I was always the “fat girlfriend.”
The one people liked… but never chose.
Until my boyfriend dumped me for my best friend.
And then—six months later, on the day they were supposed to get married—his mother called me and said, “You do NOT want to miss this.”
That was the day I finally learned just how wrong he’d been about me.
My name is Larkin, I’m 28, and I’ve been the big girl for as long as I can remember.
Not cute-thick.
Not trendy-curvy.
Just… big.
I was the one relatives cornered at Thanksgiving, lowering their voices to whisper, “Maybe less sugar, sweetheart.”
The one strangers felt comfortable telling, “You’d be so pretty if you lost a little weight.”
So I learned early how to survive.
If I couldn’t be the prettiest, I’d be the easiest to love.
Funny. Helpful. Reliable.
I showed up early to help set up parties and stayed late to clean. I remembered everyone’s coffee order. I listened. I supported. I carried emotional weight like it was my job.
If I couldn’t be chosen for how I looked, I’d be chosen for how useful I was.
That’s who Sayer met.
He was 31, polished, confident, with a carefully groomed beard that looked like it took more effort than he admitted.
We met at trivia night.
He was there with coworkers. I was there with my friend Abby. My team won, and he joked that I had been “carrying the table.”
I laughed and roasted his beard.
He liked that.
He asked for my number before the night ended.
He texted first.
“You’re refreshing,” he wrote. “You’re not like other girls. You’re real.”
At the time, that made my heart melt.
Now I know it was a red flag wrapped in a compliment.
We dated for almost three years.
Three years of shared Netflix accounts, weekends away, toothbrushes at each other’s places. We talked about moving in together. About maybe getting a dog. About “someday” kids.
I thought we were building something real.
My best friend Maren was part of that life.
She was 28, tiny, blonde, effortlessly thin in that “I forgot to eat today” way that made people roll their eyes but still adore her.
We’d been friends since college.
She held my hand at my dad’s funeral. She slept on my couch during my worst anxiety spirals. She knew every insecure thought I’d ever had.
She used to tell me, “You deserve someone who never makes you feel like a backup.”
Six months ago, I found out she was sleeping with my boyfriend.
In my bed.
I was at work when my iPad lit up with a shared photo notification.
Sayer and I had synced devices because we were cute and stupid and in love.
I tapped it without thinking.
And there it was.
My bedroom.
My gray comforter.
My yellow throw pillow.
Sayer and Maren in the middle of it.
Shirtless. Laughing. His hand on her hip. Her hair on my pillow.
For one second, my brain tried to protect me.
It’s old.
It’s fake.
There’s an explanation.
Then my stomach flipped so hard I thought I might throw up.
I grabbed my bag.
“I have to go,” I told Abby.
She looked at my face. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I said, and walked out.
I sat on my couch at home with the photo open and waited.
When Sayer came in, he was humming. Tossed his keys into the bowl like nothing had changed.
“Hey, babe, you’re home ear—”
“Anything you want to tell me?” I asked.
He froze.
Saw the iPad.
And I watched the guilt flicker across his face… and disappear.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he said.
Not I didn’t mean to do this.
Just… like this.
He sighed, like I’d caught him forgetting milk at the store.
“She’s just more my type.”
Maren stepped out from the hallway.
Bare legs.
My oversized sweatshirt.
My friend.
“I trusted you,” I said, my voice strangely calm. “Both of you.”
He shifted, like this was a negotiation.
“She’s thin,” he said. “She’s beautiful. It matters.”
Then he said the thing that broke something in me.
“You didn’t take care of yourself.”
The room buzzed.
He kept going.
“You’re great, Larkin. You really are. You have such a good heart,” he said. “But I deserve someone who matches me.”
Matches me.
Like I was the wrong accessory.
I handed him a trash bag and told him to pack.
Maren didn’t say a word.
She just stood there, arms crossed, eyes shiny, letting him speak for both of them.
I told her to leave my key on the counter.
Within weeks, they were posting couple photos.
Within three months, they were engaged.
People sent me screenshots.
I muted half my contacts.
I sat on my kitchen floor and felt everything collapse inward.
I couldn’t stand being in my body with his voice living rent-free in my head.
You’re great, but.
If you’d really loved him, you would’ve lost the weight.
So I turned the hate inward.
I started changing the only thing I thought I could control.
The first day at the gym, I lasted eight minutes on the treadmill.
My lungs burned. My vision blurred. I pretended I had to pee, hid in the bathroom, and cried.
The next day, I went back.
Little by little, I walked farther. Jogged. Lifted light weights. Watched YouTube videos in my car so I wouldn’t look stupid.
I cooked more. Cut back on takeout. Drank more water.
For weeks, nothing changed.
Then my jeans loosened.
Then my face looked sharper.
Someone at work said, “You look really good. Did you do something?”
Six months later, I’d lost a lot of weight.
It felt good.
And creepy.
People treated me better. Held doors. Smiled more. Complimented me like I’d earned humanity.
Inside, I still felt like the girl who’d been dumped for her thinner best friend.
Then came their wedding day.
I wasn’t invited.
My plan was simple: phone on silent, DoorDash, trash TV, bed.
At 10:17 a.m., my phone rang anyway.
Unknown number.
“Is this Larkin?” a tight female voice asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Sayer’s mother. You need to come here. Right now.”
Lakeview Country Club.
“You won’t believe what happened.”
The parking lot was chaos.
Inside, the reception hall looked wrecked.
Overturned chairs. Broken glass. Spilled champagne.
Mrs. Whitlock grabbed my hands.
“That girl was never serious about him,” she hissed. “She was seeing another man. Laughing about how easy Sayer was.”
Maren had left.
In her dress.
The wedding was off.
Then Mrs. Whitlock looked me over.
“You always loved him,” she said. “And look at you now. You match him.”
She suggested I marry him instead.
Right there.
I realized then—I wasn’t a person to them.
I was a backup plan.
“I’m not your replacement bride,” I said.
I walked out.
That night, Sayer showed up at my door.
“You look incredible,” he said.
He asked me to fix his reputation.
To save him.
I smiled.
“Six months ago, I might’ve said yes,” I said. “But losing weight didn’t make me enough. It just made it easier to see who wasn’t.”
“I deserve better,” I said. “And the best part? I finally believe that.”
I shut the door.
Locked it.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t shrink myself to fit someone else’s idea of love.
I stayed exactly who I am.
And I shut the door.