Somewhere in between
767 Words
Days melted into weeks. The soreness in my thighs, the burning in my calves — it stopped being punishment and started to feel like proof. Proof that I was still here, still trying. Talia didn’t go easy on me, not for a second.
We started small. Morning walks that turned into light jogs. Ten-minute home workouts that left me breathless and angry at my own body. I hated it at first — the sweat, the aching muscles, the mirror that showed too much belly and not enough progress. But I kept going.
Talia tracked everything. Water intake. Steps. Meals. “We’re not aiming for skinny,” she told me while portioning grilled chicken and brown rice into boring little Tupperware containers. “We’re aiming for strong. Balanced. Sustainable.”
That didn’t stop me from crying the first time I stepped on the scale and saw barely a change. “What’s the point?” I muttered, wiping my face with the hem of my shirt. “I’ve been killing myself, and nothing’s happening.”
“You’re building from the inside out,” she said. “Your body’s learning, adjusting. Trust it.”
It sounded like something from a yoga podcast, but I held onto it anyway.
By the end of the second week, I wasn’t winded after one flight of stairs. By week four, I could jog for twenty minutes straight without needing to stop. I swapped baggy hoodies for fitted tops — not tight, but not hiding anymore either. My face started to change. The roundness in my cheeks softened just a little. My arms felt firmer. My stomach no longer spilled over my waistband when I sat down.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no magic. But it was real.
I took progress photos — not for social media, but for me. Quiet proof of change I couldn’t always see in the mirror. I smiled more in the later ones. Not because I was thin, but because I felt proud. For once, I wasn’t waiting for someone to tell me I looked better. I knew I looked better. I felt better.
There were still cravings, breakdowns, moments where I wanted to throw it all out the window and drown myself in fries and ice cream. But then I’d remember that night on the curb — soaking wet, humiliated, rejected. And I’d remember how he looked at me, like I wasn’t worth fighting for.
And I’d run a little harder.
By late August, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror before we left for the store. My hips still curved. My thighs still touched. But the belly that used to roll awkwardly under every shirt had flattened. My collarbones were visible, just enough. I wasn’t thin — I didn’t want to be — but I was finally somewhere in between. Balanced. Healthy. Mine.
I stood there for a long time, running my hand down my waist, unsure how to feel. My body was changing, but so was my mind. I no longer flinched when someone walked behind me. I didn’t tug at my sleeves or pull my shirt down every five seconds.
I breathed.
“Damn,” Talia said behind me, grinning as she leaned on the doorway. “You’ve got definition now. Like, I can literally see your waistline.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s what happens when you force me to do side planks and eat quinoa for five weeks.”
She smirked. “Worth it. You’re not hiding anymore.”
And she was right. For the first time, I didn’t feel the need to. My body still had softness, but it moved differently now — with purpose, with control. I wasn’t finished. I still had work to do. But I wasn’t the broken girl in the rain anymore.
I’d done this for me.
And that changed everything.
****
The first day of senior year at Crestwood High arrived faster than I expected. The hallways buzzed with chatter and locker slams, but I walked through them with a quiet pride. Heads turned; whispers floated like a breeze.
Jace was there, his jaw clenched as he caught sight of me. For the first time, his confident smirk faltered. I met his gaze, steady and unyielding.
Then, from across the crowded hallway, I noticed him — the boy with golden eyes who had stood beside me that rainy night. He leaned casually against a locker, a small, knowing smile curling his lips as he watched me. Our eyes locked for a heartbeat before he disappeared into the sea of students.
My heart skipped.
Who was he?
- Writer
