He was gentle at first, resting his forehead against mine. "You feel so soft," he murmured, pressing tiny kisses across my face. My heart raced. I hadn't expected such tenderness.
I giggled, squirming a little. "You're ridiculous."
He grinned, brushing my hair back. "Ridiculously in love," he corrected, making me roll my eyes, but my stomach fluttered anyway.
Seven months into dating Daniel, things had changed between us. We'd grown close in ways I hadn't expected — the kind of closeness that made my heart race and my stomach flutter. That night, we had finally crossed a line in our intimacy, the first time we truly let ourselves melt together in bed.
He had been gentle, pressing soft kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, my lips. I could feel the warmth of his body against mine, the steady beat of his heart, and the way his hands lingered just enough to make me dizzy with sensation. I had never felt anything like it before — my body reacting, my mind buzzing, all of it wrapped in this heady mix of desire and comfort.
The shift wasn't immediate, but it was brutal.
I woke the next morning feeling happy and complete. The first few days were a blur of stolen smiles and lingering touches, but by the end of the first week, a new current had entered the water. It started subtly. I reached for a packet of biscuits one evening, and Daniel walked in, his expression instantly cooling.
"Are you serious?" he asked, not joking. "You just had a decent dinner. You know, you are truly gorgeous, but you have to be careful. That kind of habit is how women let themselves go."
I laughed nervously, pulling the packet back. "I'm just having one. I'm not 'letting myself go,' Daniel."
"Look, I'm only saying this because I care about you," he insisted, though his tone was anything but caring. He sounded like a disappointed mentor. "I want you to be the best version of yourself, and that means putting in the work. We're getting you registered at the gym this weekend."
The shaming campaign began in earnest that month, escalating from passive commentary to active verbal abuse. I am not, and have never been, plus-size. I've always been what people call "curvy" or "moderate," but he made me feel monstrous. He would monitor what I ate, sitting across from me, watching every forkful like a hawk. If I dared to order a dessert or brought home some takeaway, his face would contort with open disgust.
"Are you even trying? Look at the size of that portion," he'd snap. "That's why you are fat, can't you be more like your mates? They know how to maintain themselves."
My self-image shattered. I started hiding my food, eating alone in the kitchen, or just lying and saying I'd already eaten. Food became a source of deep, grinding anxiety. He even weaponized my appetite against my capabilities. Once, I told him I couldn't help him set up a complicated piece of software because my brain was exhausted from work.
He sneered, throwing his hands up. "If it is food now, that you will know to eat, you do not know more than food. That's the only thing you have energy for—being greedy."
He forced me to join his gym, making me weigh myself weekly and demanding to see the numbers drop. I was constantly hungry, not just for food, but for the tenderness he had shown me that one night, that elusive forehead kiss that felt like a lifetime ago.
It was Friday night, a full month into the torment. I was exhausted from the gym and emotionally drained from avoiding food all day, but I missed the closeness. I missed the man who had held me.
I slid closer to Daniel on the sofa, putting my hand on his leg. "Hey. It's been a crazy week. I'm really horny, and I miss you. Can we just have a night, just us?"
He didn't move his leg. He didn't even turn his head from the TV. His gaze remained fixed on the screen, his voice flat and dead, destroying the last sliver of hope I had been clutching.
"I don't sleep with big girls," he said. "Get some water and go to bed. I'll take the garbage out now."
I recoiled as if struck, the air leaving my lungs in a sharp gasp. I swallowed the lump of tears that formed instantly and stumbled toward the bathroom, desperate to hide the fresh wave of devastation.
I heard the door shut behind him as he left to take out the trash. I leaned against the cold tile, trying to breathe, trying to process the final, utter rejection.
Then, I heard a high-pitched ping.
His phone lay on the bedside table, its screen facing up. The light pulsed, displaying a notification, a fresh text message that made my blood run cold, freezing the tears on my face.
The text was from a number saved only as "E," and the words burned themselves into my mind:
"Yesterday was amazing, I'm still sore, I'll be needing more of you tomorrow evening, we are going raw this time around."