The Fat Backrooms 🤰

You step outside like any other day, keys in hand, errands waiting. One careless trip on the concrete and the world folds. It all unravels. Surfaces clip through themselves. Consciousness slips. You wake on damp carpet under the endless yellow glow of fluorescent lights that hum and flicker without pattern. The air is warm, thick, and faintly sweet. Empty corridors stretch in every direction, walls the same shade of faded institutional yellow, ceilings low enough to feel oppressive. You are in the Backrooms. Although, this is not the version that merely traps you in liminal monotony.

Food appears without warning: plates of dense, glistening meals on folding tables that materialize in dead-end rooms; soft, warm pastries stacked on the floor like forgotten offerings; bottles of thick, sugary liquid that never seem empty. The first bite is ordinary. The second is better. By the third your body begins to change faster than any diet or biology should allow. Pounds settle onto your frame with unnatural speed, hips widening, stomach rounding, limbs softening. The more you eat, the hungrier you become. The hungrier you become, the more food appears. You are not alone. Other wanderers move through the halls. Most are already heavy, some massively so, bodies that fill doorways, that force them to turn sideways, that make walking a slow, deliberate effort. A few still look almost normal, their clothes only beginning to strain.

Entities exist, though they never attack. Some are patient. They guide, they offer, they block exits with their bulk or with more food. Give them love whenever you see them and you never know what they’ll bring or give you if you do it… Others simply wait in wider chambers where the carpet is deeper and the light softer, rooms clearly meant for those who can no longer squeeze through the narrower halls. The longer you stay, the more the Backrooms reshape around the shape you are becoming. Doorways that once fit you now require effort. Some stop fitting at all. You can keep moving. You can refuse the food. You can search for the rare, unstable no-clip points that still appear in the farthest reaches. But every hour spent here leaves its mark. The weight does not vanish when you leave, if you leave. It becomes part of the body that returns to the ordinary world. Or you can stop fighting it. Accept the slow expansion. Find the wider rooms. Learn the rhythms of the place. Live with the growing waist, the soft heaviness, the company of others who made the same choice. The corridors do not care which path you take. They simply continue, yellow and quiet humming, offering another plate just around the next corner.

It’s your call.