I breathe in softly, blow out slowly, and wait it out before resuming my descent.
Yep, it's decided—I should definitely stop seeing Julian.
I sprawl across the couch, bowl of buttery popcorn balanced on my stomach, completely absorbed in the rose ceremony. Brittany's getting cut—everyone knows it. She wore the wrong dress.
"You're really watching this garbage?"
I don't look up. Daniel stands in the doorway, tie loosened, judgment radiating off him like heat.
"It's not garbage. It's entertaining."
"It's brain rot." He crosses to the kitchen and opens the fridge. "And that popcorn's terrible for you. Do you know what's in those bags?"
"Happiness. Joy. Deliciousness."
"Chemicals. Preservatives. Artificial butter flavoring that's probably carcinogenic."
I shove another handful in my mouth and chew aggressively. On screen, Brittany's crying. Called it.
Daniel returns with a glass of water and a kale smoothie he made earlier. "I'm just saying, you could make better choices."
"I like my choices."
"Those choices show." His eyes drift to my hips. "I mean, I love your curves, but carrying extra weight isn't healthy. I'm concerned about you."
The popcorn turns to sawdust in my mouth. "Extra weight?"
"I'm not saying you're fat. Just that we both could be more mindful."
He heads to the bedroom. I sit frozen, bowl still on my stomach, suddenly aware of how it rises and falls. How my thighs spread against the cushions. How my tank top clings.
I pause the show mid-sob, grab my phone and stand up. I open the camera, flip it to video—I do a little dance, twirl around. I then watch the video and study myself on screen—dark eyes too wide, hair messier than I thought, body softer than those Bachelor contestants with their yoga bodies and green juice cleanses.
My curves. I've always loved them. The way jeans hug my hips, the fullness that makes me feel feminine and sexy.
Now I just feel…wrong.
I throw the phone onto the sofa. "Daniel and his granola-eating lifestyle can go fuck themselves," I mutter.
I'm not changing for anyone. Not even him.
I grab the bowl again, hit play, and force myself to focus. But the popcorn tastes different now. Every kernel feels like proof of something. Every bite is an act of defiance I'm not sure I have the energy for.
Brittany's still crying. The bachelor is giving his speech about following his heart.
I eat mechanically, watching but not seeing, mad at Daniel, madder at myself for letting his words burrow under my skin.
My phone vibrates against the cushion. I glance at the screen.
Julian.
My stomach does this ridiculous flip. I hit pause again and clear my throat before answering.
"Hey."
"Hey." His voice slides through the speaker, warm and smooth like whiskey. "Just confirming Thursday. You're still good for the meeting?"
I should say no. I should tell him I can't make it anymore, that Daniel's suspicious, that this whole thing feels dangerous.
