Real talk, he said.

I’m not your boyfriend. I’m your best friend.

I don’t plan to sugar coat it anymore.

You don’t look fat.

You don’t. You don’t look fat!

By now, he’s yelling, and the vein in his face is strengthening, his cheeks are reddening.

You don’t look fat, he repeats.

You have a belly. Real talk. You have a belly. You have big boobs. And you have hips. I’d call you voluptuous.

And, he finishes, you’re hot.

You’re so hot.

I stare at him. A smile, glance, smirk. Our playlist chants on the stereo. He yawns. He’s full, and tired, and still working. And he said everything he ever wanted to say, without the guise of being my mate and somehow obligated to tell me what I’d rather hear – rather than the truth.

But the truth was, and he said it. He said it out loud. His truth.

And I said mine – I’m going to post this photo.

That’s fine, he concedes. As long as you tell them you took it for me.

— c ☆