Chapter 1

I did everything for Damian, my childhood best friend. His promise-"Get in shape, Lena, and I'll take you to prom"-was the only thing that mattered. I starved myself and ran until I collapsed, all for the future he dangled in front of me.

But on his birthday, clutching the cake I' d baked, I overheard the truth. The promise was a cruel joke. To him and his real girlfriend, Gigi, I was just a "fat pig" whose desperate attempts to impress him were "hilarious to watch."

They didn't stop there. They framed me for bullying, and Damian publicly denied ever caring for me. He then got my Stanford scholarship revoked with a malicious report and stood by as Gigi plastered my most private love letters all over school.

I became a pariah, a "delusional, conniving bitch." The boy I had loved my whole life, the one who was supposed to be my protector, had orchestrated my complete and utter destruction for a laugh.

Yet he still expected me to follow him to college. So when he called on move-in day, buzzing with excitement for our shared future, I let him ramble on about our plans. Then, I calmly cut through his fantasy.

"I'm not here, Damian."

Chapter 1

My body gave out. One moment, my legs churned on the treadmill, the next, the world spun, and I crumpled to the gym floor. Black spots danced before my eyes. This wasn' t how it was supposed to go.

Damian Cameron, my best friend since we were kids, and the boy I secretly loved, had made a promise. "Get in shape, Lena, and I'll take you to senior prom," he' d whispered last summer, his eyes twinkling. "Everyone already thinks we're a thing. Let's make it official."

His words had been a beacon. A promise of a future I desperately wanted. A future where I wasn't just "Elena, the smart girl," but "Elena, Damian's girlfriend."

I knew my weight was an issue. Polycystic Ovary Syndrome made it a constant battle, a silent struggle no one truly understood. Medications, hormonal imbalances, the relentless cravings. It felt like my body was betraying me. But Damian' s promise, that was worth fighting for.

So I fought. I cut down my food to miserable portions. I ran until my lungs burned and my muscles screamed. I denied myself every comfort, every craving. My nutritionist warned me about the rapid weight loss, about the risks, but I ignored her. Damian was worth it. Prom was worth it.

The collapse was just a minor setback, I told myself, pushing away the throbbing in my head. I rested for a few hours, forcing down some juice, then got back to work. Today was Damian' s eighteenth birthday. I couldn' t miss it. I had to show him how much I cared, how much I had changed, for him.

I spent hours in the kitchen, carefully baking his favorite chocolate fudge cake. I used a special recipe, something healthier he wouldn't even notice, but still rich and decadent. Each stir of the batter, each sprinkle of frosting, was a silent prayer. A hope for acceptance, for love.

Clutching the foil-wrapped cake, I walked to his house. The music vibrated through the closed door, a thumping bass that matched my nervous heartbeat. I took a deep breath, adjusted my dress-a new one, bought specifically for this night, hoping it flattered my shrinking frame-and pushed the door open.

The living room was packed. Laughter and loud music filled the air. My eyes immediately found him. Damian. He was surrounded by his football teammates, charismatic as always, a dazzling smile on his face. And then I saw her. Gigi Wall, the head cheerleader, draped over him, her hand casually resting on his arm. A cold dread seeped into my bones.

My gaze locked onto Gigi' s bright pink nails against Damian' s letterman jacket. It was a picture of casual intimacy. My hands trembled, the cake nearly slipping. I retreated to the doorway, trying to compose myself, to understand what I was seeing.

Gigi' s voice, sharp and saccharine, cut through the noise. "Honestly, Damian, it's exhausting. Everyone thinks you actually like her."

A ripple of laughter went through the small circle of friends around them. I froze, my heart pounding in my ears. The door was slightly ajar, giving me a perfect, horrifying view.

"Relax, Gigi," Damian said, his voice laced with amusement. "It's all part of the plan, isn't it? Keeps your reputation squeaky clean. Plus, it's hilarious to watch her try."

My breath hitched. The plan?

"But the 'fat pig' obsession is getting out of hand," Gigi whined, leaning her head on his shoulder. "She looks ridiculous, constantly trying to impress you. It' s embarrassing for us."

More laughter. My face burned. Fat pig. That was me.

"Tell me about it," Damian scoffed, rolling his eyes. "My biggest wish for my birthday? For Elena to finally get it through her thick skull that I'd rather stick needles in my eyes than actually be seen with her at prom. Or anywhere else, for that matter."

The sound of their collective amusement hit me like a physical blow. It echoed the mean whispers I' d heard in hallways, the snickers behind my back. But this was Damian. My Damian.

"So, you' re just...leading her on?" One of his friends asked, snickering. "For Gigi? To make her look good?"

"Exactly," Gigi chirped, her eyes shining with malicious glee. "It's brilliant, really. Everyone thinks Damian is just so 'nice' for tolerating her. It raises my social standing, you know?" She beamed at Damian, who winked back.

My mind went blank. The cake, heavy in my hands, felt like a stone. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. My careful plan, my desperate hope, all of it turned into a grotesque joke.

Gigi then leaned closer to Damian, her voice dropping to a seductive purr. "So, is it true? You really think she's a fat pig? You find her disgusting?"

Damian let out a loud, theatrical sigh. "Gigi, you know me. I like my girls... sleek. Fast. And not obsessed with me to the point of being a total stage-five clinger. Honestly, her desperate attempts to lose weight are just sad. It' s pathetic. She just needs to stop."

He said it with such casual cruelty, as if discussing the weather. Not me. Not Elena, his childhood friend.

The laughter that erupted from the group was deafening. It swirled around me, a vortex of mockery pulling me down. My meticulously baked cake slipped from my numb fingers, thudding softly onto the plush carpet. The foil peeled back, revealing the rich, dark chocolate. A small, forgotten masterpiece.

I had spent my afternoon pouring my heart into that cake. Every calorie I denied myself, every aching muscle, every hopeful thought of him seeing me, truly seeing me. It was all a lie. A cruel, elaborate lie orchestrated by Damian and Gigi.

Suddenly, all the past moments, his casual touches, his shared secrets, his half-smiles, they all replayed in my mind. Not as gestures of affection, but as twisted pieces of his performance. He had always been so good at playing the role, hadn't he? The caring best friend. The gentle protector. It was all a façade.

Tears, hot and stinging, streamed down my face. Silent. Unbidden. The word "fat pig" echoed, not just from tonight, but from countless times before. Bullying from other kids, whispered comments from relatives. But coming from Damian, it twisted a knife in my gut.

Why did his words hurt so much more? Because I had trusted him. I had believed in him. I had allowed myself to hope that he saw something in me that no one else did. Something beyond the numbers on a scale. I thought he was different. My heart ripped open.

I stumbled back, my feet finding purchase on the slick wooden floor. My vision blurred through the tears, but I could still see the cake, discarded like my feelings, on the floor. I turned and ran. I ran past the shocked faces of guests, past the thumping music, out into the cold night.

I ran until my lungs screamed for air, until my legs buckled beneath me on a deserted street corner. And there, under the harsh glow of a streetlamp, I crumpled to the ground and sobbed. A guttural, soul-wrenching cry that came from the deepest part of my being. My body convulsed, every nerve screaming in protest. The pain was physical, a crushing weight on my chest, a burning acid in my throat.

I hated him. I hated him for making me believe. For making me hope.

A distant memory flickered through my mind. Years ago, in elementary school, when kids used to tease me for being "chubby," Damian had always been there. He'd chase them off, his small fists balled. "Leave Elena alone!" he'd shout. He even made me a custom-designed dress for a school play once, a beautiful emerald green, saying it perfectly matched my eyes. "You' re beautiful, Lena," he' d said then, his gaze soft. Where was that boy now?

The memories were both sweet and poisonous. Honeyed lies that coated the bitter truth. Tonight, Damian had wished for me to disappear from his life. My birthday wish, every single year, had been for him to finally love me back.

"Cruel liar," I whispered through gritted teeth, the words tasting like ash. "You' re nothing but a cruel, cruel liar." This time, the tears didn't stop. They just kept coming, an endless river of pain.