The size 13 jeans fit more snug than usual today.

She glanced over at the scale lying on the floor in the other room. It wasn't fear that kept her off it, but shame. Deep down she knew the number it would read, but felt like not seeing it somehow made things better.

That morning she went through five pairs of jeans and six different shirts. She was late to school, but had to make sure not a single amount of excess skin would show. If only she could be as obsessive about weight loss as she was about attempting to hide her weight.

She lied to herself daily.

Around this time each year she'd tell herself that this was the summer it would all change. This was the summer that she would lose it all. This was the summer where she could finally wear a crop top and cute shorts without fear of what others would think. Perhaps it would even be the summer where she could wear a bikini instead of wearing swim shorts made for guys. This and that and this and that. The scenarios ran through her mind like a whirlwind.
Her grandma would constantly tell her to change her style. "You need to start dressing more like a girl", "That shirt makes you look to big", "That hair cut makes your face look fatter". Thanks grandma, as if the mirror didn't tell me that already. Dad would crack fat jokes, but he was clinically obese. If a tear rolled down her cheek, he would yell at her and tell her to "learn how to take a joke".

There were no family pictures on Facebook. She doesn't even remember the last time a family picture was taken. She really wishes she did, but hiding from the camera is much easier. She sometimes sees old family pictures around the house, everyone was so perfect when they were her age. Why did she end up the fat one? Why did they allow her to become the fat one? Why was she blaming anyone but herself?