I used to be known as “the fat girlfriend.” Not dramatically—just quietly. The girl people paused before naming, the one relatives warned about at holidays, the one strangers felt entitled to advise. I learned early to make myself easy to keep around.
If I couldn’t be the prettiest, I’d be the most useful—funny, dependable, high-effort but low-maintenance. That was who Sayer met at trivia night. He joked I “carried the table,” I teased his beard, and by the end of the night, he had my number.
“You’re refreshing,” he texted later. “You’re real.” Back then, it felt flattering. In hindsight, it was a warning. We dated for almost three years, shared plans and streaming passwords, and wove my best friend Maren into our lives.
Six months ago, I found out the truth. My synced iPad lit up with a photo: Sayer and Maren, laughing, half-dressed, in my bedroom. I left work, waited on my couch. When he came home, guilt flickered before settling.
