Jennifer stood in front of her closet, towel wrapped loosely around her. Every outfit suddenly felt wrong—too tight, too clingy, too revealing. Her go-to cropped sweater looked obscene with how her chest strained against it now. The jeans that hugged her hips yesterday wouldn’t even button today. After twenty minutes of frustrated tugging and a few choice curse words, she settled on a loose T-shirt and leggings, trying not to wince as the fabric brushed her swollen breasts.
She hadn’t told anyone how weird she felt. What would she even say? Hey, I woke up feeling like someone inflated me overnight and now I’m walking around like I borrowed someone else’s body?
The mirror didn’t offer any reassurance. Her face still looked puffy, and there were faint shadows under her eyes. She dabbed on concealer, pulled her hair into a bun, and told herself she could power through. It was probably just hormones. A bug. Stress. Something normal.
But nothing about the way people looked at her that day felt normal.
At the coffee shop, the barista hesitated mid-order, eyes flicking down to her chest before quickly looking away. A group of students at the next table nudged each other and whispered. Jennifer kept her head down, sipping her drink and trying to ignore the sense that the walls were pressing in.
At class, she could barely focus. Her body felt heavy in the chair, her skin prickling as if someone was watching her from just behind her shoulder. Even her friends noticed something was off.
“You okay?” Maya whispered during lecture. “You look… kind of flushed.”
“I’m fine,” Jennifer said too quickly, her voice tight. “Didn’t sleep much.”
That part wasn’t a lie. She’d barely rested, constantly waking up with that same bloated tightness in her gut and an aching weight in her chest. And the worst part? She couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been done to her. This wasn’t random.
She pulled her sleeves down and curled into herself as the professor droned on. Everyone’s eyes felt sharper. Her clothes felt thinner. Her own body felt like a costume slipping at the edges.
She kept glancing at the door, half-hoping—half-dreading—that she’d see her again.
The woman from the bar.
But the door stayed shut. The curse didn’t need to be near to keep working.
It was already inside.