Page 4 of Marking Mia

“What the hell was that? You’re supposed to cover me when I go in,” my boyfriend, Justin, screams at the TV, his fingers jabbing frantically at the controller. “Now we’ve lost the whole fucking match because of you!”

My shoulders tense as I wince at how loud he’s being. But he couldn’t care less about how I feel.

The pan sizzles as I pour in the eggs, watching them bubble at the edges.

It’s been three weeks since he lost his job at the warehouse, and this is all he does- playing games from dawn until I get home, sometimes well into the night. He promised he’d look for work, showed me job listings on his phone, and even mentioned an interview that mysteriously got rescheduled twice before he stopped trying altogether.

“Justin,” I call over my shoulder. “Do you want some eggs?”

The spatula scrapes against the pan as I push the edges toward the center, but he doesn’t respond.

The oversized headset covers his ears completely, his attention focused solely on the screen, where animated characters move in vivid bursts of color.

I don’t try again. Better to be ignored than snapped at.

My stomach growls as I slide the eggs onto a plate. I didn’t have dinner last night. I was way too tired after my double shift at the café to do more than shower and collapse into bed while Justin had been gaming all night.

“Jesus, babe, maybe you should skip breakfast sometimes,” he says, and I freeze, spatula suspended mid-air. I didn’t realize he’d taken off his headset. His eyes flick from my face to my midsection before returning to the screen. “Just saying. Those jeans were already tight this week.”

I bite my lip, the familiar sting of tears threatening to spill. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. I focus on breathing, on the simple act of transferring eggs from pan to plate without dropping anything, without revealing how deeply his words cut.

“I need to eat,” I say quietly, my voice smaller than I intended. “I’m on my feet for eight hours at the cafe.”

My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach, pinching the soft flesh there through my sweater. When did I get so... soft? It wasn’t noticeable, was it? But if Justin sees it, then customers probably do, too. The thought makes my chest tighten with embarrassment. I just don’t have time to go to the gym when I’m the one supporting us.

“Whatever you say.” He shrugs, adjusting his headset. “You’re the one who’s always complaining about your clothes not fitting.”

I wasn’t. I’d mentioned once, just once, that my work apron felt tighter- a passing comment that he filed away to use against me later.

The fork feels heavy in my hand as I shovel eggs into mymouth. I don’t bother to sit. Standing makes eating faster and makes escape closer. The eggs taste like nothing. It tastes like dust. I swallow mechanically. Each bite is a chore, my eyes fixed on the clock above the stove.

“You could be a little nicer to me, you know,” I finally say, my emotions boiling inside me. “The comments about my weight... it kind of hurts, Justin.”

He sighs dramatically, pausing his game and looking at me like I’m a particularly slow child. “Mia, I’m just looking out for you. If I don’t tell you, who will? Your coworkers are too nice to say anything, but I guarantee they notice, and they’ll never promote you.”

“That’s not something…”

“It’s for your own good,” he cuts me off. “I’m being honest because I care. Would you rather I lie and tell you everything’s fine when it’s not?”

My throat tightens. “There’s a difference between honesty and being mean.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” Justin says, rolling his eyes. “I’m trying to help you. If you don’t want my help, fine. Keep eating whatever you want.”

The remaining eggs on my plate suddenly look revolting.

I dump them into the trash, my stomach churning with a mix of hunger and shame. The clock says it’s time to leave anyway. I grab my coat from the hook by the door, shrugging it on with jerky movements.

“I’ll be back at three,” I say, reaching for my purse.

“Can you grab me some of those cheesy pretzels on your way back?” Justin calls, already reimmersed in his game. “From the gas station.”

The gas station is six blocks in the opposite direction from our apartment. My feet already ache just thinking about the extra walking I'll have to do after my shift.

“Sure,” I agree because it’s easier than arguing, easier than dealing with his mood if I refuse. “Need anything else?”

“Nah, just the pretzels.”

The chilly morning air stings my cheeks as I pull my coat tighter around my body, but the bite of cold is welcome after the suffocating air of my apartment. Walking is my favorite part of the day. Twenty precious minutes when I’m neither Justin’s emotional punching bag nor the cafe’s smiling barista.

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