The Big Woman
It began as a correction. Then it became the only thing that made sense.
She didn’t notice when it happened; one day the mirror simply looked wrong.
A stranger stared back, bloated, softened, unrecognizable.
Fixing it was simple. All it required was restraint.
The first week was triumph. The numbers fell fast and obedient, the body listened, the mirror cleared.
She was becoming whole by subtraction.
Then it slowed.
Half a pound. A fraction. A betrayal.
The body resisted, holding on to what should have been gone.
So she adapted. Less food. Fewer choices. More steps.
The rules became precise: eat less, sit less, be less.
Hunger became the metric.
At first it was pain, then progress, then necessity.
A full stomach meant failure; an empty one the baseline.
Taste was the enemy.
She stripped food of flavor, then color, until nothing tempted her.
Hunger quieted the mind. It softened the noise that once accused her.
Time flattened.
The world dulled.
She moved through each day empty and perfect. The body obeyed. The face thinned. The eyes deepened. The skin pulled tight.
But it was never enough.
Each success revealed new failure. The mirror lagged behind what she demanded.
Every day she caught something left undone: a shadow, a line, a softness.
She couldn’t recognize what others saw.
Clothes no longer fit. She replaced them, smaller each time, chasing a shape that always receded.
When fabric clung too tight, there was work to do.
When it hung loose, it meant progress, but only for a moment.
Victory evaporated as soon as it appeared.
The mirror offered no praise, only new work.
Each flaw smaller than the last, but never gone.
She kept going.