You sink into your seat before class begins, placing your water, slipping your phone back into your bag, expecting nothing more than another dull lecture. A warm day - the cornerâs cosy. Your weight settles onto the chair and a long whine echoes through the room.
At first, it's nothing. The furniture is chipped, ancient. Probably years of students dragging them across the floor, leaning back on two legs, treating them terribly. But then you notice something strange.
None of the other chairs are making a noise.
You bite your lip, hunkering down as the lecturer turns the page, quipping something economical. You canât look him in the eye. Your big belly edges over your beltline, pushing down your thighs - hidden behind your table, but oh so obvious to those people either side. Slender like you used to be.
Every tiny adjustment - shift of your hips, a deeper breath, a slight camber to one side as you sip your water - yields another groan from the woodwork beneath you. You clasp your legs closer. The classroom falls into that familiar silence, every creak feeling impossibly louder.
Maybe if you don't move...
You hold yourself as still as can be, muscles tense, barely breathing. It doesn't help. Your face reddens. You ease your ankle forward. The smallest twitch coaxes another complaint from beneath you.
You breathe in. Youâve gained weight like crazy lately. You catch people glancing in your direction. Not everyone, but enough.
A girl in a festival t-shirt stops halfway through closing her tabs. She briefly looks up before checking her phone. Someone ruffles their collar, yawning, his gaze settling in your direction. Each glance feels longer than it probably is. But your imagination fills in the blanks.
Someone raises a hand for a question. You barely register their words. Theyâre writing, theyâre learning - youâre growing like a ripe, plump fruit. Youâre ballooning in front of the whole room.
They see the fat girl squeezed against the desk.
They hear every crinkle of the chair sheâs pressing into.
They must be wondering how much you eat in a day. In a week. Since the year started - god, you were skinnier.
Heat rushes into your cheeks as you stare out forward, ramrod straight, wishing the lesson would hurry along. Then things somehow get even worse. The teacher calls everyone forward to collect the workbooks for the next topic if they havenât already. Thatâs you.
You nod and stand slowly with a couple others, feeling your jeans pinch tight around your stomach as you waddle your way to the front. Clutching the workbook against your chest, you return to your desk, eager to disappear into obscurity, shrink into your space without anyone noticing.
You twist and lower yourself.
For a split second everything stops. The back leg gives way with a raking snap, and the chair crumples beneath you.
You scramble to catch yourself before you hit the floor, hand snatching empty air, slapping the desk. Your heels clip the floor, jeans straining on the impact. The wheezing thud echoes through your brain. Your rolls slap and settle into a buoyant quivering. Thereâs no disguising what just happened.
That happens to other people. But you? Not even behind closed doors. You did it in public. In front of a class.
Silence hangs in the air for what feels like an age. Your face burns so fiercely it glows.
"Nghh... s-sorry," you mumble, barely hearing your own voice. With no other option, you brace your palms against the floor and slowly push yourself upright, grunting. The effort wobbles your body as you crunch a knee, pushing yourself up, regaining your balance.
âIâm fine,â you counter, before anyone can ask. âIâm okay.â
No words. A few bulging pairs of eyes turn away, guiltily. The lecturer swallows. You make a short, toddling beeline toward the spare seats at the side of the room.
Every step thumps. The lecturer coughs, and resumes his lesson, gesturing to the board. Your fat jostles under your vest as you scooch between tables. You become deeply aware of your belly bouncing with each stride, your hips shifting against the waistband of your jeans as you hurry to replace what you destroyed. Keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the whiteboard feels safer than risking another glance at the back row.
Some people keep staring.
Surely everyone is thinking the same thing.
You return with another chair, pleading inside this one will at least let you finish the lesson without incident. You straighten it out. You sit.
Not as dramatic this time - but unmistakable.
Your shoulders slump, your head lowering. You push with your calves, elbows on the table, trying to spread the load with your stunted muscles. Even the replacement chair protests beneath you. You grit your teeth, desperate to muffle the sound.
God. Any hope of concentrating on the lesson disappears completely. His voice becomes distant noise while you hitch your breaths - an exhibit to your own gluttony, every inch of your figure widened and rounded. Your stomach strains against your jeans, the waistband digging uncomfortably into your middle, and every cautious shuffle is answered by another soft groan from underneath you.
For the rest of the class you barely note down a thing. A damp patch from your bunched, sweaty fist sticks to the pages of your workbook. You sit there with burning cheeks, trying to make yourself inanimate, counting the minutes until you're finally allowed to leave.
Last, of course. But not too late. Not if the lecturer catches you on the way out, asks how you areâŚ
Your throat feels dry. You snatch your water and shake back your hair. You glug it down, until your ribs ache. More weight. More mass. Your belly gurgles. Closing the lid, you cup your gasp into your hand, blinking slow.
Youâre huge. Your chairâs in ruins.
You just canât catch a breakâŚ
