For most of my life, I was known as the big girl.
Not the cute, confident version people celebrate online.
Just the girl relatives whispered about during holidays and strangers gave “advice” to.
So I learned to compensate.
If I couldn’t be the prettiest person in the room, I would be the most reliable.
The funny one.
The helpful one.
The one everyone could count on.
That’s the version of me Marvin fell for when we met at a trivia night three years ago.
He told me I was “refreshingly real.”
Back then, that sounded like a compliment.
We built a life together.
Weekend trips, shared streaming accounts, toothbrushes at each other’s apartments.
My best friend Mercy was part of that world too.
We’d known each other since college.
She was everything people seemed to admire: tiny, effortlessly pretty, always the center of attention.
I trusted her completely.
Which is why the moment everything collapsed still feels surreal.
One afternoon, while I was at work, a photo notification appeared on my iPad.
Marvin and I had synced devices because we thought it was cute.
The picture that popped up was taken in my bedroom.
My comforter.
My pillows.
And in the middle of it were Marvin and Mercy.
Laughing.
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