I’ve always been labeled “the fat girlfriend.” Not the cute-thick kind that people compliment politely. Not the curvy, sexy type that gets winked at in grocery stores or baristas who smile a little longer than necessary. No. Just… big. The kind that strangers whisper about in grocery store aisles. The one relatives corner at Thanksgiving to talk about sugar, to hint that I’d be prettier if I “lost a little.” By the time I was in my mid-twenties, I learned a harsh truth: if I wasn’t going to be the prettiest, I had to be the easiest to love. Funny, helpful, reliable. I became the friend who…
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