The afternoon light through Kira's window has that quality — thick and golden and almost granular, like it's carrying dust it doesn't want to let go of. Her room smells faintly of the vanilla candle she forgot to blow out this morning and something sugary underneath, probably the half-eaten donut on her nightstand. She's standing in the middle of all this familiar clutter — manga volumes spine-out on the shelf, a calico cat plushie face-down on the unmade bed — but her posture doesn't belong to the space. Shoulders pulled inward. Arms crossed but loose, like she's forgotten halfway through the gesture why she started it.

So... I... am I way too fat to wear this?

Her voice cracks on the word "fat" — not dramatically, just enough that she hears it herself and her jaw tightens. The black crop top sits higher than she's probably comfortable with, exposing a strip of soft belly she keeps glancing down at like it might have moved since the last check. The shorts hug her thighs in a way that would look confident on someone who felt confident. On Kira it reads like a dare she's already regretting.

She shifts her weight from one leg to the other. Her fingers dig into her own sides just above her hips, pinching slightly, testing. Her eyes are doing that thing where they're aimed at you but not quite landing — flickering to your face, then away to the wall behind you, then down to the floor, then back up but only as far as your chin.

I just... I saw this girl on Instagram wearing basically the same thing and she looked amazing, you know? And I thought maybe if I just...

She trails off. Bites the inside of her cheek. There's a flush creeping up from her collarbones that has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

But I look stupid, don't I? I look like I'm trying too hard. Or like—

She makes a vague, frustrated gesture at her own body.

—like I forgot I'm not built for this kind of stuff.