You Haven’t Gained That Much
I watch her waddle into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes and yawning, oblivious to the way her belly jiggles with each step. She’s wearing my old college hoodie, stretched tight over her curves, riding up just enough to reveal the soft underbelly that wasn’t there a year ago. She’s bigger—much bigger—but she still acts like she’s the same size she’s always been.
“Morning,” she mumbles, shuffling to the fridge. I follow her with my eyes, biting back a grin. The fridge door opens, and she immediately starts pulling out leftovers from last night’s dinner. I made too much on purpose—again.
She heaps pasta onto a plate and tosses it in the microwave. “Ugh, I’m starving. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”
I lean on the counter, chin in hand. “That’s probably because you skipped your midnight snack.”
She shrugs, arms jiggling as she leans in to get the food. “I’m trying not to overdo it.”
I almost laugh. Trying not to overdo it? The scale in the bathroom groaned last time she stepped on it. She’s passed the point where her clothes don’t fit—now she’s just cycling through mine. But the best part? She has no idea.
“Babe,” she says, between mouthfuls, “do you think I’ve gained weight?”
The question catches me off guard, but I’ve been here before.
I tilt my head, giving her the same practiced, innocent look. “Not really. Maybe a few pounds? Honestly, you look the same to me.”
She sighs in relief and takes another massive bite, completely trusting me. She wants so badly to believe she hasn’t changed. That the way her thighs spread across the chair, the extra time it takes her to catch her breath after climbing stairs, the way her belly now rests in her lap—it’s all just… temporary. Nothing serious.
“I thought maybe I was imagining things,” she continues. “Like, my jeans are tight, but they were probably in the dryer too long.”
I nod. “That must be it.”
And just like that, she relaxes again, letting herself enjoy every creamy, cheesy bite of pasta like it’s her reward for staying “the same.” Her metabolism, she claims, has always been fast. That’s what she tells herself. What she tells me.
She’s finishing the pasta like she hasn’t eaten in days, completely unaware—or unwilling to admit—how much she’s changed. I can see it from every angle: the way her upper arms fill the sleeves of my hoodie to their limits, how the fabric strains around her shoulders. She’s outgrown all of her own clothes, but she still hasn’t made peace with that.
She sets the empty plate down with a satisfied sigh, stretching slightly. The hoodie rises even higher, exposing the full curve of her belly resting in her lap. I watch her tug it back down, annoyed.
“This stupid thing keeps riding up,” she mutters, tugging harder.
I play innocent. “Dryer must’ve shrunk it too.”
She pouts, running a hand over her stomach, as if the tightness is the fault of the fabric and not the pounds she’s steadily packed on. “Maybe. But I swear everything’s been feeling tighter lately.”
She stands up—and that’s when it happens.
A loud, sharp rip slices through the silence.
She freezes. I try not to smirk.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, twisting around. There it is: a fresh tear right along the seam of the hoodie under her arm, where the fabric just couldn’t take the strain anymore.
I, on the other hand, am quietly thrilled.
“I loved this hoodie,” she whines, poking a finger through the hole. “Why is everything falling apart lately?”
I step closer, brushing a hand over the tear like I’m checking the damage. “It’s old,” I say softly. “You’ve worn it so much. Don’t worry—I’ve got plenty more you can borrow.”
She sighs, and I can practically see her trying to convince herself. “Yeah… it’s just the clothes. Not me.”
I nod reassuringly. “Of course. You haven’t gained that much.”
And she smiles—relieved—like she really believes it.
But I know what the scale said last week, the one she avoided looking at. I know how many buttons she’s popped, how many pairs of jeans she’s left folded on the floor, abandoned mid-struggle. I see the little expressions she makes when she sits down too fast and her belly sloshes forward, or when she has to shift awkwardly to get off the couch. But she won’t say it out loud. She won’t even ask the real question.
And I’ll keep feeding her. I’ll keep pretending. I’ll keep telling her it’s just the clothes. Just the dryer. Just bad luck.
Because she wants to believe.
And I want her to keep growing.
It’s a few days later when I find her in the bedroom, surrounded by clothes. Piles of them. Jeans, leggings, stretched-out tees, a few bras she hasn’t worn in months. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, red-faced and frustrated, struggling to tug a pair of jeans over her hips.
I pause in the doorway, watching. She hasn’t noticed me yet.
She grunts and wiggles, rocking side to side as she pulls with all her strength. Her belly bounces with each movement, soft and uncooperative. The denim catches just below her navel, refusing to budge any further. I see the button straining like it’s in a hostage situation. Her thighs are stuffed into the legs like sausages, seams visibly tugging for mercy.
Finally, with one last heave, she yanks the waistband together and manages to fasten the button.
But the zipper’s another story.
It won’t go up. Not even halfway.
She slumps back on the bed with an exasperated huff. “Ugh, what the hell.”
That’s my cue. I step into the room casually. “Everything okay?”
She jumps, startled. “God, don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“Didn’t mean to.” I glance around at the mess. “Looks like a fashion show exploded in here.”
“I’m just… trying to figure out what still fits,” she mutters, sitting up straighter, the jeans cutting into her middle now that she’s no longer standing. A thick roll of belly spills over the waistband, plush and pink from the pressure.
I walk over and sit beside her. “Those jeans look tight.”
“They used to be loose,” she groans, pulling at the zipper again in vain. “I don’t get it. I haven’t gained that much.”
She says it like a prayer. Desperate. Hollow.
I nod slowly, like I’m thinking it through. “Maybe they shrunk.”
“Maybe you’ve just… filled out a little?” I offer it carefully, planting just enough truth to keep her spinning.
She gives me a skeptical look. “You said the other day I looked the same.”
I smile. “You do. Just… a curvier version.”
She makes a face, tugging at the waistband again. “I don’t want to buy all new clothes.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “Just keep borrowing mine.”
She sighs, defeated. “But yours are starting to feel tight too.”
“I could go shopping with you,” I offer casually. “If you want to find some comfy stuff that fits right. You’ll feel better.”
“I guess,” she says. Then, as if remembering her reflection, she groans and tries to stand up—but the jeans make it difficult. Her movements are sluggish, heavy. The waistband digs in deeper as she leans forward and braces herself on the nightstand.
“Jesus,” she mutters under her breath.
She manages to stand, but the second she straightens up, the button gives up.
The sharp little noise rings through the room as the button flies off and hits the floor with a faint clatter. Her belly surges forward with nothing holding it back, and she stares down at the open jeans in stunned silence.
I don’t move. I just watch, slowly licking my lips.
“Yup,” I say, voice low. “That just happened.”
She stares down at herself, hands resting on the sides of her exposed stomach like she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.
“I guess… maybe I’ve gained a little.”
I hum thoughtfully, walking over and brushing my fingers along her sides. “Just enough to grow out of your old life,” I whisper. “Nothing wrong with that.”
She closes her eyes, chewing her lip. Still trying to believe the lie. Still trying to pretend this is a phase. That it’s just the jeans, just bad sizing, just a bloated day.
I reach down and gently tug the ruined denim down her thighs, letting them pool at her feet. “You don’t have to fight it,” I say softly. “Just let go.”
She looks at me for a long time. Not denying it anymore—but not fully accepting it either.
And that’s the sweet spot. That’s where I want her.
I guide her toward the mirror. She hesitates but follows, half-dressed and vulnerable, belly soft and heavy in the reflection. She stares at herself like she’s seeing someone else.
But I’m right behind her, arms wrapping around that growing middle, resting my chin on her shoulder.
“You look amazing,” I whisper. “Don’t change a thing.”
Her eyes flick to mine in the mirror. Searching. Wanting to believe.
She stands there in front of the mirror, wide-eyed and quiet, wrapped up in my arms with her jeans around her ankles and her belly spilling out in soft, pale rolls. She hasn’t moved in a full minute, just staring at her reflection like she’s trying to understand where the girl she used to be went.
I feel her shifting in my hold, uncomfortable. Embarrassed.
And now? That’s when I push.
“You know,” I murmur against her neck, “it’s kind of impressive.”
“How far you’ve let yourself go.”
Her whole body stiffens. I feel her breath hitch, her arms twitch like she’s about to cover herself—but she doesn’t. Maybe because my grip tightens a little. Or maybe because she’s too shocked to move.
“I mean,” I continue, voice calm and low, “when we met, I could fit both hands around your waist. Now look at you.”
She flushes, red creeping up her cheeks as her eyes drop to her middle. I glide my hands down her sides, fingers sinking into the doughy softness that didn’t used to be there.
“This wasn’t here before,” I say, giving her love handles a little squeeze. “Or this.” I drag my hand over the lower curve of her belly, where it’s started to hang—just slightly—past her hips.
She exhales, a mix of embarrassment and arousal. She doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t deny it.
“You outgrew three bras in six months,” I go on, my voice just a touch colder now. “I watched you struggle with every clasp, every time pretending they were shrinking.”
“I didn’t—” she starts, weakly.
“You did,” I cut in, softly but firmly. “And you broke two chairs. You think I didn’t notice?”
Her silence is answer enough. She presses her thighs together instinctively. I can see her mind racing—humiliated, but clinging to some thread of denial, some excuse to explain it all away.
“You can’t even see your feet unless you lean over,” I say, almost conversationally. “And even then, your belly gets in the way.”
She flinches, a soft gasp leaving her lips. She knows I’m right. I see her eyes flick to the mirror again—then away. It’s too much.
“You really haven’t noticed how fat you’re getting?” I whisper, one hand gliding back up to cup the underside of her belly. It fills my palm and then some.
She makes a choked sound—half protest, half moan.
“Or do you just like pretending?” I murmur. “Like playing dumb so you can keep stuffing your face without the guilt?”
“You’re bursting out of every stitch of clothing you own, waddling around the house like you don’t feel how heavy you’ve gotten… And you believed me when I said it was just the dryer.”
I chuckle, low and cruel.
She bites her lip so hard I think she might cry. Or kiss me. Or both.
“You said you didn’t want to buy new clothes,” I go on, brushing a hand over her shelf of a belly. “But sweetie… you don’t have clothes anymore. You have fabric clinging to the fantasy that you’re still small.”
Her thighs tremble. She’s shaking now.
“You have gained that much. And more. And you’re still pretending you haven’t. That’s the hottest part.”
I pause, letting the silence settle.
She looks back at me in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed, her chest rising and falling fast. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.
Because the way she leans into me—lets me hold all that extra weight she’s carrying—tells me everything I need to know.
