It’s a silent battle and the screaming demon I stuff down and keep to myself…because no one likes a Negative Nancy or a Debbie Downer.

No one likes when the fat girl talks about how miserable she is or how upset it makes her to be made fun of.

How much she wishes she was thin.

Because deep down…the attractive, slim people are judging you for putting yourself in the position you’re in.

Their mind is firing off thoughts like, ‘If she’s so unhappy, she should do something about it.’ Or— ‘If she would stop being lazy and work out and eat right, she’d lose the weight.’ And my new favorite, ‘She should try the new keto diet or get that lap band surgery.’

Maybe fat people don’t want to go on a new fad diet or have surgery.

Maybe going to the gym gives fat people an anxiety attack and causes them to give up before they even start…because half the people there are looking at us like we’re a fish out of water. While the other half are wondering how long we’ll last before we give up and head for the nearest McDonald’s.

Maybe fat people just want to be accepted…flaws and all.

Just like the rest of society.

And maybe, just maybe—people should stop judging us.

Because every fat person will tell you…no one judges us harder than we judge ourselves.

We know exactly what that mirror is reflecting.

Every extra pound we shouldn’t have.

Every tear we’ve secretly shed in frustration and sadness.

Every diet we’ve tried, but ultimately failed at.

Every fear and insecurity plaguing us.

Every expectation we’ll never measure up to.

And it sucks.

If I could wish for anything in the world…after world peace, curing poverty, and getting rid of racist and homophobic assholes…

I’d wish to be thin and pretty.

No more stress. No more failed expectations. No more judgment.

For once, people would look at me because I was beautiful…instead of looking at me and thinking, she’d be beautiful if she lost weight.

But desiring something like that is pointless…because those kinds of wishes don’t come true for girls like me.

There are no knights in shining armor waiting to whisk us off into the sunset so we can live happily ever after.

The knights in shining armor don’t want us.

They want the pretty, tiny cheerleaders like Casey, Morgan, and Bianca.

Girls like me have to dig deep and find a way to be content with whatever box humanity decides to put us in and learn to accept far less than we deserve.

Because that’s all we’re cut out for.

I’m so preoccupied with my own pity party, I don’t hear the door open until it’s too late and a tall, muscular figure is staggering into the bedroom.

Alone.

Well, not really…given I’m still lying on the bed and all.

“Sorry…um. Occupied.”

Good job, Sawyer. You just told mystery dude you were having some self-love time.

He mumbles something incoherent, but I’d know that voice anywhere.

Cole Covington.

Before the shock can set in, he plops down on the bed.

A few inches to the right and he would have landed on top of me, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is why he’s here in the first place.

Lying on a bed…with me. In the middle of a party.

“Cole.”

“Hi.”

Really? “Hi.”

I tilt my face to look at him, but it’s a bad idea because even in the shadows, he’s so gorgeous it should be a crime. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he slurs.

Well, shit. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Okay then.

Neither of us says another word for what feels like forever as we stare up at the ceiling.

I search my brain for a kernel of something that might help him, but it’s near impossible, since I have no idea what’s wrong.

This too shall pass. It’s something my nanna used to say whenever I was going through hard times.

However, I don’t get the chance to tell him that, because he grinds out, “It’s my birthday…I think.” He draws in a shaky breath. “Is it the twenty-first yet?”

I’m perplexed as to why he’d be so upset about turning eighteen—and the fact his birthday is in August instead of November like I always thought—but then I remember his twin brother died a few years ago.

I look at the clock on the nightstand. It’s twelve a.m. On the dot.

I’d wish him a happy birthday, but I’m not heartless.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper instead.

I honestly don’t know what else to say. I’m not sure there is anything else to say considering the situation.

He snorts. “Guess that would make one of us. Huh?”

I have no idea what he means by that, but I don’t want to press, so I clamp my mouth shut.

Cole and I have always had a strange…thing.

It’s no secret we’re not exactly friends, but he takes it one step further by flirting and saying stuff he knows will push my buttons.

He was so convincing, it got to the point I thought he might actually be interested in me last year…but then Casey happened.

Casey’s the cheer captain, and the new head bitch in charge at Royal Hearts Academy.

She’s also the girl I beat up at a party last year for calling me fat.

Actually, fat would have been preferable. The girl said such vile, nasty things, I’m not sure there’s enough praying me or anyone else can do to save her disgusting soul.

Cole was there when it happened, and it was clear he didn’t approve of what she said. In fact, he looked downright repulsed by her.

For the briefest of moments, I thought I saw something in him…something noble and righteous.

But then he started ignoring me and dating her.

We haven’t spoken much since. Except tonight apparently.

“It’s bullshit,” he slurs into the darkness.

It’s not much, but I’ll take it. “What is?”

“Everything.”

There’s so much pain contained in that one word my heart drops.

I hate that I don’t know the right words to say to make it better.

Then again, maybe Cole doesn’t need someone to fix his problems.

Perhaps he just needs someone to listen to them.

Ignoring the tiny voice in my head screaming that what I’m about to do is the equivalent of poking a tiger who very well might turn around and maul me…I reach for his hand.

A sharp exhale escapes him the moment we make contact, but to my surprise, he doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes my hand like he’s drowning…and I’m his lifeline.

“No one is who they pretend to be.”

Peeling my stare from the ceiling, I look at him. “How so?”

“Everyone is fake,” he clarifies. “No one is real. We’re all sheep…following each other around in circles…going nowhere.”

As depressing as that thought is, he’s not exactly wrong. The world is full of more phony people than genuine.

“Everyone is so fucking fake,” he repeats. “Including me.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him he’s being real right now, but his next statement makes my breath catch.