You notice before I do. Or maybe I notice first and just don't want to admit it.
I'm standing in front of the mirror, tugging at the fabric, trying to convince myself that if I pull it a little differently, it'll close.
It doesn't.
You lean against the doorway, watching quietly.
Not laughing.
Not surprised.
Just watching.
I try again.
The fabric stretches.
The gap remains.
And suddenly I'm painfully aware of my own body.
The way my stomach presses forward.
The way it rests against the waistband.
The way there's simply more of me than there used to be.
I let out a laugh.
Half disbelief.
Half surrender.
Because a few years ago, I never would have imagined this.
Never imagined standing here, completely unable to close something that used to fit without a second thought.
You walk closer.
I can feel your eyes on me.
On the stubborn gap.
On the evidence that things have changed.
"Still trying?" you ask softly.
I roll my eyes.
But I'm smiling.
Because the truth is...
I already know how this ends.
The outfit doesn't win.
It never does.
I look at myself one more time.
At the fabric straining.
At the shape reflected in the mirror.
At the undeniable reality that my body has outgrown yet another thing.
And somewhere between embarrassment and amusement...
I find myself liking the sight more than I probably should.
You notice that too.
Of course you do.
You always do.
