But no.
She pushed me harder than I thought I could go. Made me track every bite, every rep, every ounce of water. And when I slipped — when I let myself have a cookie or missed a workout — it felt like I had failed her. Failed myself.
I cried through more workouts than I can count — legs shaking, lungs burning, tears mixing with sweat. I cried sitting across from my friends as they ordered burgers and milkshakes while I stabbed at my sad little salad, trying to convince myself it was worth it.
And when the number on the scale didn't move, when my body didn't change fast enough, panic twisted through me so sharp it made me sick — literally. I'd end up on the bathroom floor, forcing it all back up just so I wouldn't have to feel it sitting in my stomach.
But even that didn't work.
So, I ate less. And less. Starved myself until my head spun and my stomach ached so bad I had to lie down.
I wanted it gone — all of it — the weight, the softness, the girl who stared back at me in the mirror. I wanted her erased.
But every time I looked, she was still there.
Pathetic. Weak. The same girl who got laughed at, who got called fat.
The girl Zach Westbrook didn't want.
Every glance at the mirror felt like ripping the scab off a wound that never healed. Some nights, I'd grip the sink so hard my knuckles turned white, tears streaming down my face as I glared at my reflection. And then one night, something in me just... snapped.
I grabbed my hairbrush and hurled it as hard as I could. The mirror shattered, glass raining down like tiny shards of judgment, and for a second I felt relief — like I'd finally silenced her.
But then I saw my own face, fractured into a hundred broken pieces, and it hit me: I wasn't just smashing the mirror. I was smashing myself.
God, I hated her.
Hated me.
There were so many nights I almost gave up. Nights I sat on my bed staring at the ceiling, whispering to myself,Screw it. Just stay this way. This is who you are. Stop fighting it.
But every morning, I dragged myself up again. Told myself I wasn't a quitter, even if my body and brain screamed otherwise.
Honestly, the only reason I kept going was because of my coach. She wouldn't let me spiral too far. She reminded me this wasn't about punishment, it was about change — real, lasting change. That weight loss wasn't supposed to be instant, that my body wasn't a math problem to solve overnight.
And when I hated myself so much I couldn't even look in the mirror, she made me do the thing I hated most — face it.
Breathe.
Visualize who I wanted to be.
Say out loud the things I wanted to believe about myself until, slowly, I started to.
And somewhere along the way — after all the sweat, the tears, the nights I hated myself — the girl in the mirror started to look different.
Stronger.
Someone I could stand to look at.
"Caroline..."
His voice cuts through the memory like a blade, soft but sharp enough to slice straight through my chest.
I blink, dragged back into the present, back to the hallway, back to the way Zach's standing just a step behind me.
When I turn, there's guilt all over his face — raw and unguarded — and for a split second, it almost makes my chest ache.
"I'm sorry," he says — two simple words, but they sound heavy enough to drop between us and crack the floor.
