My boyfriend and my best friend loved to make my appetite the punchline of every joke. According to Amber, my appetite was so embarrassingly huge that I should probably start paying double whenever we went out to eat. And Damon, my loving boyfriend, made a show out of helping me every single time. He would pull the server aside with a performative grin, asking them to replace my standard dinner bowl with a massive, deep serving bowl normally reserved for family-style entrees. Then, as the rest of the table stared—eyes wide with morbid curiosity or uncomfortable pity—he would lean back, pat my shoulder, and offer a soft, benevolent explanation to the room: “My girlfriend eats like a truck driver. A normal bowl just doesn’t cut it for her.” Every single time, I would lower my head, staring at my lap, silently swallowing the burn of humiliation under the weight of everyone’s amused gaze. Tonight, our high school class president, Greg, had organized a small get-together at an upscale downtown restaurant. I was running late, and as I reached the door of our private dining room, I heard Amber’s voice floating through the wood, animated and dripping with dramatic flare as she regaled the room with the legend of how I could easily clear three full plates in one sitting. Someone laughed, sounding skeptical. “No way. Cathy is tiny. She doesn’t look like she eats that much.” “You only say that because she’s not sitting right here!” Amber countered, her voice rising in playful indignation. “Ask Damon! He knows!” “It’s true,” Damon’s voice chimed in smoothly. “Make it four plates tonight. She told me she skipped lunch.” “Ooh, let’s make a bet!” Amber squealed. “Let me put twenty on it. I bet Cathy eats at least three full servings tonight.” “Four,” Damon echoed, chuckling. “Put me down for four.” Laughter erupted around the table as others began tossing out numbers, treating my eating habits like a parlor game. I stood in the dimly lit hallway, my hand hovering an inch from the brass door handle. A heavy, soul-deep exhaustion washed over me. I was so tired. So violently, thoroughly tired of being the sideshow exhibit in my own life. I was done being everyone’s punchline. … “Cathy? Hey, why are you just standing out here?” It was Greg, returning from the front coat check with a few extra menu inserts. He blinked at me in surprise. I didn’t want any part of their stupid, humiliating wager, but caught red-handed, I had no choice but to force a tight smile, push the door open, and step inside. “I just got here,” I murmured. The room went instantly quiet. A dozen eyes darted between me, Amber, and Damon. Everyone suddenly found their cloth napkins or water glasses deeply fascinating, quietly agreeing to bury whatever they had just been saying. I walked over to the only open seat, situated directly between Damon and Amber. The moment my coat was over the back of my chair, Amber spun the lazy susan on the table, bringing a plate of heavy, frosted pre-dinner pastries right to my spot. “The main courses are going to take a while,” she said, her eyes shining with manic enthusiasm. “If you’re starving, eat a couple of these to hold you over!” She watched me like a hawk, practically vibrating with tension. She was terrified that if I filled up on bread and sugar now, I wouldn’t eat enough later, and she’d lose her twenty-dollar bet. Damon frowned, reaching over to spin the cake platter away from me. “That icing is way too heavy, Amber. It’s going to ruin her appetite for dinner.” Amber pouted instantly, turning to me with an exaggerated gasp. “See that? Damon is being so cruel! He knows you didn’t eat lunch, Cathy, and he won’t even let you have a little snack. What if your blood sugar drops?” “Oh, please,” Damon scoffed, rolling his eyes at her. “You don’t even remember that Cathy hates super sweet desserts, you fake best friend.” They went back and forth, bickering with a lighthearted, familiar banter, pulling out all the stops to maneuver the situation so their respective bets would win. Watching them, my mind suddenly drifted back to a Saturday a few weeks ago. A new shopping mall had celebrated its grand opening with a high-profile dessert-eating contest. The grand prize was a limited-edition, sold-out collector’s plushie—the exact one Amber had been obsessing over for months. She had dragged me to the stage, her fingers digging into my arm, begging me to enter. Back then, Damon hadn’t cared at all that I hated heavy sweets. Instead, he had shoved me forward, slapping my back encouragingly. “Go on, Cathy. With your huge appetite, first place is practically guaranteed.” So, I ate. I swallowed plate after plate of sickly sweet, synthetic whipped cream and dense sponge cake until my stomach screamed. I won the contest. And then I spent the next forty-five minutes doubled over a trash can in the parking garage, dry-heaving until my chest burned. A short distance away, Amber had been clutching the plushie to her chest, beaming with joy, while she and Damon chatted with a group of onlookers. I could still hear her loud, tinkling laugh echoing in the concrete garage: “My best friend eats like a pig! She can clear a whole buffet by herself. A little dessert contest is nothing for her!” “Hey, guys,” Greg interrupted gently, noticing the tense vibe settling over our corner of the table. “If everyone’s hungry, I can ask the kitchen to rush our appetizers.” Damon and Amber snapped their heads toward Greg, shouting in unison, “No need!” I took a slow sip of ice water, my voice flat. “Don’t bother, Greg. I’m not hungry right now.” Amber’s eyes widened in dramatic disbelief. “You’re literally chugging water because your stomach is empty! Stop being so stubborn, Cathy. We’re all old friends here. Eat as much as you want, nobody is going to judge you!” Greg nodded warmly. “Seriously, Cathy. My treat tonight. Order whatever you want.” I turned my head to look Amber dead in the eye. “I’m drinking water because I was thirsty. Do you only drink fluids when you’re starving?” Amber blinked, caught off guard by the edge in my tone. “I… well, no, but—” “And besides,” I continued, keeping my voice eerily calm, “why are you so obsessed with what goes into my mouth tonight?” Damon’s brow furrowed, stepping in to shield her immediately. “She’s just looking out for you, Cathy. What is wrong with you tonight? Why are you snapping at everyone like you ate gunpowder for breakfast?” Amber crossed her arms, glaring at him with a rehearsed pout. “Don’t talk to her like that! I can defend myself!” Damon let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh. “Fine, fine. You two are the dynamic duo. I’m just the useless third wheel here.” It was always like this. Whenever Amber pushed me too far or made me the butt of a joke in public, they would play this exact routine. One would play bad cop, the other good cop, performing a seamless little theatrical act that brushed my genuine humiliation under the rug before I could even process it. “That’s more like it,” Amber chirped, her cheerful demeanor instantly restored. She leaned over and wrapped her arm around mine, squeezing tightly. “I only ask because I care about you, Cathy! You’re always complaining to me about how you never feel full!” I set my water glass down on the tablecloth with a soft, deliberate “clink”. “I have never said those words to you in my life,” I said quietly. Amber had a bird-like appetite; she picked at her food and claimed to be full after three bites of a salad. When we first met, she discovered that I—a normal human woman—could eat a full, standard meal equivalent to what Damon ate. To her, it was an astounding anomaly. Whenever the three of us hung out, she insisted on ordering family packages meant for four or five people, claiming it was “for my benefit” so I wouldn’t starve. And I grew up raised by my grandmother in a rural town. Grandma had lived through real poverty and hard times, and she taught me that wasting food was a sin. That anxiety was baked into my DNA. Even when I was stuffed, seeing excess food on the table made me uncomfortable, so I would force myself to clean the plates just to avoid throwing it away. Amber had used my childhood trauma to build her narrative of the “gluttonous best friend.” Now, called out directly, Amber sat there speechless, her lower lip trembling as tears welled in her eyes. Damon’s heart softened instantly at her distress. He leaned in, offering me a tight, chastising explanation. “Amber just misremembered, Cathy. You know how she is. She has the memory of a goldfish.” “Memory of a goldfish.” Right. She forgot my preferences, she forgot my boundaries, she forgot my dignity. But she never, ever forgot to bring up my appetite whenever there was an audience to laugh at it. I pulled my mouth into a hollow smile, looking down at my hands. I said nothing. Fortunately, the servers began arriving, laying down dish after dish of steaming food. Damon and Amber sat on either side of me, suddenly competing to be the most attentive companion, piling food into my bowl. Amber dropped a massive, battered king prawn onto my plate. “It’s on Greg’s tab, Cathy! Don’t try to save him money, eat up!” Damon followed right behind her, dropping a thick fillet of fish onto my rice. “I remembered this is your favorite—steamed sea bass.” I sat completely still. I hadn’t picked up my chopsticks or my fork. Around us, our former classmates were chewing quietly, but their eyes kept darting toward my bowl, which was already overflowing. I let out a soft laugh and turned directly to Amber. “Is making bets on me really that fun for you?” Amber froze, her spoon hovering in mid-air. Damon’s face paled slightly as he realized I had heard everything outside the door. He hurriedly set his cutlery down, leaning toward me with an urgent, hushed tone. “Cathy, babe, don’t get upset. We haven’t seen everyone in so long, Amber was just trying to break the ice and lighten the mood.” He paused, adding under his breath, “Besides… she wasn’t lying. It’s not like she made up a rumor out of thin air.” A couple of people nearby overheard and piped up, trying to smooth things over. “Yeah, Cathy, she was just joking around!” “We’re all old friends here, don’t be so sensitive.” I turned my head and looked at the smiling faces around the table. “You all think it’s hilarious?” I asked softly. “Because as the person being paraded around like an animal, I don’t find it very funny.” The room went dead silent. Nobody expected me to lay it out so plainly, without a shred of polite customer-service politeness. They exchanged awkward glances, quickly shutting their mouths. Amber’s eyes flooded with real tears now. She lowered her head, sniffing pitifully. “I’m so sorry, Cathy… I really didn’t think you cared this much. I promise I’ll never do it again.” I didn’t accept her apology. I couldn’t. Because an awful, familiar memory suddenly surfaced in my mind. “You said the exact same thing last time,” I said. A few months ago, Damon’s parents had flown into the city after learning we were getting serious. I thought it was going to be an intimate dinner for the four of us. I had spent hours picking out expensive gift baskets for his mother and father. When I arrived at the restaurant, I found Amber sitting right beside Damon, chatting merrily with his parents. When I stared at Damon in shock, he had leaned in and whispered, “Amber doesn’t eat much anyway, so I figured I’d bring her along. What’s the big deal?” By the time I sat down, Amber had already commandeered the conversation, and every topic revolved around my flaws. She told his mother, with dramatic hand gestures, that I ate so much I could finish a rice cooker by myself, forcing Damon to eat my scrap leftovers. She snickered as she told them I was a terrible cook who almost set her kitchen on fire the one time I tried to bake. She laughed about how I was a total coward who ran screaming from a neighbor’s toddler. After that dinner, Damon’s mother treated me with icy coldness. What Amber hadn’t mentioned was that the “toddler” was a massive, two-year-old Golden Retriever. I had been brutally bitten by a stray dog when I was seven years old, requiring dozens of stitches, and I had severe, involuntary PTSD around large dogs. And while Amber was shredding my character, Damon had sat there in silence, occasionally nodding along to her “jokes.” When I tried to explain myself, he had interrupted me, saying, “My parents are hungry, Cathy, let’s just eat.” At the end of the meal, Damon’s mother took out her phone and added Amber on messaging apps, swapping numbers with her while completely ignoring me. On the drive home, Amber had actually turned around from the back seat, smiling sweetly. “I said so many nice things about you to his mom today! You totally owe me dinner for making you look good.” When I was about to blow up, Damon took the wheel and cut me off. “Cathy was careless and got the times mixed up today. She thought dinner was at one instead of eleven. Luckily you kept my mom entertained all morning, Amber. Dinner’s on me.” I had sat in the passenger seat, staring at the calendar app on my phone which explicitly read “11:00 AM – Dinner with Damon’s Parents”. Damon had given me the wrong time on purpose, or misremembered it himself, and blamed it entirely on me. Now, sitting at this reunion dinner, Amber looked utterly blank. She couldn’t even remember which “last time” I was talking about. She cast a desperate, pleading look at Damon. Damon didn’t remember either. He reached under the tablecloth, his fingers searching for mine, lightly scratching my palm in a familiar soothing gesture. “The past is in the past, babe. Let’s just focus on moving forward, okay?” A knot of bitter, suffocating indignation surged through my chest. “Focus on moving forward?” The present was built on the ruins of the past, and I had been suffering in silence the entire time! “Your future,” I said, my voice shaking slightly as I pulled my hand away from his grip, “has nothing to do with me.” For the first time in our three-year relationship, I lost my temper in public. I shoved my chair back, grabbed my purse, and walked out without looking back. Behind me, Amber finally broke down into full, trembling sobs. “I really didn’t mean it… I just thought Cathy was so quiet, I wanted to help her fit in with everyone…” A few classmates rushed to comfort her. “Don’t cry, Amber, we know you meant well.” Someone sighed loudly. “Man, Cathy’s temper has gotten terrible over the last couple of years.” Another guy patted Damon’s shoulder sympathetically. “You have to deal with this drama every day? Man, I feel sorry for you.” Just as I reached the outer lobby, I heard Greg’s voice cut through the room, sharp and uncharacteristically firm. “Cathy is deathly allergic to shellfish,” Greg said coldly. “And she hates steamed fish. You two are her boyfriend and her best friend, yet I remembered her allergies and preferences, and neither of you did. Honestly? Listening to you two, I feel embarrassed “for” you.” The room went dead quiet again. I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the restaurant and stepped out into the cool night air. I glanced back over my shoulder once. The sidewalk behind me was empty. Damon hadn’t chased after me. My phone remained completely dark—no calls, no texts. I pressed my lips together, pulled up my phone, and unpinned Damon’s chat from the top of my messaging app. Then, I selected both his profile and Amber’s, muting their notifications indefinitely. I rarely lost my temper with Damon. Partly because I believed constant fighting eroded a relationship, but mostly because I knew that whether I was jealous, hurt, or angry, Damon would always dismiss it as me “being dramatic over nothing.” In the past, whenever I slammed the door and walked out after an argument, he would just stand there, watching me go with a smug patience. He knew that within two hours, I would rationalize his behavior, build my own bridge to forgive him, and walk right back home like nothing had happened. But tonight, I was done. My stomach gave a quiet, hollow rumble. Realizing I was genuinely hungry, I walked two blocks down to a quiet, dimly lit diner. I ordered a simple, single-portion turkey club sandwich. There was no Amber gasping at the size of my plate. No Damon making loud jokes to the waiter. No curious stares from strangers. It was the best meal I had eaten in months. When I finally unlocked the front door to our apartment later that night, Damon was standing in the hallway. The moment I stepped inside, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the dining table. His grip was tight and unyielding. I struggled, trying to twist my arm free, but he was far stronger than me. “Stop pulling,” he snapped, leading me to a chair. As if our explosive fight an hour ago hadn’t happened, he pushed a fresh plate of warm food toward me, his voice softening into a practiced, gentle tone. “Amber and I made a few of your favorites to apologize.” “I already ate,” I said, my voice deadpan. “I’m not hungry.” Damon’s posture stiffened. “Are you still throwing a tantrum?” He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m sorry, Cathy. I really am. I shouldn’t have made jokes about you, and I shouldn’t have forgotten your allergies. Amber and I spent the last two hours reflecting on everything.” He held up two fingers, looking at me with absolute sincerity. “I swear to God, it will never happen again.” Amber stepped out from the kitchen, holding a wet dish towel. She reached out, taking my hands with a pitiful, puppy-dog expression. “Cathy, I burned my hands making this meal, and Damon got splattered with hot oil. Please, just take one bite.” This was the first time in three years that Damon had ever lowered his head and apologized to me first. I looked at the food on the table, my heart softening just a fraction. I couldn’t bring myself to be completely heartless. We sat down. But Amber’s appetite was as small as ever. After eating barely half a small bowl of rice, she set her fork down. “I’m stuffed,” she announced casually. Then, as naturally as breathing, she slid her half-eaten bowl across the table directly in front of Damon. “Here, you finish it.” It was a completely smooth, effortless gesture. Seamless. As if she had done it ten thousand times before. Damon grumbled a little, but without missing a beat, he scooped her leftover rice directly into his own bowl. “Why do you always scoop so much if you can’t finish it? Stop wasting food.” My hand holding my fork went rigid. The blood in my veins felt like it had instantly turned to liquid ice. My voice trembled as I broke the silence. “You… you always eat her leftovers?” Amber blinked, answering without a second thought. “Yeah! Damon eats a lot anyway, so why throw it away?” Damon suddenly realized how bad it looked. His face flushed, and he quickly tried to explain. “Cathy, I only learned to clean my plate because of “you”! You always talked about not wasting food. It’s clean food, it’s fine! If you left leftovers, I’d eat yours too!” “Liar.” My mind flashed back to the dozens of times I had offered him a bite of something from my fork. He had flinched, claiming he didn’t like sharing utensils because of “germs and saliva.” When we bought boba tea, he would strictly demand two separate straws. Yet here he was, casually eating rice from a bowl Amber had dragged her own chopsticks through. Seeing my expression, Amber suddenly gasped, her face going pale. She picked up the bowl from Damon’s spot and made a move toward the trash can. “It’s my fault, I didn’t think! I won’t let Damon eat my leftovers ever again, I’ll just throw it out!” Damon shot out of his chair, grabbing her wrist tightly to stop her. He turned to me, his tone sharp with irritation. “Don’t throw it out! I don’t care about germs.” Amber looked at me tearfully, her voice trembling. “But Cathy looks so upset…” Damon lowered his eyes, his voice cold and disgusted as he looked at me. “She’s the one who lectures everyone about wasting food. Now she’s throwing a fit over a bowl of rice? Don’t you see how hypocritical and absurd she’s being?” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my throat. Without another word, I turned around, walked into the master bedroom, and slammed the door shut. I grabbed my large rolling suitcase from the top of the closet, unzipped it, and began pulling my clothes off the hangers. This toxic, suffocating farce of a relationship—I wasn’t going to stay in it for another single second.
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