Trending Body

Chapter 1 : The Waffle Ritual

Ophenya was one of those girls you never looked at by accident. Not because she was the most beautiful or the most extravagant. But because everything about her felt just right.

Her figure had the elegance of a finely drawn line. 5'6" and barely over 100 pounds, with that kind of natural balance you can't fake or replicate. Nothing extra. Nothing sagging or spilling over.

She wore simple clothes — often a tight white t-shirt, low-rise jeans, a pair of pale sneakers — and every time, she looked like an effortless ad campaign.

The shirt clung just enough to outline her waist, her discreet hips, and most of all… that stomach. The one her followers absolutely worshipped.

She was known for her natural style, soft minimalism, golden mornings, and perfectly curated routines. But in truth, what people wanted was the image of a body they didn't believe could exist. Flawless. Effortless. A flat stomach beneath a fitted tee or a perfectly chosen crop top.

“That stomach... I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Do you even work out or is that just genetics?? I’m obsessed.”
“It’s like it was made to be shown off.”
“Thanks for not being fake. You’re a whole mood.”

Ophenya never replied to those. Sometimes she'd like a comment. But she always read them. She knew.

Her community loved her stomach more than her coffee photos or lifestyle tips. And she'd never had to think twice about it: her metabolism handled everything. She ate clean, drank plenty of water, slept well. Nothing to hide, nothing to fix.

But Colomba saw it differently.
She wasn’t in the pictures. Not in the comments. She lived in the margins.
5'4", 90 pounds, with a slim silhouette, dressed with intention, her charm subtle. Always a well-fitted skirt, an impeccable blouse, light makeup. A quiet librarian in her own little world.
Not invisible. Just elsewhere. And most of all — in love.

Not the loud kind. A quiet crush, deep and rooted. She was fascinated by Ophenya. By the way she moved through the world, light as air.

And secretly, she dreamed of something else. She dreamed of seeing that airy frame take weight. Just a little. Of watching it ground itself, become tangible. Take space.
Not to ruin it. To make it more real.
So Colomba started making offers. Never blunt. Always gentle.

— Want to grab waffles this weekend?
— There’s a crepe place I’ve been dying to try.
— You have to try my cookies, they turned out so good.

At first, Ophenya politely declined. Then she started accepting “just a bite.” Then she started asking herself.
But nothing changed.
For weeks, she devoured those little sweets without gaining a single gram. Her belly stayed the same. Flat. Smooth. Untouched.
She joked:

— You’re gonna have to try harder. Your evil plan isn’t working
.— Are you trying to fatten me up or something?

She said it laughing, no malice in her voice.
But Colomba felt her pulse rise with every word. She smiled, of course. But inside, she melted. She knew. It was just a matter of time.

So she kept going. Softly. Without pushing.
And then, one day, the change came.
Small, at first. A subtle curve. A gentle tension in the t-shirt. The cotton didn’t fall as straight. It clung to something new.
Ophenya didn’t acknowledge it. Or rather, pretended not to. But her hands gave her away. She touched her stomach more often. Pulled her shirt down. Tugged at her jeans.
One Saturday, as usual, they met on the terrace. Colomba saw her walking up.
Tight white tee. Low-rise jeans.
And when she sat down, it was unmistakable.

A soft little swell. A gentle roundness between fabric and waistband. Her stomach didn’t tuck in all the way anymore. It pressed out — lightly, clearly. Bare skin showed.
Ophenya placed her hand on it and laughed.

— You’re gonna make me pop, you know that?
— Hope your fattening plan isn’t finally working.

Colomba said nothing. She just watched.
The waffle arrived. Drenched in Nutella, whipped cream, hazelnuts. Ophenya didn’t wait. She dove in. She wasn’t pretending anymore. She was eating. Because she wanted to.

And her belly filled.

The shirt, stretched taut, crept up. A soft little bulge formed beneath it.
Not a disaster. Not a scandal.
Just real.
That night, Ophenya posted a photo.
Side profile. In the mirror. White t-shirt. Belly bare. Soft. Slightly round.

“Okay. I think I officially have a little tummy now.”

The comments blew up.

“I want to rest my head on it and hibernate.”
“You just unlocked a weird new kink in my brain.”
“It looks so full. I’m actually spiraling.”
“That belly deserves a shrine.”
“I dream of it getting bigger every week.”

She read them. One by one.
And in her softly lit room, she touched her belly. It was warm. Alive. Full.
She whispered:

— It’s happening.

Colomba, on her end, quietly closed her notebook.
She had nothing more to write that night.
Everything was in place.