I drove home, hands shaking, heart pounding.
At 7:42 p.m., there was a knock at my door.
I made tea. I sat on my couch. I let myself feel stupid for going and proud for leaving.
At 7:42 p.m., there was a knock at my door.
Three heavy knocks.
I checked the peephole.
Sayer.
“You look… incredible.”
Of course.
He looked like a handsome disaster. Shirt unbuttoned at the neck, tie gone, hair wrecked, eyes red.
I opened the door with the chain on.
He looked me over and did an actual double-take.
“Wow,” he said. “You look… incredible.”
“You know what she did.”
I didn’t respond.
He exhaled.
“Today was hell,” he said. “You know what she did.”
“I heard,” I said.
“She made me look like a joke,” he said. “In front of everyone. My boss. My family. It’s already online. People are sending memes. It’s bad.”
“Back then, you were… you know.”
He leaned closer to the crack in the door.
“But it doesn’t have to stay bad. We can fix this. You and me.”
I laughed. Just once.
“You’re serious,” I said.
He frowned, confused I wasn’t melting.
“Now you look amazing.”
“You’ve changed,” he said, gesturing at me. “Back then, you were… you know. You didn’t really take care of yourself. We didn’t match. I’m just being honest.”
My stomach didn’t drop this time.
“But now?” he said. “Now you look amazing. We’d make sense. People would get it. It would save my reputation. And yours. You wouldn’t be the girl I left. You’d be the one I chose.”
There it was.
“You think my reputation needs saving?”
Even now, he framed it as a favor.
“You think my reputation needs saving?” I asked.
“People talk,” he said quickly. “We could turn this into a story about finally ending up with the right person. About how we were meant to be.”
I actually smiled.
“Six months ago, I might’ve said yes.”
He relaxed, mistaking it.
“You know what’s funny?” I said. “Six months ago, I might’ve said yes.”
He opened his mouth.
I didn’t let him.
“I thought if I got smaller, I’d finally be enough,” I said. “But losing weight just made it easier to see who wasn’t.”
“And I was still too good for you.”
His jaw clenched.
“That’s not fair,” he said. “You were fat. I was honest. At least I—”
“I was big,” I said calmly. “And I was still too good for you.”
He froze.
“You didn’t leave because I was unlovable,” I said. “You left because you’re shallow and you wanted a trophy. Maren didn’t ruin your life. She just played your game better.”
“Because I don’t need you to love me after.”
“You can’t talk to me like this,” he said.
“I can,” I said. “Because I don’t need you to love me after.”
I slid the chain off the door.
Hope flashed across his face.
I opened it just enough to meet his eyes.
“Don’t be like this.”
“I deserve better,” I said. “And the best part? I finally believe that.”
Then I closed the door.
Locked it.
He knocked once more, softer.
“Larkin,” he said. “Don’t be like this.”
It was the belief that I had to earn basic respect.
I walked away.
Because the biggest thing I lost wasn’t 80 pounds or whatever number is on a chart.
It was the belief that I had to earn basic respect.
My ex’s wedding imploded. His mom tried to recruit me as his emergency bride. He showed up at my door like I was a PR strategy.
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