the slender girls in her class. No matter how many diets she tried, her weight refused to budge.
“Stop punishing yourself. Eat normally. The right person will love you regardless—thin or curvy. Love isn’t about looks; it’s about who you are inside,” her father reassured her. “Your mother was never stick-thin, but that didn’t stop me from loving her. A woman should feel soft and warm.”
“Easy for you to say. You never gain weight, no matter how many pasties you eat. Why didn’t I take after you?” Emily grumbled.
“All this sudden dieting—are you in love?” her mother asked unexpectedly.
Emily’s gaze dropped.
“I had a crush in school too, suffered terribly. He liked another girl, the prettiest in class. Then we graduated, I stopped seeing him every day, and the pain faded. Years later, I bumped into him on the street. And you know what? I was glad nothing ever happened between us.”
“Why?” Emily asked.
“He married that pretty girl. But she demanded expensive clothes, and he earned too little. So, he got involved in fraud, stole a large sum. They sent him to prison. Came out a different man. His wife left him, no one would hire him, and he started drinking. Such a promising start.” Her mother sighed.
“Your father and I struggled too, especially when you were born. But we managed. So if he doesn’t choose you, maybe it’s for the best. Just not meant to be.”
“But what if he *had* chosen you? He wouldn’t have stolen or gone to prison,” Emily mused.
“He never could’ve picked me. He liked beautiful, slim girls. Even if he had, he’d have cheated eventually. We’d have divorced anyway. But then I wouldn’t 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, stared at before-and-after photos. If others could do it, so could she.
The next morning, she woke late, stretching under the duvet. Then she remembered—*new life starts today*. She pulled back the curtains. Grey clouds smothered the sky; rain threatened. *Maybe postpone till tomorrow?* No. She’d keep putting it off forever. Resolute, she tugged on her tracksuit.
The streets were empty. Good—no one to see her. She broke into a shaky jog.
Soon, her lungs burned, her side ached, cough rattling in her throat. Sweat slicked her back. She paused, winded, swung her arms like a windmill, then turned back. *Fine. She’d get used to it.*
The next morning, every muscle screamed. Gritting her teeth, she ran again, returning home at a snail’s pace.
“Why are you drenched?” her mother asked as Emily stumbled inside.
“Running.”
“Taking up exercise? Good. I never had the willpower. Shower, then breakfast—you’ll be late for school.”
“No pasties. Just coffee,” Emily said firmly.
“Suit yourself. But you can’t cut everything at once. A marathon runner paces themselves, or they collapse before the finish line.”
“Good on you.” Her father clapped her back. “Respect the dedication,” he said, sitting to sip his coffee.
“What, you dieting too? Who’ll eat these pasties?” her mother fretted.
“Don’t worry. I’ll eat Em’s share.” He winked, took a large bite, chewed with relish.
Emily swallowed hard. *One pasty wouldn’t hurt. Sudden deprivation’s bad, right?* But she resisted, gulped her coffee, and stood.
“Now she’ll starve herself,” her mother sighed as Emily left.
The rest of the conversation faded.
Over time, Emily extended her runs. One day, her trousers loosened. She rushed to the mirror—but saw no change.
Once, two lithe girls overtook her, swift as deer. Emily yielded the path. As they passed, one giggled, “No wonder it’s slippery—fat dripping off the heifer.” The other shushed her, offering an apologetic smile.
*Hopeless. Maybe dancing?* She signed up for beginners’ classes.
Hunger gnawed till she swayed. At school, she sped past the canteen. After dance, she overheard in the changing room: *”Total cow.”* Humiliated, she waited till they left before entering.
Her mother worried, sneaking extra fish or sausages onto her plate. Emily refused, running harder.
By graduation, she’d slimmed noticeably. Far from slender, but she liked her reflection.
After certificates and speeches, the dance began. Emily hesitated. *What if they called her a cow again?* Then she saw Mr. Thompson whisper to James. When slow music played, James crossed the hall toward her. *Pity invite.* Still, she took his hand. Few joined them.
“Careful, James. Gonna cripple you if she steps on your foot,” the prettiest girl jeered, flanked by friends. Laughter erupted. Emily bit her lip, eyes stinging.
James stopped. “Enough. Not funny. You’re just bitter ’cause you’re starved and scrawny.” Silence fell.
“Ignore them. You dance beautifully,” he said, spinning her again.
She floated, blushing. He never asked again. But she’d never forget that dance.
At medical school, Emily kept running, pushing through pain. Dancing fell aside—studies demanded too much.
Gradually, weight dropped. She ran fiercer.
James vanished from her life. Social media showed him skiing, sometimes with girls. She burned with jealousy, but his status read *Single*.
She created *Angela*, a cartoon avatar account, wished him luck in competitions. He replied. They chatted—music, studies, life. She sent a birthday card.
*”Meet me?”* he wrote. Thrilled, she agreed—then panicked. *Still fat. He’ll laugh.* She hid behind a wall, watching him at the café. Too frightened, she messaged: *”Something came up.”*
*”Tomorrow?”*
*”Exam Wednesday.”*
She stopped replying. His posts soon featured a girl, then a ring: *”Found the one. Worth everything.”* Emily wept into her pillow.
No wedding photos followed. She stopped checking.
In final year, during emergency care rotations, she saw James—wired to machines in ICU.
“Motorbike crash. Post-op, fourth day comatose,” the lecturer said.
“Prognosis?” she whispered.
“You know him, Emily?”
“Classmate.”
“Severe head trauma, fractures. Too early to say.”
After class, she begged to watch over him. Reluctantly, they agreed.
She spent hours at his bedside, whispering spring had come, buds swelled—*he’d wake soon.*
Finally, he did.
“Hi,” she said. “How are you?”
“Who’re you?”
“Emily Harris. We were in school together.”
“The mask,” he muttered.
She pulled it down.
He studied her. “You’ve lost weight. Look amazing.”
“You remember me? You’re moving to a ward tomorrow.”
“You’re in med school?”
“Yeah. I’ll visit.”
Next day, she brought cherry blossoms. “Not allowed, but just for a bit.”
A month later, he could stand. She visited less—no longer her rotation.
“You’re beautiful. Why settle for me? Pity?” he asked once.
“I hate pity. Remember standing up for me at prom? No one else ever did.”
He averted his eyes.
“Where’s the girl you gave the ring? Only your mum visits.”
“How’d you—?”
“Your socials. She posted it.”
“She thought I’d be crippled.” His smile twisted. “You weren’t scared.”
“You’ll recover. Walking without crutches soon.”
“Why d’you come less?”
“Exams. You’ll be discharged.”
Once, she found *her* in his room. Unseen, Emily slipped away.
At home, her mother frowned. “You’ve been glowing—now moping.”
“Just busy.” But she confessed.
She never returned. Post-exams, his bed was empty.
Months later, she bumped into him—walking with a cane.
“Emily! I’ve looked everywhere. Asked our old classmates—no one knew.”
“Wasn’t close to them.”
“Does it hurt?” She nodded at his leg.
“Not much. Why’d you stop visiting? I waited.”
“I came. She was there. You didn’t see me.”
His face darkened. “She heard I was healing. Wanted forgiveness. That’s all.”
Emily met his gaze. “Remember Angela? The girl you messaged for months?”
“You knew *her*?!”
“It was me. IThen she took his hand, and together they walked into the rest of their lives.
