Chapter 1: The Deflating Embrace
The numbers glowed back at her from the scale’s little screen: a red, judgmental fact. Louise stepped off, the plastic cool under her feet. The imprint of the digital display seemed to float in her vision for a second after she looked away.She ran a hand over her stomach. It was softer now. Not the tight, flat plane Ilia used to map with his fingertips, tracing her ribs like they were piano keys. Now his hands, when they landed on her at all, were quick, practical.A pat on the hip as he passed. A absent-minded squeeze of her shoulder while he scrolled on his phone.
In the mirror, under the buzzing fluorescent light, her reflection was a study in softening edges. The sharp line of her collarbone was gone, buried under a gentle slope.Her cheeks were fuller.She used to think it made her look friendlier. Now she just looked… padded. The steam from Ilia’s shower curled under the bathroom door, carrying the sharp, clean scent of his soap.
A shadow stretched long across the cracked floor tiles, distorted by the steam.Ilia’s shadow. He was a blurred shape behind the fogged glass, humming something tuneless.
“You gonna be in there all day?” His voice was muffered, not angry, just… elsewhere.“Just brushing my teeth,” she said, too brightly.
She picked up her toothbrush, the routine motion anchoring her. The mint taste was a shock, a clean line drawn through the stale taste of her own dread. She watched the water swirl down the drain and thought about the way he used to lift her. He’d come up behind her at the kitchen sink, his arms circling her waist, and just hoist her like she was nothing. She’d squeal, kicking her legs, feeling dizzy and light as a doll. He’d called her his little bird.
Now, the idea of him trying to lift her like that made her skin prickle with a cold sweat.He’d strain.He’d maybe not manage it. The silence after a failed attempt would be worse than any argument.The shower cut off. The sudden quiet was louder than the water had been. She heard the wet sound of the curtain being pulled back, the drip of him onto the mat.
He emerged in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low on his hips.He didn’t look at her. His eyes went to the sink counter, looking for his razor. His body was the same—lean, defined, a body that worked and moved without a second thought.A body that had grown accustomed to a different version of hers.
“We still on for dinner at Mark’s?” he asked, dragging the razor through the white cream on his cheek.“Yeah. I thought I’d wear that black dress.” The words hung in the humid air.The black dress. The one she’d bought when the last kilogram had finally slipped away.It was a scrap of fabric, really.A victory flag.
Ilia’s hand paused mid-stroke. He finally looked at her, his gaze skimming her reflection in the mirror before meeting her eyes.There was a calculation in his look, quick and flitting. “It’s kinda cold tonight, isn’t it? You’ll freeze.”
“I can wear a jacket.”
“It’s just… you know.” He went back to shaving, a precise, careful motion.“It’s a bit… dressed up for Mark’s. He’s just ordering pizza.”
It wasn’t the dress.They both knew it. It was the way the dress would fit now.Or wouldn’t.It would cling where it used to drape. The memory of the fabric loose around her thighs was a physical ache.
“Right,” Louise said, the word tasting of toothpaste and defeat. “Jeans it is.”
He nodded, a flicker of something—relief?—passing over his face. He finished shaving, splashed water, wiped the sink.His routine was a wall. When he leaned in to kiss her forehead, his lips were cool and damp.The gesture was paternal. A kiss for a child who had agreed to be sensible.“You look tired,” he said. “You been sleeping okay?”
“Sure.”
He padded out, the towel still around his hips, leaving her alone with the mirror and the ghost of the red numbers. She listened to him moving in the bedroom, the rustle of denim, the clink of a belt buckle.Her own reflection seemed to pulse under the harsh light. She pressed her palms hard against her belly, as if she could push the softness back inside, reverse the months of let’s share a dessert and it’s just one more glass of wine and his laughter as he fed her a crisp from his plate.He’d spoiled her. He’d made her soft, and then he’d stopped wanting the softness.The bedroom door clicked shut. He was giving her space to get ready.Or he just didn’t want to watch.
She turned from the mirror and opened the bathroom door, the cooler air of the hallway a shock. In the bedroom, she went to the back of her closet. There it was, the black dress, still on the wire hanger she’d bought it on.She took it out. She held it up against herself, the silk cool and whispering against her skin.She didn’t try it on. She didn’t need to. Instead, she stood there for a long minute, the dress held in front of her like a question. From the living room, she could hear the low murmur of a sports highlight reel on the TV.Ilia was waiting, patient, already moving into his evening without her.
Louise let the dress fall, a puddle of shadow on the bed. She pulled on the jeans, the denim tight across her hips, a familiar struggle.She found a loose sweater.She looked fine. Normal. She looked like someone who hadn’t just been measuring the distance between two bodies in the sterile light of a bathroom.When she walked out, Ilia glanced up from his phone. A smile touched his lips.It was his easy, default smile. The one that didn’t reach his eyes anymore.“Ready?” he asked.“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go.”
He held the door open for her. His hand didn’t brush the small of her back as she passed through.The space where his touch should have been was just empty, cool air. She walked through it, and decided, right then, that she would wear the dress next time. Even if it was just for pizza. Even if she froze.