I was always the “fat girlfriend.”
Until my boyfriend dumped me for my best friend.
And then, six months later, on the very day they were supposed to get married, I found out just how wrong he’d been about me.
I was the “fat girlfriend” my ex left for my best friend. And on their wedding day, his mom called me and said, “You do NOT want to miss this.”
My name is Larkin. I’m 28, and I’ve always been the big girl.
Not cute-thick. Not trendy-curvy. Just… big.
The girl relatives corner at Thanksgiving to whisper about sugar and portion sizes. The girl strangers feel way too comfortable telling, “You’d be so pretty if you lost a little weight.”
So I learned something early in life.
If I couldn’t be the prettiest, I’d be the easiest to love.
I became funny. Helpful. Reliable. The one who shows up early to help set up and stays late to clean. The one who remembers everyone’s coffee order, everyone’s birthday, everyone’s problems. If I couldn’t be chosen for my looks, I’d be chosen for my usefulness.
That’s who Sayer met.
We met at trivia night. He was there with coworkers. I was there with my friend Abby. My team won, he joked that I was “carrying the table,” I roasted his carefully groomed beard, and we laughed all night.
Before the night ended, he asked for my number.
He texted me first.
“You’re refreshing,” he wrote. “You’re not like other girls. You’re real.”
At the time, I melted.
Now I know that was a red flag wrapped in a compliment.
We dated for almost three years.
Three years of shared Netflix accounts, weekends away, toothbrushes in each other’s bathrooms. We talked about moving in together. About maybe getting a dog. About “someday” kids, said softly like it was already decided.
My best friend Maren was part of that life.
Maren and I had been friends since college. She was tiny, blonde, naturally thin in that effortless, “I forgot to eat today” way that made people roll their eyes and adore her anyway. She held my hand at my dad’s funeral. She slept on my couch when my anxiety got bad. She knew everything about me.
She used to look me dead in the eye and say, “You deserve someone who never makes you feel like a backup.”
Six months ago, that same girl was in my bed with my boyfriend.
Literally.
I was at work when my iPad lit up with a shared photo notification. Sayer and I had synced devices because we were cute and stupid and in love.
I tapped it without thinking.
It was my bedroom.
My gray comforter. My yellow throw pillow.
Sayer and Maren in the middle of it. Shirtless. Laughing. His hand on her hip. Her hair spread across my pillow like she belonged there.
For a split second, my brain tried to save me. Maybe it was old. Maybe it was fake.
Then my stomach dropped.
“I have to go,” I told Abby, grabbing my bag.
She looked at my face and asked softly, “Are you okay?”
“No,” I said, and walked out.
I went home and sat on the couch with that photo open on the screen. I waited.
When Sayer walked in, he was humming. Tossed his keys into the bowl like nothing in the world was wrong.
“Hey, babe, you’re home ear—”
“Anything you want to tell me?” I asked.
He froze.
He saw the iPad.
And I watched the guilt flicker across his face… and disappear.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he said.
He didn’t deny it.
He didn’t panic.
He just sighed.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he repeated.
Not I didn’t mean to do this. Just… like this.
“She’s just more my type.”
Then Maren stepped out of the hallway.
Bare legs. My oversized sweatshirt. My best friend.
“I trusted you,” I said. My voice sounded calm, almost too calm. “Both of you.”
Sayer shifted like this was a business discussion.
“She’s just more my type,” he said again. “Maren is thin. She’s beautiful. It matters.”
The room buzzed in my ears.
“You didn’t take care of yourself,” he added.
And then he kept going.
“You’re great, Larkin. You really are. You have such a good heart,” he said, like he deserved credit for saying it. “But you didn’t take care of yourself. I deserve someone who matches me.”
Matches me.
Like I was the wrong accessory to his outfit.
That was the moment something in me snapped clean in half.
I handed him a trash bag and told him to pack his things.
Maren didn’t say a single word. Not one. She just stood there with her arms crossed and let him talk.
I told her to leave my key on the counter.
Within weeks, they were posting couple photos.
Within three months, they were engaged.
I sat on my kitchen floor and felt everything collapse inward.
People sent me screenshots. I muted half my contacts. Abby offered to help me slash his tires. I laughed and cried and said no.
Inside my head, his voice echoed.
He just said what everyone else thinks.
You’re great, but.
If you’d really loved him, you would’ve lost the weight.
I couldn’t stand being in my body anymore.
So I changed the only thing I thought I could control.
I started walking. Then walking farther.
I joined Abby’s gym.
The first day, I lasted eight minutes on the treadmill before my lungs burned. I pretended I had to pee, hid in the bathroom, and cried.
The second day, I went back.
Little by little, I jogged. Lifted light weights. Watched YouTube videos in my car so I wouldn’t look stupid inside.
I cooked more. Ordered less takeout. Logged my food obsessively. Drank water like it was my job.
For weeks, nothing changed.
Then my jeans got loose.
Then my face looked sharper in the mirror.
Then someone at work said, “You look really good. Did you do something?”
Six months later, I’d lost a lot of weight.
It felt good.
And creepy.
People did double takes. My aunt pulled me aside and whispered, “I knew you had it in you,” like I’d passed some secret test.
I got more attention. More smiles. More compliments.
Inside, I still felt like the girl who’d been dumped for her thinner best friend.
Then came their wedding.
I knew the date from social media. Mutual friends posted countdowns and ring emojis. I muted more people.
Obviously, I wasn’t invited.
My plan was simple: phone on silent, DoorDash, trash TV, bed.
At 10:17 a.m., my phone rang anyway.
Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Is this Larkin?” a tight female voice asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Sayer’s mother.”
Mrs. Whitlock. Perfect hair. Perfect pearls. Perfectly passive-aggressive comments about “us girls” and salad.
“You need to come here,” she said. “Right now. Lakeview Country Club.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Just come. Please. You won’t believe what happened.”
“Is Sayer okay?”
“He’s fine,” she snapped. “Just come.”
I should’ve said no.
Instead, I grabbed my keys.
The parking lot was chaos. Cars half on the grass. Guests standing around whispering.
Inside, the reception hall looked wrecked. Chairs overturned. A tablecloth hanging crooked. Champagne spilled. A centerpiece smashed on the floor.
This was not an accident.
“Larkin!”
Mrs. Whitlock rushed over. Her updo was falling apart. Mascara streaked down her face. She grabbed my hands like I was emergency help.
“She was never serious about him,” she hissed.
“What happened?” I asked.
“One of her bridesmaids showed me messages. Screenshots,” she said. “Maren has been seeing another man. Laughing about how easy Sayer is. Saying she’d ‘enjoy the ring and see how long she could ride it.’”
My stomach twisted.
“He confronted her,” she went on. “She called him boring, insulted me, and left. In her dress.”
“So the wedding is off,” I said.
“For now,” she replied. “But it doesn’t have to be a disaster.”
Then she looked me over. Head to toe.
Her eyes lit up.
“You always loved him,” she said. “You were loyal. And look at you now—you’re beautiful. You match him.”
There it was again.
“You could marry him today,” she said. “Something small. It would save face.”
I stared at her.
“You called me here to ask me to replace the bride?” I said.
“Don’t throw away this chance because your feelings are hurt,” she replied.
I gently pulled my hands away.
“I’m not your replacement bride,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed.
“He cheated on me. Left me. Proposed to my best friend,” I said calmly. “You don’t get to call me like a spare tire.”
“You’d let him be humiliated?” she snapped.
“He humiliated himself six months ago,” I said. “This is just everyone else catching up.”
And I walked out.
That evening, there was a knock at my door.
Sayer.
He looked like a mess. Tie gone. Hair ruined. Eyes red.
“You look incredible,” he said.
Of course.
He leaned closer. “Today was hell. But we can fix this. You and me.”
I laughed once.
“You’re serious,” I said.
“Now you look amazing,” he said. “Back then, you were… you know.”
“I was big,” I said calmly. “And I was still too good for you.”
He froze.
“You didn’t leave because I was unlovable,” I said. “You left because you wanted a trophy.”
“You can’t talk to me like this,” he said.
“I can,” I said. “Because I don’t need you to love me after.”
“I deserve better,” I said. “And the best part? I finally believe that.”
Then I closed the door.
Locked it.
Because the biggest thing I lost wasn’t weight.
It was the belief that I had to earn basic respect.
And I never picked it back up again.