Page 8 of Sins of the Hidden

It always ended like that.

"These symptoms—irregular cycles, acne, excessive hair growth—" he waved his hand dismissively across me, reducing me to a checklist of failures. "They're all because of your weight. If you'd just show some self-control with your eating habits?—"

Like I hadn't spent half my life starving myself.

"But I don't," the words escaped before I could swallow them. My fingers twisted in the hospital gown, the sound of tearing paper ripped through something inside me. "I barely eatcompared to them." My voice cracked—he wouldn't believe me. "I count every bite. Log every portion."

His skeptical expression made my chest constrict, my lungs tightened like my ribs were shrinking around them. No one ever listened. They saw my body and made assumptions, their gaze looking straight through everything that proved them wrong. They didn't see the tiny portions, the careful planning, the constant gnawing hunger that'd become my closest companion.

I could disappear entirely and they'd still say I didn't try hard enough.

The memories flooded in—watching thin friends load their plates without a thought while I nursed a cup of soup that sat like stones in my gut. Enduring those knowing looks when I ordered salads at restaurants, the silent assumptions as heavy as chains around my neck.

My heart slammed like it wanted out—like it was clawing for escape from this body I couldn't stop being in. I pressed my arms tighter across my chest, but it didn't help.

I didn't feel real. Just a thing on display, stitched together wrong, like humiliation was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. Like if I looked down, I'd see someone else's limbs, someone else's ruin. My body was a battleground and I'd always be the one who loses.

"I know what people think when they see me," the words scraped raw against my throat. "But they're wrong." Years of carrying others' assumptions had left me bruised in places no one could see. "And the pain," I forced out, regretting it the second his eyes narrow. "Sometimes I can barely stand."

He sighed–that heavy, practiced sound doctors perfect when patients don't fit their expectations. "That's expected at your size. Your body just isn't built for this much weight." His pen tapped against my file, each click an executioner's drumbeat. "Look, I'm only seeing you as a favor to Trevor. Most doctorswouldn't take an uninsured patient, especially someone like you."

I sank further into myself, the paper gown crinkling like failure. His lip curled slightly as his stare drifted down to where my thighs spread across the examination table–flesh taking up space it was never meant to. I tugged the gown down, but it wouldn't stretch far enough.

Heat crawled under my skin as I braced for the next hit.

"Your bloodwork shows insulin resistance, but again, that's typical for someone of your size." His words landed like stones, like I didn't already carry enough. The scratch of his pen made my skin crawl like it was taking notes on my worth. "I'm prescribing some meds, but honestly, they won't help unless you make serious lifestyle changes. When was the last time you exercised?"

I stared at the floor. My throat wouldn't work. The question lingered, cruel and rhetorical. My tongue felt thick, like my words had nowhere to go. Why did it even matter? He'd already decided. "I walk to make deliveries?—"

"That obviously isn't good enough." His voice snapped like he was tired of excuses. "Your father mentioned you spend a lot of time at home—does that limit your physical activity? Is that because you're embarrassed about your appearance? Or have you just given up?"

Each word landed like a physical blow, bruising places that never healed. I curled into myself, a futile attempt at becoming invisible under his scrutiny.

If only he knew that being fat was the least of my problems now. My days weren't spent hiding from the world because of guilt—though that was still soaked into everything. They were spent in my kitchen, where flour and sugar coated my hands, baking wedding cakes, birthday treats—making things forpeople who didn't have to earn kindness. Or bent over textbooks, trying to keep up with online classes.

Maybe I was born wrong. Maybe something in my DNA soured before I even took my first breath—something broken they couldn't name but still punished me for. There was no cure for being born unwanted by the world.

A boy once mooed at me in the school hallway. Loud enough for everyone to hear. I laughed along like it didn't matter, like it bounced right off. But I never wore that shirt again. I burned it two days later in the fire pit behind our house, hoping the smoke would carry the guilt away.

And then there was V.

My stomach churned at the thought of him, lurking at the edges, too solid to ignore. His presence had nothing to do with my size and everything to do with his obsession. Each pound I carried suddenly felt insignificant compared to the pressure of being watched, the way he was fixed on me without permission or reason.

"I stay home because I have to work," I managed to say, but the words felt hollow. How could I explain that a psychopath had decided I was his to watch? That leaving my house meant feeling his eyes on me, knowing he was always there, just behind me?

The doctor wouldn't understand. No one would. They'd see a plus-sized girl making excuses, not someone trapped in a cage made from someone else's obsession. My fingers dug into the soft flesh of my thighs, the pain was proof. I still got to feel it. The pain reminded me that this skin—no matter how it was judged—was still mine.

"I have orders to fill," I murmured, but he was already writing in his chart, the scratch of his pen a death sentence for any dignity I'd managed to preserve.

"I've seen patients half your size make the necessary changes. There's really no excuse." He tore the prescription from his pad,the sound like peeling something raw. "When you come back in a few months, I hope you've lost some weight. Otherwise, we're just wasting each other's time."

I wanted to say something but didn't. What was the point?

The door clicked shut behind him like the room buried me too. I fumbled with my clothes, desperate to cover myself before the tears started falling. My fingers were clumsy. Nothing fit right. Not even me. The fabric grabbed in all the wrong places, like it knew what I hated most. I shoved my arms through sleeves that fought back, not able to hide this frame that took up too much room in a world that wanted me erased.

A memory hit like a sucker punch—being thirteen, standing in a fluorescent-lit dressing room while Mom searched for something that would fit. "It's okay, sweetie," she'd said, her voice thin, trying to stay soft as she handed me another size up. "We'll try the other section." The women's section. Because I'd already outgrown the right to be young.

I grabbed my purse and rushed out, every step a retreat from their eyes. The receptionist called after me, but I couldn't stop. My vision tunneled. I couldn't breathe. I just needed the door.

---