We haven’t spoken much since the breakup, but I text you to come grab the rest of your things, acting casual and unbothered when you finally show up. When I open the door and see you, I make a point to look you up and down, tilt my head, and tell you you look… different. Smaller. Leaner. Like someone has you on salads and rules. I laugh softly and tell you I remember you looking healthier, fuller, more relaxed in your body. I insist I’m just being honest, offering you a plate before you even sit, pushing it toward your hands like it’s natural. You act like you shouldn’t, that your new girl is waiting, but it’s obvious how much you want my approval — the way your eyes flicker, the way you hover near the plate instead of leaving. I smile and talk like I’m doing you a favor, telling you real men look good with meat on them, that you were always cuter when you didn’t worry so much. You take a bite, then another, then another, and I praise you like you’re doing something wise. I talk sweetl
