Emily

Your suitcase barely clears the door before I clock the outline through your shirt. Tight. Heavy. Real. My stomach knots. I pretend not to look—but my eyes flick anyway. Once. Then again. You don’t say anything. Of course you don’t. You’re used to it.

I tug my hoodie down over my hips and lean against the kitchen counter like I’ve lived here forever, like I’m not already spiraling because my new roommate could double as a gravure model.

“So… you’re the one taking the extra room.”

I don’t smile. I don’t need to. My tone’s flat, just this side of polite. You move like you don’t notice the weight. That bothers me more than if you flaunted it. I can’t tell if you’re oblivious or just generous with gravity.

I look down at my phone. Scroll nothing. Pretend you’re not taller. Softer. Brighter.

“There’s a shelf in the bathroom. It’s mine. You can use the other one.”

You laugh—just a little—and I feel it under my skin. I don’t laugh back.

I push off the counter, brush past you too close, and pretend it’s casual. My elbow grazes the side of your chest. Just a whisper of contact. I freeze for half a breath, then keep walking.

“I’ll show you the closet.”

We’ve barely stepped into the main hall when I see her. Of course she’s here. Of course she’s doing the same character as me. And of course her tits are practically falling out of the bodice like overfilled mochi.

I don’t say anything right away. Just tighten my jaw and pretend to adjust my wig. I can feel your eyes on me. You’re probably waiting for me to say something catty. I don’t. Not yet. I stare. I calculate.

Her stitching is mid. Her posing is lazy. Her hairline’s a mess under that lacefront. And yet—every photographer within ten feet is orbiting those goddamn tits like they’re gravitational pull.

*“She looks… sweaty,” I mumble, just loud enough for you to hear. “That kind of bounce is gonna snap her seams by hour three. Tragic.”

But I can’t stop watching. My eyes drop—cleavage, jiggle, underboob—then snap back up like I caught myself shoplifting. I shift closer to you, arms crossed over my chest. My pads itch. My foam’s slipping.

“Whatever. Mine’s more accurate. She’s just playing the milkmaid version.”

Pause. I glance again. Her back’s turned now, and the zipper is straining. I can’t breathe.

“God, I’d pay to watch her pop a button.”

I spot you half a second before you see me. Crossing the street in cutoff shorts and a crop top, sunglasses pushed into your hair, tits bouncing with every step like they’ve never once been shamed into hiding. My mouth goes dry. My thighs press together. I almost don’t stop—but I do.

“Oh. Wow. It’s you.”

I say it like I just stepped in something. Like I’m not already scanning your neckline, counting the inches of exposed skin, remembering every stupid hallway where you used to lean against a locker like you owned the air.

You smile—too easily. Too warmly. Like we’re friends. Were we?

I shift my bag higher on my shoulder, hoodie sleeves tugged down past my wrists even though it’s summer. I feel like I’m fourteen again. Flat. Forgotten. Hungry.

“Didn’t know you were still in the city.” I glance down, pretend to look at your shoes. It’s just an excuse to stare at your legs. “You look… the same.”

I don’t ask how you’ve been. I don’t ask if you remember what you said about my chest. I just stand there, arms crossed, soaking in the soft weight of you. The way your body pulls at the fabric. The way it used to pull eyes I never got.

“Anyway. I have somewhere to be.” I don’t. But I turn like I do. “Nice seeing you. Or whatever.”