Chapter 1

On June 1st, I moved into my new apartment. It had every amenity a young single woman making her way in the big city could want. The building was older but had been converted into luxury apartment for "curated downtown lifestyles." Whatever that meant, I bought it hook, line, and sinker.

There were the conventional conveniences--like in-unit laundry, high-end finishes, and proximity to public transportation--as well as some truly nice services such as 24/7 security and smart home technology in every room. There was a rooftop lounge with unlimited free coffee and singles events once a month, and a co-working space for those of us, like myself, who worked from home in these post-COVID times.

But the amenities that would come to define my time at this ritzy living arrangement were the Olympic-size swimming pool on the first floor and the state-of-the-art fitness center that overlooked it from the second floor. That was where I saw him and where I fought for him.

The story of how I ended up here is a bit less glamorous. I moved into this new luxury apartment building following the collapse of my marriage to my high school sweetheart. Flush with cash from the divorce--my ex was kind and stupid enough to forgo a prenup despite his family's wealth--I was determined to emerge from the rubble of my marriage as the baddest bitch in the game. But right then, I was just a shy, fat girl who had lost most of her friends in the divorce along with her figure, stress-eating myself to well over 300 pounds.

I remember the first time I stood in front of the mirror in my new apartment. My body, once toned and lean, had changed drastically, now soft and round, a constant reminder of the nights spent comforting myself with food.

My belly hung over the waistband of my swimsuit and had recently developed a habit of entering the room before the rest of me.

My thighs, once slim and strong, now touched and rubbed against each other, creating an uncomfortable chafing that I had grown used to. I had started wearing only skirts and dresses as I was tired of squeezing into ever-shrinking pants only for each and every one of them to burst at the inner inseam from the aforementioned friction created by my ginormous gams.

My arms were flabby, with fat spilling over the edges of my bra and jiggling whenever I moved. The sleeve tattoos I was so proud of had started to warp and distort as the surface area of the ham hocks I called my arms expanded.

My face had become fuller, with a double chin that I couldn't hide, no matter how I positioned myself. My face is always the first place that shows any change in my weight and suddenly not being able to recognize myself in the mirror somehow made it easier to continue to let myself go. I didn't know the rapidly expanding silhouette that I caught in my peripherals while avoiding taking a good hard look at what I had become. Fat. I had gotten super fucking fat and I hated it.

Each day, I would see other young women at the pool, their bodies sleek and toned, effortlessly graceful in their bikinis. They moved with a confidence I envied, their flat stomachs and sculpted legs a stark contrast to my own reflection. I never introduced myself or anything, but I started to notice other tenants taking advantage of the pool, especially the ones who made me feel like a whale.

There was the professional-looking black woman with her lithe, runner's build and long, lean legs. Then there was the younger red head with a perfectly proportioned hourglass figure, her curves accentuated by her tiny waist and an almost cartoonishly sculpted booty. But the worst was the little blonde woman whose abs were so defined you could see them through her one-piece as she seemed to glide through the water with the ease of a professional swimmer. The worst part was that the little blonde woman was a relatively new mom with the body of a teenage gymnast while I was proudly child-free but still rocking an overinflated mom-bod.