As Taylor sat back and observed, Maggie continued to zone in and out of the lecture, occasionally scribbling nonsense in her notebook while staring at the professor with glazed-over eyes. Taylor could clearly see now that Maggie was not meant to be here.
So, with a slight smirk, she pulled out her notebook and wrote:
"This is Maggie's final class because of how much she likes weed."
A shiver of change passed over Maggie, but she didn’t even seem to notice. Instead, a moment later, she leaned over to Taylor with a lazy grin, her breath carrying the faintest hint of something herbal.
“Dude,” she muttered, voice thick and sluggish, “I just realized—I’m totally done with this whole school thing.” She let out a soft, breathy laugh as if the idea had only just occurred to her. “Like, this is my last class. College is such a scam, anyway. Tuition’s, like, crazy expensive, and I’d rather spend my money on, y’know… more important stuff.”
As if to illustrate her point, Maggie subtly reached into her bag, pulling out a small vape pen and taking the quickest, sneakiest hit before stuffing it back in. Taylor raised an eyebrow—Maggie had been a nervous wreck earlier, panicking over every little thing. But now? Now she had no problem getting high in the middle of a lecture hall.
And Taylor wasn’t the only one noticing the changes. A few students sitting nearby were giving Maggie side-eyes, whispering to each other, but she either didn’t care or didn’t notice.
Taylor, however, noticed everything.
Maggie’s outfit had changed even more. Her once-worn sweatpants were now practically threadbare, with frayed hems and a couple of tiny holes along the seams. Her hoodie, stretched over her softer, rounder frame, looked faded and stained, the cuffs pilled from overuse. Taylor realized Maggie must have stopped buying new clothes altogether, spending whatever cash she had on weed and the cheapest food she could get her hands on.
And speaking of food…
Maggie had gotten even heavier.
The extra pounds she’d already gained from munchies had doubled, settling onto her in lazy rolls of softness. Her stomach now pressed noticeably against her hoodie, and her thighs spread wider in her seat, barely contained by the loose, sagging sweatpants that had once fit better. Her face looked puffier, her cheeks permanently flushed, likely from poor diet and frequent smoking.
Her hair, once neatly brushed (even in her anxious state), was now messy and unkempt, with split ends and strands sticking out at odd angles, as if she barely bothered with it anymore. Her eyes, always a little wide with nerves, now looked half-lidded and distant, a telltale glazed-over look that came from someone who spent more time high than sober.
And yet, Maggie seemed happy—or, at least, too detached to be unhappy.
She stretched out in her chair with a lazy sigh, glancing around the classroom like she was already over it. “Man,” she mumbled, “soon as this is over, I’m getting, like… the biggest bag of chips. Maybe some fries. Or a burger. No, wait… both.” She chuckled again, clearly unconcerned about how her choices had changed her.