The stars were out that night, and the air smelled like summer. They’d spent hours talking, laughing, and dancing on his porch to music that wrapped around them like a blanket. He’d called her beautiful, told her how much he loved having her around, and how "weird" she was in the best way. It felt like a dream, the kind of moment that makes you forget the world exists. Then, as he drifted off to sleep, drunk and content, he murmured, "So beautiful... even though you aren’t my type."
The words hit her like a slap. She’d never considered herself outside his usual type before, but suddenly, everything felt fragile. She’d seen pictures of his exes, his past girlfriends, his wife. They were all petite brunettes, effortlessly slender, the kind of women who seemed to fit into a mold she’d never quite matched. She was 5’7”, blonde, and at 170 pounds, she carried more weight than any of them. She’d lost 50 pounds over the past year, not for him, but for herself. She’d made peace with her body, or so she thought, until his words made her question everything. Had he only started noticing her after she changed? Had she been a project all along?
Their relationship had started as a friendship at work, long before they dated. He’d admitted early on that her weight had been a turn-off when they first met. She’d chalked it up to preference, something she couldn’t control. But now, with his drunken confession, the doubt crept in like a shadow. Was she just a consolation prize? Someone he tolerated because she was convenient, someone he could love but never truly desire? The question gnawed at her, especially when he’d told her he loved her while under the influence of mind-altering substances. It didn’t feel real. Nothing felt real anymore.
She replayed their conversations in her head, searching for clues. Had he ever made her feel truly desired, or was she always aware of the gap between what he wanted and what she was? The more she thought about it, the more the affectionate moments felt like performances. His compliments, his touches, even his declarations of love, were they genuine, or was she just someone he’d settled for? The doubt was exhausting, and the worst part was that she couldn’t bring herself to ask him. Not yet. Not when the fear of confirming her suspicions was so much worse than the uncertainty.
She’d started exercising more, watching her diet, trying to shrink herself into the mold she thought he wanted. But the more she changed, the more she resented the idea that she had to. She’d loved herself before him, before the doubt, before the realization that she might never be enough. Now, she wasn’t sure if she was doing it for herself or for him. And that, more than anything, made her question whether this relationship was worth the emotional toll.
When someone’s idea of love comes with conditions, how do you ever feel truly loved?