Hello! A few weeks ago, I came up with an idea for an FMG novel. To my own surprise, I actually started writing it—and it’s already become the longest single story I’ve ever written. My vision for the novel is to explore about five years of the main character’s life, following her journey through all its ups and downs. Hopefully, one day, this will become the first part of a full novel.

I want to apologize in advance for any issues with the language or other mistakes in the text, as I’ve realized I’m not quite able to edit something this long on my own. I hope you enjoy reading it, and I’d love to hear your thoughts and feedback!

Part 1 - A New Hope

1. New Beginnings



I stood at the entrance of the University of Newcastle, my heart racing as I took in the crowd of students around me. This was, without a doubt, one of the biggest days of my 18-year-old life so far. And yet, with everyone else seeming to slip into their new lives so effortlessly, I felt completely out of place, caught between nerves and the gnawing sense that I didn’t belong.



I pulled out my phone, opening the campus map app as I tried to steady my breathing. The lecture hall for my first IT class was somewhere on this sprawling campus, but with students bustling past, I felt lost. “Room 203 in the Engineering Building,” I murmured to myself, squinting at the screen and hoping I wouldn’t look completely foolish as I navigated my way through the crowd.



As I pushed through the crowd, my shoulders ached from the heavy backpack digging into them. The 17-inch gaming laptop and its bulky charger felt like they weighed a ton, making each step feel more laborious. I gritted my teeth, frustrated by the discomfort and the fact that I hated being weak.



At last, I spotted the classroom door: Room 203. It was a plain, beige door with a small sign that hung slightly askew. I could hear the faint murmur of voices inside, a mix of excitement and chatter that twisted my stomach with nerves. To the left, a bulletin board was cluttered with flyers for clubs and events, but the thought of approaching a group of strangers made my heart race. Taking a deep breath, I walked closer, trying to calm the fluttering in my chest as I prepared to push the door open and step inside.



"Come on Chloe, stop being so nervous." I took a deep breath, trying to settle my racing heart. "You’ll be fine." But the nerves refused to fade, and I fought the urge to turn around. "Just get through today."



I hesitated at the door, acutely aware of the silence that fell over the room as I stepped inside. Dozens of eyes turned my way, and my cheeks flushed as I realized I was the last to arrive. I scanned the rows of seats, hoping to find an empty spot that didn’t feel too exposed, but only the back row was free. With no other choice, I slipped quietly to the seat in the corner, feeling the distance between myself and the rest of the room.


I glanced down at my Apple Watch—a gift for my eighteenth birthday from my parents—and saw the time flash: 8:59. Barely made it.



I looked around the room, and the scene felt all too familiar: students clustered together, chatting easily, filling the silence with laughter before class even began. The way they connected so naturally only deepened my sense of being on the outside. I shifted uncomfortably, feeling like I didn’t quite belong here, like I’d missed some invisible initiation.

Just then, the door opened, and a man stepped inside. He looked to be in his early thirties, with dark hair and a well-fitted button-down that hinted at a casual but put-together style. He was handsome in a way that commanded attention, his steady gaze settling the room as he moved to the front. My attention snapped back to the present, my nerves temporarily set aside.

The professor set his laptop on the desk, adjusting it before looking up with a small, easy smile. “Good morning, everyone, and welcome to Introduction to Computing and Information Technology,” he began, his tone calm but assured. “I’m Dr. Taylor. I know the first day can feel like a lot, so we’ll take it easy today.”

He seemed relaxed, and something about his approach took the edge off the room. I could feel a shift around me, students leaning back a little, some even glancing over at each other with the kind of familiarity I envied. They looked like they already belonged here, like the invisible lines connecting them had formed effortlessly.

I adjusted in my seat, conscious of my solitude in the back row, of the silent gap between me and everyone else. My thoughts began to drift, tugging me back to familiar memories of classrooms and that same feeling of being separate, of watching from a distance as others slipped easily into friendships.

As Dr. Taylor’s voice faded into the background, my mind drifted back to the first time when I didn’t feel quite so alone. I was eleven, sitting in the corner of the Toxteth Primary School library in Liverpool, hiding behind a book, when Molly walked in. She was new to the school, short and a little chubby, with glasses that looked almost too big for her face—just like mine. We were the only two kids in class who wore glasses, so it somehow made sense for us to become friends, as if that small, shared detail was enough to bridge the space between us. And from that day, it did.



It was because of Molly that I was sitting here today. She was the one who got me even remotely interested in computers, sparking a curiosity I’d never have found on my own. Mostly, it was mostly gaming that she’d pulled me into—she had a way of making even the simplest things seem exciting. I wasn’t even that good at it, but something about playing together made me feel a little less invisible. Molly had always been sharp—brilliant, really—and it came as no surprise to anyone when she went on to study physics at Cambridge, the top university in the country for her field. As for me, Newcastle wasn’t exactly a first choice. I’d applied to universities closer to home, but none of those offers came through. This was where I’d ended up—farther from home than I’d wanted.


Dr. Taylor’s voice droned on, but my mind kept drifting. I tried to concentrate, but it was like my thoughts had a mind of their own, wandering back to the same question that seemed to follow me wherever I went: why did I always feel like I didn’t quite belong? It was like there was some invisible barrier, some unspoken code that everyone else had cracked but that stayed just out of reach for me. Even here, where everyone was new, I felt as if everyone else was already forming bonds, weaving themselves into the fabric of this place while I hovered at the edges, unnoticed.

I glanced around the room, catching snippets of whispered conversations and quiet laughter. A couple of girls near the front leaned into each other, sharing a notebook and whispering as if they’d known each other for years. Just a few rows over, a group of guys exchanged knowing glances whenever Dr. Taylor made a joke. Even though no one was actively excluding me, the warmth in the room seemed to wrap around everyone but me.



As other students began filing out together, voices echoing with plans for lunch, I realized I’d be heading back to my room to eat alone. Beans on toast and maybe a packet of crisps if I was still hungry—it wasn’t much, but then again, I’d never been much of an eater anyway. Food was just…there, something to keep me going, nothing more.

I slipped my things into my bag, the quietness settling over me again, like it always did. And I wasn’t looking forward to lugging my heavy backpack all the way back to my room; it was already digging into my shoulders, every step back reminding me just how much of a struggle it could be.

2. Virtual Comforts


I sat on the edge of my bed in my room in halls, knees pulled up to my chest, staring blankly at the small desk opposite. Two weeks in, and university still felt as foreign as it had the first day. My room in the halls of residence was small, with plain cream walls and a narrow bed pushed against one side. I’d done my best to make it feel like mine—arranging a few pictures from home and a potted plant by the window—but everything felt temporary, like a stopover rather than somewhere I belonged.

I sniffed, wiping a stray tear from my cheek, and reached for my phone. Scrolling to Molly’s contact, I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the screen. Maybe Molly would be free tonight, just for a bit of gaming. That familiar comfort sounded better than anything else right now, even though I knew that Molly, with her physics course, barely had time to breathe these days.
I typed out a quick message, hesitating before pressing send.

Hi, Molly! Just wondering if you might have time for a game tonight? No worries if not—know you’re super busy! xx

I stared at the screen, biting my lip, feeling that familiar pang of self-consciousness. With a deep breath, I sent it, hoping Molly might be free, even for a little while.

As I waited for a reply, my eyes drifted over to my desk, where a small stack of textbooks and a messy pile of notes lay untouched. I’d spent hours going through them last night, trying to make sense of the reading, but the technical language and endless formulas had only left me feeling more lost. I’d thought studying IT might feel exciting, that maybe the challenge would be worth it, but so far it all seemed like an endless maze of concepts I couldn’t quite grasp.

Leaning back, I sighed. It wasn’t like I’d been some top student back in school, but here, the material felt ten times more complicated, and I was surrounded by people who seemed to breeze through it. Half the time, I wondered if I’d picked the wrong course entirely.

In class, I’d managed to speak with a few people during group assignments, but it was all strictly course-related, just enough to get the work done. There was a guy named Tom who cracked jokes the entire time, getting everyone to laugh, and a girl called Sarah who seemed to know everyone already, inviting the group to meet up for drinks after class. I would nod along, smiling politely, but when it came time to speak up, some invisible barrier held me back, a mix of nerves and embarrassment stopping me every time.

I looked down at myself, tugging at the hem of my sweater. Everyone in my course seemed effortlessly put-together, even in their casual clothes. Some of the girls wore jeans perfectly fitted, their tops loose but stylish, and even the guys had that easy, lived-in look with worn jackets and cuffed jeans. Meanwhile, I was still stuck in the things my mum had picked out, plain shirts and slacks that just didn’t seem to fit the vibe here. I’d convinced my parents to buy me a nice pair of glasses at least—something a bit more stylish. But it wasn’t much against my drab wardrobe and my slim, shapeless figure, which only added to my discomfort. I’d expected more “nerdy” types in an IT program, but here, everyone just seemed…cooler.


I glanced down at myself, noting the way my clothes seemed to hang on my small frame. At five foot five and just over fifty kilos, I’d always been on the smaller side. Slim but soft, with narrow shoulders and a flat chest that made me look younger than I was. Compared to the others, I felt almost shapeless, like I could just disappear into the crowd.


I sighed, my thoughts drifting. It was strange—I’d always been on the edges, not quite fitting into any group, not even in secondary school. I wasn’t one of the popular kids, and I didn’t belong with the academic types, either. It was only when Molly transferred in that I felt like I’d found someone who got me. She was clever and had this way of making me feel like I mattered, even if I’d never been as brilliant as her.

A ping from my phone broke my thoughts, and I felt a flicker of excitement. It was Molly’s reply.

Hey, Chloe! I can play for a bit, maybe fifteen minutes? Loads to do, though—uni’s brutal!


I smiled and quickly set up my laptop, feeling that familiar rush. Even just a few minutes of gaming with Molly felt like a lifeline in the middle of all this newness. I opened Fall Guys and slipped on my teal headset, the color a bright contrast against everything else in the room. Molly’s voice came through as the game loaded, bringing with it a wave of comfort I hadn’t realized I needed.

Molly’s laugh filled my ears, warm and familiar, and I couldn’t help but smile. “Ready to watch me crush this? Again?” she teased, her voice carrying that easy confidence she seemed to have in every part of her life. 


I groaned dramatically. “Ugh, you’re such a show-off. Can’t you let me win just once?” I knew it was hopeless; Molly would always be better than me, whether it was gaming or tackling the toughest concepts in her physics degree. 


“Not a chance,” she shot back, her laughter easing some of the tightness in my chest. Molly was always so sure of herself. She didn’t care about being short and chubby or being labeled a nerd. She embraced it all, from her thick glasses to the stacks of textbooks she carried with pride. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help feeling self-conscious about everything—my looks, my status, my inability to blend in. 


And yet, despite our differences, being around her felt easy. I didn’t have to pretend or try to impress her. For a little while, as we dove into the game together, the rest of the world and all my worries faded into the background.

My fingers hovered over the laptop keyboard, my right hand gripping the mouse a little too tightly as I tried to keep up with the chaos unfolding on the screen. The bright, cartoonish characters of Fall Guys stumbled and leaped across a series of spinning platforms, and mine was already flailing dangerously close to the edge. Molly’s laughter rang through my headset, loud and carefree, as her character effortlessly navigated the obstacles, leaving me scrambling to catch up.

“Come on, Chloe! You’ve got this!” she called, but I knew she was just having fun watching me struggle. My jellybean-like avatar bounced off a rotating beam and went flying, plunging into the abyss below. A groan slipped from my lips, and I could almost picture Molly’s victorious grin.

My character tumbled off the final platform and into the abyss, the “Eliminated” banner flashing across my screen. Meanwhile, Molly’s avatar made it effortlessly to the finish line, and her triumphant cheer echoed through my headset. “Another win for me!” she declared, and I couldn’t help but laugh, even as defeat stung a little.

We exited the game, and a moment later, Molly’s round, smiling face appeared on our Discord video call. Seeing her made me feel lighter; her cheeks were flushed from excitement, and her eyes sparkled behind her thick glasses. I glanced at the small box showing my own reflection—my expression looked flat, as if I’d forgotten how to light up like that. My blonde hair hung limply around my face, and my features always seemed a bit too plain. At least my glasses were cute, the one stylish thing I’d managed to get right.

Molly sighed, leaning back in her chair, her face growing serious. “Ugh, Cambridge is killing me. I’ve got three lab reports due this week, and the problem sets are a nightmare. It feels so good to switch off for a bit and be great at something, even if it’s just winning at Fall Guys,” she said with a playful grin.

I forced a smile, but inside, a familiar pang of jealousy twisted in my chest. Molly was juggling one of the hardest courses at one of the best universities in the world, and here I was, struggling to keep up with my less demanding IT coursework at Newcastle. She got to win, even in our games, while I couldn’t seem to catch a break—either in class or out.

Molly’s grin softened, and she tilted her head. “Have you been in touch with Ellie or Priya?” she asked. “They’re both having the best time at their new schools, from what I’ve heard.”

I shook my head. “No, I haven’t really talked to them,” I replied, trying to keep my voice light. The truth was, I hadn’t expected to hear from them. Ellie and Priya had always felt more like Molly’s friends than mine, part of the orbit around her bright, confident presence. Even when we’d all hung out together, I often felt like the quiet extra, just happy to be included.

Molly kept talking, her voice bright and full of energy as she described life at Cambridge. She talked about the friends she’d made, the bustling campus, and the late-night study sessions that somehow still managed to be fun. I listened, forcing a smile, even as a pang of jealousy twisted in my chest. It sounded like everything was falling into place for her, like she was thriving in a way I could only dream of.

I opened my mouth, ready to ask if she might have a moment to help me with an assignment I’d been struggling with, but Molly’s face shifted, and she glanced off-screen. “Sorry, Chloe, I’ve got to go,” she said, her voice filled with sudden urgency. “Group meeting for our latest project. But hey, we’ll catch up soon, okay?”

Before I could say anything else, the call ended, leaving me staring at the empty Discord screen. The room felt even quieter, the weight of everything pressing down on me. With a heavy sigh, I clicked over to my assignment, the one that had been looming over me for days. Lines of code and technical instructions filled the page, an overwhelming puzzle I had no idea how to solve. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make sense of any of it. I was completely lost, with no one left to ask for help.

3. The Turning Point



Another week had dragged by, and I trudged through the halls of my residence building, my feet heavy and my mind clouded with exhaustion. The murmur of voices and bursts of laughter from open doorways emphasized how out of place I felt. Groups of students lounged in the common areas, their conversations flowing easily, as if they’d all known each other for years. I kept my eyes down, clutching my bag tightly to my side, and hurried past, wishing I could melt into the walls and disappear.


Reaching my room, I fumbled with my keys, my fingers trembling slightly. The door creaked open, revealing a small space that felt more like a prison than a refuge. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment, trying to catch my breath. The past week had been brutal—classes that left me feeling lost and a nagging sense of isolation that only grew stronger. Even Molly had been too busy to game, leaving me with a hollow ache that I couldn’t quite shake.

I dropped my bag onto the floor and caught a glimpse of myself in the small mirror hanging on the wall. My reflection looked tired and defeated—blonde hair limp and messy from a day of rushing around, my eyes dull with exhaustion. My plain sweater and ill-fitting jeans only emphasized how unremarkable I was, the kind of person who could fade into the background without anyone noticing.

A flush of humiliation crept over me as I remembered overhearing someone say, “Great, we got her for the group project.” The disdain in their voice still echoed in my mind. “Does she ever speak? Or is she just… there?” A chorus of muffled laughter had followed. I’d kept walking, pretending not to hear, but the words had stuck with me, deepening my insecurities.

I recalled wandering through the bustling streets of Newcastle a few days ago, determined to find clothes that would help me fit in. The city buzzed with life, groups of students laughing as they wove in and out of the shops, but I had felt like a ghost passing through. I tried on everything I could think of—fitted tops, trendy jackets, even a pair of high-waisted jeans that everyone seemed to be wearing. But nothing worked. The clothes clung awkwardly to my narrow shoulders and slim frame, making me look both thin and awkward, as if my body couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Each time I looked in the mirror, my reflection only deepened my insecurities. I left the shops empty-handed, feeling defeated and no closer to fitting in.

I slumped into the chair at my desk, opening my laptop and staring at the latest coursework I’d been struggling with. My mind wandered back to earlier that week, when I’d gotten back the results from an assignment that felt nearly impossible. The sinking feeling in my stomach returned, heavy as ever.

It was supposed to be a simple coding exercise—something every first-year IT student should be able to handle. But the logic twisted into knots in my mind, the programming languages blending together until none of it made sense. Everyone else seemed to breeze through it effortlessly, while I barely scraped by. I tried to convince myself that struggling was normal at the start, but the constant failures were wearing me down.

I needed to break free from the relentless loop of my failures, even if just for a moment. The weight of my thoughts pressed down on me, and I couldn’t stand the silence any longer. That’s when I remembered Molly mentioning The Last of Us Part II—her excitement about the gripping storyline and the immersive gameplay had piqued my interest.

Despite the price tag that lingered in my mind, I felt a surge of determination. I wanted to escape into a world where I could forget my insecurities and just play. With a quick search, I found the game online, my heart racing as I clicked “purchase.” Maybe this would be the distraction I needed to turn my thoughts away from the constant feeling of inadequacy.

With the game downloading, I made my way to the communal kitchen to prepare my usual meal: beans on toast. The kitchen was small and somewhat chaotic, with pots and pans haphazardly strewn about. A couple of students were gathered at the far end, chatting and laughing, but I kept my distance, feeling like an outsider.

I opened a can of beans, the metallic pop breaking the kitchen's ambient noise, and placed a slice of bread in the toaster. As I waited for it to brown, I glanced around, taking in the peeling paint on the walls and the assortment of mismatched dishes stacked in the sink. It was a far cry from what I’d imagined university life would be like, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment.

Once the toast popped up, I slathered it with butter and piled on the beans. I carried my plate back to my room, he familiar scent providing a small comfort amidst the chaos of my thoughts. As I stepped inside, I glanced at my laptop, still displaying the progress of my game download, and felt a flicker of anticipation for a brief escape from reality.


I sat at my desk, my heart thumping with anticipation as the game loaded. The opening scenes of The Last of Us Part II drew me in, with haunting music and breathtaking visuals that made me forget, if only for a moment, the weight of my real-world worries. I adjusted my headset and leaned closer to the screen, feeling the tension in my shoulders start to release as the game pulled me into its world.

As I navigated through the initial gameplay, I couldn’t help but wonder why Molly had been so insistent I try this particular game. Molly always seemed to know the right things to recommend, whether it was a book, a film, or now this—a game that felt more intense and serious than the cheerful ones we used to play together. A knot of anxiety formed in my chest as I moved through the world of the game, my hands clenching the mouse and keyboard a little too tightly. But I also felt the faintest glimmer of excitement. Maybe this experience would be different, something that could pull me out of the dull, heavy cloud I’d been carrying.

I pressed on, trying my best to maneuver through the game’s harsh, unforgiving world, but the challenges only seemed to multiply. Hours slipped by unnoticed, my focus turning into mounting frustration with every failed attempt and every mistake that sent my character back to square one. The game was relentless, a brutal reminder that even here—inside a digital world meant for escape—I couldn't seem to get anything right.

Eventually, I leaned back in my chair, my vision blurring as tears welled up in my eyes. The sense of failure crashed over me, heavy and suffocating, as I ripped off my headset and buried my face in my hands. It wasn’t just the game; it was everything. School, friendships, my body, my future—it all felt impossibly out of reach, like I was destined to be stuck in a cycle of never quite being good enough.

I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, my breath hitching as I tried to calm myself. My vision still blurred, I turned my gaze back to the screen, where the game had paused on a frame of Abby, one of the main characters. Abby’s muscular, powerful build stood out, a stark contrast to my own reflection in the blackened monitor beside the game window.

I found myself staring, captivated by Abby’s looks. She had a build that demanded attention—broad shoulders, a thick, muscular frame, and arms that looked like they could lift just about anything. Her tank top clung to her defined biceps and powerful back, highlighting the sheer strength in her physique. She looked capable, every inch of her built for endurance and survival. Even her movements seemed deliberate and unshakeable, a testament to hours of relentless training and discipline. There was an undeniable presence about her, a confidence that came from knowing just how strong she was.

I sat there, the thought lingering in my mind. Maybe it wasn’t completely impossible to look like that. After all, people went to the gym and transformed themselves all the time, right? I’d seen enough social media posts about weightlifting and muscle-building journeys to know it could be done. It wasn’t like I could magically change my face or make myself taller, but muscles—those were something I could actually work for. The idea felt both absurd and oddly empowering.

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I couldn’t magically become smarter to ace my classes; no amount of wishful thinking would make programming languages click in my brain the way they seemed to for everyone else. I couldn’t change my shy, awkward nature overnight, or suddenly charm people into noticing me when I felt practically invisible. But this? This was different. Getting stronger was something tangible, something that depended on me and no one else.

I felt a flicker of something close to hope, a small flame I hadn’t felt in weeks. What if going to the gym could be the thing that made me feel different, better? I couldn’t control so many parts of my life, but I could control this. If I worked hard enough, I could change my body. The possibility seemed just within reach, and for the first time in a long while, I almost felt excited about something.


4. Building from Scratch



I winced as I lowered myself onto my bed, every muscle in my legs screaming in protest. The soreness wasn’t like anything I’d ever experienced before—sharp and all-consuming, radiating through my thighs and calves. Even just walking back to my room had felt like torture, my legs threatening to buckle under me with every shaky step.

Sitting still didn’t make it any better. I tried shifting my weight, but each tiny movement sent jolts of pain through my muscles, reminding me of every squat and lunge I’d forced myself through. This must be what they meant by “good pain,” the kind you were supposed to embrace. But right now, it just felt overwhelming, a vivid reminder of how unprepared my body was for the intensity of the workout I’d thrown at it.

With each shaky step toward the mirror, my legs protested, the soreness from the morning’s workout flaring up with every movement. My thighs and calves burned, reminding me just how unprepared my muscles were for the assault I'd put them through. But even through the pain, I felt a pull to check, to see if maybe something had changed, if there was any hint of growth.

I caught my reflection, hesitated, then tugged down the waistband of my sweatpants just enough to expose my thighs. My skin was red in patches, still hot to the touch, the soreness intensifying as I ran my hand over the muscle. I searched for any sign of firmness, any proof of my effort. But nothing. Just the same slim shape, no immediate sign of strength. I sighed, letting the fabric fall back. I knew it was silly to expect instant change, but I’d hoped for something, anything, to show that I was already starting to get stronger.

The night before, I found myself glued to my laptop, determined to figure out how to start this journey. I didn’t know anything about working out beyond vague memories of gym class and the occasional TikTok video about glutes. Scrolling through posts tagged #gymtok, I quickly dismissed the choreographed snippets of girls posing with resistance bands and light dumbbells. That wasn’t what I wanted—I wanted something real, something that felt serious. Frustrated, I turned away from social media and typed “how to build muscle fast” into the search bar, diving into the unfiltered world of fitness forums and training websites.

Soon, I was lost in threads where people swapped routines and argued about the best way to “pack on size.” One post kept popping up—a six-day-a-week program, the kind people called “intense” or “not for beginners,” which made me hesitate but also intrigued me. “This routine will build muscle mass as quickly as possible,” someone had written, and the comments below were filled with others agreeing. Every day had a focus—push, pull, legs—repeated twice a week, and almost all the exercises relied on “free weights,” something the users kept stressing as the ultimate way to build strength. I had no idea if the gym nearby even had barbells and dumbbells, but I figured I’d make it work somehow.

By the time I closed my laptop, I’d decided on it. The program seemed daunting, but the people in those forums talked about it with a kind of respect, even awe, and they insisted it was the fastest path to real results. If I followed this, I’d be lifting nearly every day, pushing my limits with each rep. It felt like a leap into the unknown, and that scared me a little, but I clung to the idea that maybe this program could make me stronger. I didn’t understand it all, but that was okay—tomorrow, I would start, and the details would come later.

Before I finally went to bed, I did a bit more digging, this time on the gym options near campus. The University of Newcastle had its own fitness facilities, but I cringed at the thought of trying to learn in such a crowded space. It was easy to picture it packed with students, all of them confident and familiar with the equipment, while I struggled to get the basics right. I needed somewhere quieter, somewhere I could figure things out on my own.

That’s when I stumbled on a small, off-campus gym that was just close enough to walk to. Its website was terrible—barely any information, grainy photos, and an outdated layout. But one thing caught my eye: they opened as early as four o’clock in the morning. I didn’t know what time most people went to the gym, but if I got there by half-past four, maybe I’d have it to myself. So, I’d set my alarm and decided that, from now on, mornings would be my time.

When my alarm blared at four, I almost didn’t get up. I’d never been a morning person, and as I lay there in the dark, the warmth of my bed was almost impossible to leave behind. A voice in my head tried to reason that I could just skip today and start tomorrow instead, that one day wouldn’t make a difference. But then I remembered the images from last night, that solid, muscular body I wanted so badly. I wasn’t going to get that by pressing snooze. With a groggy sigh, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, pulled on my sweats, and laced up my trainers.

The world outside was silent as I stepped into the chill of the early morning, making my way to the gym. I’d already bought the £20-a-month membership online, and when I reached the door, I tapped in the code they’d sent me, feeling a small rush of relief when the lock clicked open. As I stepped inside, I realized I was alone. The lights buzzed to life as I found the switch, revealing a space that was smaller than I’d expected. The place looked a little worn—rusty weights, equipment that had seen better days, and the faint smell of old rubber and metal.

I flipped open my notebook to where I’d scribbled down the workout program. The first exercise was “Back Squats 5x5.” I wasn’t even sure what that looked like, so I pulled out my phone and found a quick tutorial video. The woman in the video made it look so easy, moving smoothly under the bar, her movements confident and steady. I watched closely, trying to commit each step to memory. “Position the bar across the upper back… squat down until your thighs are parallel to the ground… push up through your heels.” Easy enough, I told myself, though I wasn’t feeling as sure as she looked.

I approached the barbell on the rack, my heart thudding a bit. It looked heavier up close, but I figured starting with just the bar would be safe enough. Gripping it firmly, I lifted it off the rack and positioned it across my back, the cold metal pressing into my shoulders. As I lowered into the first squat, the weight felt awkward, like it was pulling me in every direction. My legs trembled a little, and by the time I rose back up, my breath was shaky. But I managed it—one rep done.

I went on like that, focusing on my form with each rep, trying to mimic the video. Five reps, then a short break; another five, and so on. By the end of the five sets, my legs were already beginning to burn, and I could feel my muscles protesting. I set the bar back on the rack, breathing heavily, and pulled out my phone to do a quick search: “How much does a barbell weigh?” The answer flashed up on the screen—20 kilograms. I marked it down in my notebook, a strange kind of satisfaction settling over me. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

I glanced back at my notebook. The list of exercises seemed endless, each one harder than the last: Bulgarian split squats, Romanian deadlifts, hip thrusts, and calf raises. I studied the tutorial videos carefully, but as soon as I tried each exercise myself, everything felt off. Balancing through the split squats, my legs wobbled uncontrollably, and my grip kept slipping with each deadlift, my form shaky at best. The barbell felt heavier with every rep, even though I hadn’t added a single extra weight.

By the time I reached the hip thrusts, my muscles were burning in a way I’d never felt before. I struggled just to lift the bar, my legs quivering with every push. Meanwhile, in the videos, people loaded weight on effortlessly, while I fought just to manage the bar itself. My frustration grew with every set, and I couldn’t help but feel the gap between where I was and where I wanted to be.

I marked each set off in my notebook, exhausted and breathless, but somehow a bit proud. It wasn’t graceful, and it wasn’t easy, but I’d made it through almost everything.

Finally, I reached the sixth and last exercise on my list: Back Extensions, 4x8. I pulled up a video tutorial and saw that I’d need a specific bench for it, one that angled down so I could lower myself and lift back up. It took a few minutes of wandering around the gym to finally spot the right one tucked in the corner. In the video, a man held a large weight plate as he moved up and down, his muscles flexing effortlessly, so I figured I should grab something too. I went for a small 5 kg plate, hoping it would give me that extra edge.

But as soon as I got into position and tried to lift myself with the weight, I couldn’t budge. My legs and back were completely locked, unable to even lift an inch with the added load. Feeling a flush of embarrassment, I put the plate back and adjusted myself without it, determined to finish the exercise. Even without the weight, each rep felt like torture, my hamstrings and glutes screaming with every lift. By the time I completed the last set, I could barely stand, my whole body shaking with exhaustion—but I’d done it. My first workout, no matter how rough, was finally complete.

My thoughts drifted back to the present as I stood in front of the mirror, tugging my sweatpants back into place. There was no point in hoping for instant changes; I’d have to put in the work. I turned back to my wardrobe, pulling on a pair of jeans, wincing as the rough denim clung to my sore thighs. Each movement sent a fresh wave of discomfort through my legs, but I managed to button them, hoping they’d mask the awkward limp I was about to carry across campus.

As I made my way to class, every step reminded me of just how intense the workout had been. My legs felt stiff, my gait unsteady, and I noticed a few people casting glances my way. Heat rose to my face, and I kept my eyes down, willing myself to move as naturally as possible. The soreness exposed me, made me feel almost ridiculous, but I told myself this was just the beginning.

By the time I reached the classroom, I was exhausted, and the day had barely begun. I slipped into a seat near the back, wincing as I lowered myself down, my legs throbbing against the hard chair. Even though I felt completely out of my depth, I reminded myself that I’d made it through the first workout. This was only day one, and I was still here, ready to take on whatever came next.

5. Hard to Stomach



I stared at the Tupperware spinning in the microwave, the hum filling the quiet kitchen in the halls. Four weeks into this mass-building diet I’d found online, and I still hadn’t adjusted. I’d thought by now it would start to feel normal, that maybe I’d settle into a rhythm. But no. Each meal felt like a challenge, something I had to force myself through, as if I were trying to fit into a mold that didn’t quite suit me.

The microwave beeped, and I pulled the container out, feeling the heat through the plastic as I set it on the counter. I glanced at the portion inside—enough to fill me at least twice over, though I knew I’d be hungry again later. Taking a steadying breath, I prepared myself to dive in, hoping that this time it would feel a little easier.



Back in my dorm room, I set the Tupperware down on my desk beside my laptop. I glanced at my Apple Watch—18:43. I had just over fifteen minutes to force down this meal before I’d be logging on to game with Molly. The thought of playing together made me smile, a welcome break from everything else.

I picked up my fork, hesitating. I hadn’t told Molly anything about this new routine—the workouts, the early mornings, or the endless eating. It all felt too personal to explain just yet. Pushing the thought aside, I took my first bite, hoping I’d finish in time.

This was the twenty-ninth evening in a row I’d had this exact dinner: 250 grams of chicken breast, 100 grams of rice, and a whole large broccoli. Every piece was weighed out before cooking, as apparently you were supposed to. The chicken was dry, the rice bland, and the broccoli… well, I’d never liked broccoli, but I’d read it was “good for you,” so it made its way into each dinner, whether I wanted it or not.

The sheer amount of food was ridiculous. Even looking at it was enough to make my stomach turn. It felt like I’d been eating nonstop for the past four weeks, but still, I took another bite, chewing slowly, willing myself to get through it.

As overwhelming as it looked, I knew it wasn’t entirely pointless. After the first week, I’d even bought a scale to keep track, mostly out of curiosity, and was shocked to see I’d already gained five kilos. That small victory kept me going, proof that the endless chewing and bland meals were doing something, even if it still felt like a struggle every single night.


I forced down the last bite, swallowing hard as I set the empty Tupperware aside. Logging into Discord, I put on my headset just in time to hear Molly’s cheerful voice fill my ears.

“Chloe! Finally!” she said, her voice bright and full of energy. “How long can you stay on tonight?”

“Just an hour,” I replied, feeling a twinge of guilt as I said it. “I’ve got a ton of homework to get through.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie—I did have plenty of work waiting for me. But the real reason was that I’d need to be asleep by 8 to get at least eight hours. Apparently, sleep was just as crucial as everything else if I wanted to build muscle, and it was one more thing to fit into this endless routine.

“Aww, only an hour?” Molly sounded disappointed but didn’t press further. “Alright, let’s make it a good one, then. I need a break from my own workload—it’s been brutal over here.”

We started up the game, and within minutes Molly was already miles ahead, her character gliding through obstacles as mine struggled to keep up. Even with all her time away from gaming, she was still managing to crush me.

“Guess I haven’t lost my touch,” she laughed. “Not that I’ve had much practice lately. Between all the coursework and new friends dragging me to everything, gaming’s kind of fallen to the side.”

I forced a smile, hearing the excitement in her voice. “That’s great, Molly! It sounds like you’re settling in really well.”

“Yeah, it’s been a whirlwind. I’ve met some awesome people already—there’s always something happening on campus. We even had a games night last weekend, and it was total chaos, but so much fun.”

As Molly chatted about her new friends, I tried to focus on the game, but her words reminded me of just how quiet my own days were here. My new routine kept me busy, but that wasn’t why I hadn’t made friends. It was just… hard. Being the one to start a conversation or join a group never came naturally to me, no matter how much I wanted it to.

I pushed the thoughts aside, managing a small smile as Molly laughed, her excitement filling the silence on my end. She didn’t need to hear about my worries, not when she was finally settling in so well. For now, I could just be happy for her.

As Molly continued chatting, my mind drifted to the schedule that now defined every day for me. I woke up at 4 every morning, an hour I would have considered insane not so long ago. The first step of my routine was chugging a pint of whole milk. I didn’t exactly enjoy it—the taste was thick and heavy—but it was an easy, cheap way to get almost 400 calories in before heading to the gym. It wasn’t how I’d ever pictured starting my mornings, but I’d forced myself to get used to it.

Then came the workout. Ninety minutes of pushing through exercises that left me completely drained, no matter how much I tried to build up my stamina. Four weeks in, I’d thought it would get easier, but every session still took everything I had. By the end, I was usually dragging myself back to the halls, too exhausted to do anything except collapse in the shower, the hot water barely taking the edge off the soreness.

After showering, it was time for breakfast—well, technically, my second breakfast. A porridge made with 100 grams of Scottish oats and scrambled eggs made from six large eggs. Just the thought of eating that much for breakfast would have seemed absurd to me a couple of months ago. I would’ve laughed if someone had told me this was my future morning meal, but here I was, day after day, forcing it all down because it was part of the plan.

By the time I’d scraped the last bit of eggs from my plate, I was usually too tired to keep my eyes open. I’d crawl back to bed, feeling uncomfortably full, my stomach heavy from the sheer volume of food, and my muscles aching from the workout. Sleeping for a couple of hours afterward had become necessary just to make it through the rest of the day. It wasn’t glamorous, and it wasn’t easy, but I kept telling myself it was all part of getting stronger.

Molly let out a triumphant cheer as the game declared her the winner. “You almost had me there, Chloe,” she teased, though we both knew I hadn’t even come close.

“Maybe next time,” I replied, forcing a smile as I set my controller down. But my thoughts were already drifting to tomorrow’s routine. It felt like my days were starting to blend together—class, gym, food, sleep, then back at it again.

Lunch had become one of the hardest parts. While my classmates went off in groups to eat together, I’d make my way back to the halls alone, still worn out from the morning’s workout. Four slices of white toast, each piled with a generous helping of Heinz baked beans in tomato sauce, and a glass of whole milk to chase it down. Just weeks ago, that would have been an entire day’s worth of food for me. Now, it was just one meal, and it left me overly full until dinner at seven.


Molly let out a final laugh as the screen faded, another game won on her end. “That was fun! And next time, maybe you’ll get one on me,” she teased.

“Maybe,” I said, managing a small smile, though the thought felt distant. My mind was already drifting back to the routine I’d have to dive into tomorrow.

“Same time next week?” Molly asked, her voice hopeful.

“Yeah, same time,” I agreed, grateful for the break her company offered, even if only once in a while. The screen went dark, and I took off my headset, staring at the empty Tupperware beside me. Tomorrow would start early, like always, but for now, at least, I’d had this small escape.

6. Heavy Morning

The clock on the wall ticked loudly as the lecture dragged to an end, the professor’s words becoming background noise as my mind wandered. Around me, classmates began to shift in their seats, pulling out their phones or whispering to each other about their weekend plans. Snippets of conversation floated past me—talk of house parties, pub crawls, and nights out that stretched until sunrise. Normally, hearing them would sting, a sharp reminder of the weekends I spent alone, disconnected from the world around me.

But not this time.

This weekend was going to be different. Tomorrow, I’d hit a milestone I hadn’t even dreamed of when I started. My pull day workout would include a 5x5 deadlift at 60 kilos—more than my own body weight. Just thinking about it sent a nervous excitement running through me. I could almost see the barbell now, with one large plate on each side, waiting for me to conquer it. My weight this morning had been 58 kilos, eight kilos heavier than when I started seven weeks ago. I’d never been proud of my body before, but now… now it felt like I was finally building something.

I shifted in my seat, wincing as my legs reminded me of the morning’s leg workout. They ached with every slight movement, the soreness a constant companion since I’d started pushing myself harder. It wasn’t the sharp pain of overdoing it, but the deep, throbbing kind that let me know I’d worked hard. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was something I’d grown to expect—and, in a strange way, almost appreciate.

The professor’s voice cut through my thoughts as he wrapped up the lecture, his tone signalling we were free to leave. Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone packed up and filed out, their voices filling the room with energy and anticipation. I grabbed my things and slipped out quietly, unnoticed as usual, but this time it didn’t bother me. My focus wasn’t on them or the parties I wouldn’t attend. My mind was already on tomorrow—on that barbell, on proving to myself that I could do it.

As I stepped outside, the crisp air of late autumn greeted me. My legs protested every step, the stiffness making each movement feel deliberate. The weekend stretched ahead, and for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t dreading it. Tomorrow would be hard—every workout was—but it was mine. Something I could control, something that mattered to me. And if I could lift that bar, even just once, it would mean everything.


Back in my dorm room, I rifled through the papers on my desk until I found my workout notebook. The edges were frayed from use, and the pages were covered in scrawled numbers and notes—a record of every lift, every rep, every small victory. Flipping to tomorrow’s page, I traced the familiar layout with my eyes: 5x5 deadlifts at 60 kilos, rows, bicep curls, and, of course, pull-ups.

I paused at the thought of pull-ups, my stomach fluttering with a mix of excitement and nerves. A few weeks ago, I’d managed my first unassisted pull-up—a single, shaky rep that had taken all my strength—but it had felt incredible. Since then, I’d been slowly improving, reducing the number of thick rubber bands I used for support. Tomorrow, I wanted to push even further. If I could do half of my pull-ups unassisted—four clean reps before switching to a thinner band for the rest—it would feel like a huge step forward.

I closed the notebook and leaned back in my chair, imagining the bar in my hands and the pull of my muscles as I lifted myself up. When I’d started, even with bands, the movement had felt impossible. My arms would tremble, my shoulders would ache, and I could barely get my chin over the bar. But now… now it felt like I was finally getting stronger. The thought of those first four unassisted reps tomorrow made my heart race in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

The deadlifts, too, were weighing on my mind. Sixty kilos. Two large plates, one on each side of the bar. It had seemed unthinkable seven weeks ago, when I’d struggled to deadlift just the barbell, but tomorrow, it would be real. I knew it wouldn’t be easy—the weight would push me to my limits—but that was the point. Every rep would prove that I was getting closer to the version of myself I wanted to be.

Setting the notebook down, I stood up and stretched, feeling the soreness in my legs from the morning’s workout. It wasn’t sharp, but it was there—a dull ache that reminded me how far I’d already come. Tomorrow’s session wouldn’t just be another workout; it would be a test of everything I’d built so far. And for once, I felt ready to meet it.

The next morning, I woke up to darkness. Even at six o’clock, the sun wouldn’t rise for hours. Saturdays were my one day to sleep in, but despite the nine hours of rest, I felt heavy and groggy, my body aching from the week’s workouts. My legs throbbed faintly as I swung them out of bed, the soreness a familiar companion now, as much a part of my mornings as brushing my teeth.

I pulled on my sweatpants and a loose, oversized sweatshirt, the fabric warm against the chill of the room. As I adjusted the hem of the sweatshirt, I paused, noticing for the first time that it didn’t hang quite as loosely as it used to. It wasn’t tight, not yet, but the way the sleeves brushed against my arms made me wonder if my body really was starting to change. The thought sent a small jolt through me, equal parts excitement and disbelief, but I pushed it aside as I slipped on my trainers.

The kitchen in the halls was completely still, the darkness outside pressing against the windows. I grabbed a pint glass from the cupboard, filling it to the brim with whole milk. The sight alone was enough to make my stomach turn slightly, but I’d done this enough times to know there was no point in hesitating. Taking a deep breath, I brought the glass to my lips and began to drink, the thick liquid coating my mouth and throat as I forced it down in one long gulp.

The last mouthful hit harder than the rest, and I winced as I set the empty glass down on the counter. It didn’t taste good—whole milk never did—but it was quick, cheap calories, and I’d learned to prioritize what worked over what I liked. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I leaned against the counter for a moment, waiting for the heavy feeling in my stomach to settle before heading back to my room to get ready for the gym.

The streets were quiet as I walked to the gym, the chill biting at my face and hands. By the time I reached the door, the air in my lungs felt sharper, colder, but I didn’t mind. Punching in the access code, I stepped inside and let the warmth of the gym wash over me. The space was as empty as always, with only the chaos of equipment strewn across the room to suggest that anyone else used it. Dumbbells sat mismatched on racks, weight plates were scattered on the floor, and resistance bands hung haphazardly over the edge of a bench. Every morning, it seemed more chaotic than the last.

I dropped my bag in the corner and pulled out my notebook, flipping to the page for today’s session. Forty-second workout in seven weeks. Seeing the number written out gave me a small sense of pride. It felt like a badge of consistency, a marker of the effort I’d put in so far. But today’s session wasn’t just any workout. Today was about deadlifting 60 kilos—more than I’d ever lifted before and more than my own body weight.

I started with a few stretches, easing the stiffness out of my legs and back. The soreness from yesterday’s workout was still there, lingering with every movement, but it wasn’t enough to stop me. Once I felt loose enough, I approached the barbell, loading it with a modest 5 kilos on each side. I grabbed the bar, positioned my feet, and pulled, feeling the weight as it moved smoothly off the ground. I kept my form steady, completing a long set of reps to warm up, the bar clanging lightly as I set it back down after each lift.

Then it was time. My eyes flicked to the large, 20-kilo plates leaning against the wall. The cold metal glinted faintly in the dim light, and my chest tightened as I reached for one. It was heavy—so heavy that I had to brace myself just to lift it off the ground. How was I supposed to deadlift a barbell with two of these when moving even one felt like a struggle? My breath came out in a shaky puff as I wrestled it into place, sliding it onto the bar with a metallic clang. The other plate followed, just as awkward and unwieldy, until the barbell was fully loaded at 60 kilos.

I stepped back and stared at it for a moment, marveling at how something so simple could feel so daunting. The bar sat on the ground, unassuming, yet it seemed to radiate an invisible challenge. Could I really lift this? My fingers flexed unconsciously, my palms already starting to sweat. This was it—the milestone I’d been building toward.

I bent down, gripping the cold bar with both hands, my knuckles turning white as I tightened my grip. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself and pulled—but the bar barely budged. My heart sank for a moment, doubt creeping in as the weight felt immovable. I adjusted my stance, planted my feet more firmly, and exhaled sharply. You’ve got this, I told myself, my determination outweighing the strain in my body.

With a deep breath, I tried again, this time pulling with everything I had. Slowly, the bar began to rise, my legs and back straining as I forced it off the ground. The metal plates wobbled slightly, the sound of them shifting filling the empty gym, but I didn’t let go. I straightened up, the bar hovering just above my knees, and locked out the lift, a rush of triumph surging through me. One. I set the bar down, my muscles burning, and quickly reset my grip. Two. The strain intensified with each rep, but I kept going, focusing on my form, my breathing, and the sheer will to see it through. By the fifth rep, my body felt like it was on fire, but I managed to lower the bar with control, a shaky smile spreading across my face.

The first set was done.

I set the bar down for the last time, my grip trembling and my legs barely holding steady. Five sets of deadlifts were done. The weight had pushed me harder than anything I’d lifted before, but I’d finished it. The thought sent a faint buzz of pride through my aching body. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I reached for my notebook and flipped to the next exercise: dumbbell rows, 5x5.

According to my notes, I should be using the 12.5kg dumbbell—the one I’d struggled with over the past couple of weeks. Each set had been a battle, and even getting through the last reps had felt like an uphill climb. But today… I don’t know what it was. Maybe the high from the deadlifts, maybe just a rare burst of confidence. Either way, I felt like I could push further.

My eyes drifted to the 15kg dumbbell lying on the rack. It wasn’t a huge jump, but enough to make my heart race with the challenge. Without overthinking it, I grabbed it and carried it to the bench, setting it down with a satisfying thud. My hand gripped the edge of the bench as I bent over, positioning myself for the first rep. I braced my core, planted my feet firmly, and reached for the dumbbell with my other hand.

As soon as I pulled, I knew this was going to hurt. The weight was heavy—heavier than I’d expected—and my arm and shoulder burned as I lifted it toward my side. But it wasn’t the kind of pain that made me stop. It was the kind that lit something inside me, a fire that told me I was getting stronger. I lowered the dumbbell slowly, feeling the stretch, then pulled again, gritting my teeth as my body adjusted to the load.

By the third rep, my arm trembled, but I was too focused to care. It was hard, yes, but there was something incredible about feeling the weight move, about knowing I was doing more than I had before. Five reps, and I set the dumbbell down, shaking out my arm as I prepared to switch sides. It hurt, but it was awesome.

I set the dumbbell back on the rack, my arms burning but my spirits high. The dumbbell rows were done, as were the pull-ups and hammer curls. Four exercises down, two to go. My shirt clung to my back, damp with sweat, and my breathing came in shallow, uneven bursts. I grabbed my water bottle, taking a long sip before flipping open my notebook again. Fifth exercise: barbell bicep curls, 4x8.

I glanced toward the rack where the barbell lay. The 15kg bar was waiting for me—no plates this time, just the bar itself. Still, my arms ached at the thought of curling it eight times per set. As I walked over, I tugged at the neckline of my sweatshirt, feeling the fabric heavy with sweat. Without thinking much of it, I pulled it off and tossed it onto the nearest bench, leaving me in the oversized, baggy T-shirt I always wore underneath.

Pausing for a moment, I looked down at my sleeves. They hung awkwardly past my elbows, swallowing my arms completely. For some reason—maybe to get a better grip or just from the heat—I grabbed the loose fabric and rolled the sleeves up to my shoulders. My arms weren’t much to look at, but as I reached for the barbell, I caught a glimpse of something. The light caught the shape of my upper arm, and I thought, just for a second, that there was a slight movement—proof that something was starting to change.

Gripping the barbell tightly, I brought it toward me for the first rep. The weight was heavier than I’d remembered, my muscles straining as I curled it up. But I pushed through, determined to finish the set. By the eighth rep, my arms were shaking, sweat running down my temples, but I managed to lower the bar with control before setting it down on the rack.

I leaned forward, resting my hands on my thighs as I caught my breath. There wasn’t much visible progress yet, but that didn’t matter. My arms felt like jelly, but the workout wasn’t done—not yet. I glanced at my notebook, already dreading the last exercise. Hanging knee raises. My grip ached just thinking about it.

Gripping the bar tightly, I hung there for a moment, letting the tension build in my shoulders. My fingers slipped slightly as I pulled my knees up, feeling the sharp ache in my abs as they curled toward my chest. Seven. The bar felt impossibly slick, my knuckles whitening as I clung to it. Eight. My legs dropped down, and for a moment, I thought I’d lose my grip entirely. I gritted my teeth and pulled again. Nine. The burn was unbearable, my entire core screaming for relief. One more, just one more.

Ten. I let my legs fall and immediately released the bar, landing shakily on the floor as I staggered back a step. My hands throbbed, the ridges of the bar imprinted into my palms. My abs felt like they’d been wrung out, and I doubled over for a moment, catching my breath. But I’d done it. Every set, every rep—it was all in the bag. My body ached in ways I couldn’t fully describe, but there was also a small sense of triumph buzzing beneath it all.

I grabbed my sweatshirt and pulled it on, the damp fabric sticking uncomfortably to my skin. My jacket was next, heavy and warm, but the effort of lifting my arms to put it on made my shoulders groan in protest. By the time I wrapped my scarf around my neck and tugged on my gloves, I was almost too tired to move. But the thought of being back in my room, sinking into my chair with breakfast waiting, was enough to get me out the door.

Outside, the cold hit me immediately, the December wind biting at my exposed face. The streets were still quiet at this hour, save for the occasional car or early riser passing by. It was eight o’clock on a Saturday morning, and the world felt still, almost peaceful. My breath puffed out in small, visible clouds as I made my way back to the halls, each step a reminder of how much I’d put my body through.

I didn’t have anything else planned for the weekend—nothing beyond my enormous meals and maybe a little gaming with Molly if she was free. The thought didn’t bother me as much as it might have a few weeks ago. My routine had become my focus, my anchor. It wasn’t glamorous or exciting, but it was mine. And as I climbed the steps to the halls, the soreness in my legs reminding me of every rep, I couldn’t help but feel like I was building something that mattered.

7. Unnoticed Changes


The house was quiet, except for the faint hum of the refrigerator as I stood in the kitchen, scanning the mostly empty shelves for something to eat. It was eight o’clock on Christmas Eve, and I’d been awake for hours. Yesterday, I’d arrived back in Liverpool after the long train ride from Newcastle, lugging my bags through the front door to my mum’s surprised face. “Thought you’d be later,” she’d said, giving me a quick hug before disappearing back into the living room to finish wrapping presents.

This morning, I’d been up at six—something that still felt strange even to me. I’d crept downstairs, expecting the usual sleepy quiet of Christmas Eve mornings, only to find my parents already up, sipping tea and having breakfast before heading out to work. I’d surprised them by joining them, a little smug about my new early-bird habits, but the moment had passed quickly. They hadn’t said much, just nodded and offered me a slice of toast as they discussed their plans for the day. I’d watched them leave for work, the front door clicking shut, and then the house had fallen silent again.

Now, as I poked around in the cupboards, I felt a pang of disappointment. They hadn’t noticed—not even a comment. I was ten kilos heavier than when I left for university. Ten kilos. That was more than a stone, more than I ever thought I’d gain in my entire life, and I’d worked for every ounce of it. But to them, I was still just Chloe, their quiet, awkward daughter. The one who’d always blended into the background.

I closed the cupboard door and leaned against the counter, staring at the clock on the wall. Eight o’clock. Normally, I’d be halfway through my morning routine by now, my stomach full of porridge and eggs, my muscles warm from another grueling workout. But here, in my childhood kitchen, there were no oats, no pre-planned meals, no barbell waiting for me to lift it. Just empty cupboards and a fridge that hadn’t been stocked since the weekly shop.

I opened the fridge, grabbed a pint of milk, and poured myself a glass. It wasn’t much, but it was something to start the day. The taste was thick and slightly sweet, and I forced it down in a few gulps, grimacing as I set the glass back on the counter. At least it was calories, I thought, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

The silence in the house felt heavier than ever as I glanced around the kitchen, the familiar surroundings now almost foreign. The same chipped tiles, the same faded curtains, the same cluttered fridge door covered in old magnets and takeaway menus. It was comforting, in a way, but it also made me feel like a visitor in my own home.

I sighed, setting the empty glass in the sink. The silence was suffocating, and the thought of staying here all morning with nothing to eat was enough to push me into action. Grabbing my coat and scarf from the hook by the door, I bundled up against the cold. I’d have to head to the shop and pick up something to get through the day.

As I tied my laces, I reminded myself of the decision I’d already made: no workouts while I was home. It would only be a couple of days, and everything I’d read online said that rest days were just as important as the workouts themselves. It still felt strange, though. For the past ten weeks, my life had revolved around my routine, and skipping it, even for good reason, made me feel… off. But I shook the thought away. It wasn’t like I could drag a barbell into this tiny house, and there was no way I’d brave a crowded gym here in Liverpool.

The streets were quiet as I walked to the shop, my breath visible in the frosty air. Most people were probably inside, wrapping presents or preparing for tomorrow’s dinner. The small grocery store came into view, its brightly lit windows standing out against the grey morning. Pushing the door open, I stepped into the warmth and grabbed a basket.

I knew exactly what I needed: food that was easy, cheap, and filling. The routine I’d built back in Newcastle was impossible to follow here, so I’d settle for the basics. I headed for the dairy aisle and picked up two pints of whole milk. That alone would give me a good start. Next, I grabbed a couple of cans of tuna, a large can of baked beans, and a loaf of bread. It wasn’t anything special, but it would keep me going until my parents came home.

As I queued to pay, I pulled out my phone and opened the app I used to track calories and macros. It had become a habit now—every meal, every snack, every bite logged and measured. I started adding up what I’d just bought: milk, 400 calories a pint; tuna, low in calories but packed with protein; beans and bread, easy carbs to hit my totals. It wasn’t perfect, but I figured it would get me close to the 3,000 calories I needed.

I paid for the groceries, tucked them into my bag, and stepped back into the cold, the plastic handles biting into my palm as I made my way home. The walk back was uneventful, the streets just as still as before. I turned the corner to my street, the sight of my parents’ small semi-detached house coming into view. Pushing open the door, I set the bag on the counter and started unpacking. Milk, tuna, beans, bread. Not exactly gourmet, but it would do. I glanced at the clock—still only half past eight. The day stretched ahead, quiet and empty, but at least now I had food and a plan to stick to.

Back at my parents’ house, I sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the television. Some daytime program flickered across the screen, but I wasn’t paying attention. The quiet was almost oppressive, the house too still for my liking. My parents wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon, leaving me with hours to fill.

I knew what I should do: schoolwork. I’d fallen behind on almost everything. IT studies had been difficult from the start, and I’d always struggled to keep up with the lectures. Most of it felt like a foreign language—concepts I could barely grasp even when I wasn’t exhausted. But with the workouts taking so much out of me every morning, I’d found it nearly impossible to focus by the time I got back to my dorm. The result? A mountain of unfinished assignments and a nagging sense of guilt I carried everywhere.

Still, the thought of dragging out my laptop now felt unbearable. My body ached from the constant push I’d put it through, and my brain wasn’t in any better shape. My eyes wandered to the floor, and an idea popped into my head. It wasn’t schoolwork, but it was something.

Dropping down onto the carpet, I placed my hands shoulder-width apart and pushed myself up into position. Push-ups weren’t something I did often—my workouts were focused on weights—but I figured I’d give it a try. I lowered myself down, my arms trembling slightly as my chest hovered just above the floor, then pushed back up. One. Two. The movement felt unfamiliar, but not impossible. By the time I reached fifteen, my arms were burning, and I let myself collapse onto the floor, breathing heavily.

After a short rest, I went again. My arms screamed in protest, the muscles shaking with each repetition, but I managed another set of fifteen. Then another. By the time I stopped, my chest and shoulders felt like they were on fire, and my arms hung heavy at my sides. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Pushing myself up from the floor, I pulled off my hoodie, the fabric clinging to my damp skin. I felt a strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration, my mind racing with an idea. Heading to the kitchen, I opened one of the lower drawers, the one my mum kept her sewing kit in. I dug through the spools of thread and scattered buttons, searching until I found what I was looking for: a measuring tape.

Gripping the tape tightly in my hand, I made my way to the mirror in the hallway. My reflection stared back at me, flushed and slightly disheveled. Rolling up the sleeve of my baggy T-shirt, I raised my arm and tried to flex, mimicking the poses I’d seen online. It wasn’t much—nothing like the impressive arms I’d scrolled past on the internet—but it wasn’t flat, either. A small bump appeared, the faint outline of a bicep that hadn’t been there before.

I pressed my lips together, fighting the nervous flutter in my stomach as I looped the measuring tape around my arm. It was harder than it looked; the tape slipped awkwardly, and I had to wrestle with it to keep it in place. My arm cramped as I held the flex, the muscles already tired from the push-ups, but I refused to let go. Finally, the tape settled into place.

Twelve and a half inches. I stared at the number, unsure what to make of it. It wasn’t huge—not compared to the people I’d looked up to online—but it wasn’t bad, was it? For a moment, I just stood there, the tape still wrapped around my arm, a strange sense of pride bubbling up inside me. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. And progress, I reminded myself, was the whole point.

8.  New Year, Kinda New Me



I wiped down my tears with the back of my hand, my breath hitching as I pulled on my jacket and adjusted my glasses. The familiar weight of disappointment settled in my chest, but I pushed it aside, zipping up the coat and grabbing my beanie. It was New Year’s Eve, a day I’d been counting down to for weeks, though not for the usual reasons. I had tickets booked for what should have been my first-ever student party—at Cambridge, no less.

Molly had invited me back in November. “It’s going to be amazing, Chloe! You have to come,” she’d said, her excitement contagious even through the screen of our video call. I’d been hesitant at first, unsure if I’d fit in, but Molly had been so insistent that I finally gave in. Spending New Year’s Eve with her and her new friends had felt like a chance to belong, to step out of my routine and finally experience something normal for someone my age.

I had bought the train tickets the same day, saving every spare pound to afford the trip. Even when the party loomed in my mind as an intimidating unknown, I’d clung to the idea. For once, I wouldn’t be alone. I’d have Molly, and even if her friends were strangers to me, it would be worth it.

But on Boxing Day, everything changed. Molly and I had met up at her family’s home in Liverpool, where I’d arrived hopeful and eager to confirm our plans. We’d spent the afternoon catching up, and for a while, everything had felt easy, just like old times. Then, over cups of tea in her kitchen, Molly had dropped the news. “Apparently the party’s just for Cambridge students,” she’d said, her voice light as if she were brushing off something trivial. “It’s nothing personal. It’s just easier this way. You could always come to visit another time, though.”

I’d nodded, my throat tightening as I fought back tears. I didn’t want to make her feel guilty or seem dramatic, but it had stung more than I could admit. All I could muster was a quiet, “Sure, that makes sense,” before the conversation moved on to something else. She hadn’t mentioned it again, and I hadn’t dared to bring it up.

Back in my room that night, I’d rerouted my train ticket to Newcastle, canceling my plans for Cambridge. The excitement I’d carried for weeks evaporated, leaving behind the familiar ache of loneliness.

Now here I was, back in Newcastle. No party, no celebration, no Molly. Just me. And as the rest of the city prepared for the year’s biggest night, I had only one place to go: the gym. I tightened my scarf around my neck, laced up my shoes, and stepped out into the freezing evening air.

The streets were quiet, most people likely indoors or on their way to pubs and parties. My breath came out in visible puffs as I walked, my steps brisk against the cold. The weight of what I’d hoped this night would be still lingered, but I focused on the rhythm of my feet on the pavement. The gym might not be a party, but it was mine—my routine, my sanctuary, the one place I could always count on.

As I approached the gym, the familiar sight of its dimly lit windows greeted me. Even on New Year’s Eve, the chaos inside—disorganized weights and worn-down machines—was a constant. Pushing open the door, I felt the warmth hit me, along with the faint metallic tang of the air. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the chill outside. This was how I’d end the year, and maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so bad after all.

The gym was, of course, empty. It was New Year’s Eve, after all, and the clock on the wall above the dumbbell rack read 11:03 PM. Most people were counting down the final hour of the year with friends, music, and drinks. I was here, in this chaotic little space, preparing for something far more personal.

Tonight wasn’t going to be just another workout. I’d decided earlier in the week that if I was going to spend New Year’s Eve in the gym, I’d make it count. Instead of following my usual routine, I was going to push myself further than I ever had. Tonight, I would try my maxes.

The barbell sat in its usual place on the platform, the cold steel reflecting the dim light of the gym. I approached it slowly, gripping it with both hands as I went through my first warm-up set. The bar was empty, but it didn’t matter. I moved deliberately, focusing on my form, feeling every shift in my body as I pulled it off the ground and set it back down.

Adding weight was mechanical now. I loaded small plates on either side, bringing the bar up to 40 kilograms. The familiar sound of metal sliding onto the bar echoed through the gym. My breath was steady as I bent down, grabbed the bar, and pulled. The weight rose smoothly, my muscles easing into the motion as I set it back down again.

This was just the beginning. The next few sets would tell me if I was ready to lift more than I ever had before. I straightened up, brushing chalk from my hands, and let my eyes linger on the plates stacked against the wall. Tonight, they were all mine.

I paused for a moment, staring at the bar in front of me. My reflection caught in the mirror opposite, and I couldn’t help but notice how different I looked now. I was still wearing the same old sweatpants I’d had for years, the ones that hung loosely on my hips, the waistband sagging slightly. They felt heavier than before, but not because of the fabric—more because of the body underneath, one that had slowly started to change. My legs had thickened, my arms a little more defined.

A wave of disappointment washed over me as I remembered Christmas morning, when I’d opened the gift from my parents. It was a gift card to Steam. A part of me should’ve been excited, thrilled even. Old Chloe would’ve loved it. But new Chloe? I’d barely touched my computer in weeks. Video games had always been my escape, my way of disconnecting from the world, but since I’d started my gym routine, I hadn’t had the time or, to be honest, the energy to indulge in them. Occasionally, an hour here or there, but mostly, I’d just collapse into bed after my workouts.

What I’d secretly hoped for was a gift card to a sports goods store. I had imagined using it to buy a pair of nice tights and a matching sports bra—something sleek, something I’d seen women wear on social media. I wanted to feel like them. Strong, confident. But, of course, that was too much to ask. I’d never even mentioned my gym routine to my parents, let alone told them how much I wished I could have better workout gear. They had no idea that this was something I was serious about. It would’ve felt strange to ask for something like that, especially with them still seeing me as the awkward, shy daughter who played video games all the time.

Shaking the thought away, I refocused on the barbell in front of me. Two large plates on each side. 100kg in total. A load that seemed impossible just a few months ago. I stood there for a moment, trying to wrap my head around it. Could I really do this? Could I lift this? The idea felt almost absurd. That much weight. It seemed ridiculous that I, of all people, might actually be able to pick it up.

I exhaled slowly and bent down to grip the bar. My palms felt clammy against the cold metal, my hands trembling as I prepared for the lift. This wasn’t just another set. This was a milestone, a moment where I could prove to myself how far I’d come. Taking a deep breath, I positioned my feet, set my back, and wrapped my hands around the bar.

Here goes nothing.

I tightened my grip on the bar, the rough knurling pressing into my palms. My breath steadied, but my heart raced as I stared at the two large plates on each side. One hundred kilos. The number felt absurd, almost unreal. A challenge that the Chloe from a few months ago wouldn’t have even considered. But this was a different Chloe, and I wasn’t leaving this gym until I tried.

I bent my knees, setting my feet firmly beneath me, and braced my core as hard as I could. Slowly, I pulled. The bar didn’t budge. The strain hit me immediately, my back and legs tensing against the weight. A flash of doubt crossed my mind—what if I couldn’t do this?

I let out a sharp breath and reset. I needed more than brute force. I needed control. Tightening my grip again, I planted my heels into the floor and pulled with everything I had. The bar moved—just a fraction, but it moved. My breath caught, and a low grunt escaped my lips as I felt the weight start to give way.

“Come on,” I muttered through gritted teeth, my legs trembling as the bar climbed higher. Inch by inch, the plates left the ground, the strain shooting through my arms and back. The metal wobbled slightly, and I let out a guttural moan as I fought to keep it steady. The weight felt impossible, and my grip threatened to slip, but I wasn’t going to let go. Not now.

I let out a sharp scream as I pushed my hips forward, forcing the bar into position just above my knees. My entire body quaked under the pressure, my breath coming in ragged gasps, but I’d done it—I’d lifted it. A surge of triumph hit me, the exhaustion and pain momentarily fading into the background.

For a second, I stood there, holding the weight, feeling the burn in every fiber of my body. Then, with one final effort, I lowered the bar, the plates hitting the platform with a satisfying crash. I stumbled back, my legs barely able to support me, my hands trembling from the strain. My breathing was uneven, my body drenched in sweat, but I couldn’t stop the shaky smile spreading across my face.

I had done it. One hundred kilos. It wasn’t just a number anymore—it was mine.

I paced around the platform, shaking out my arms as I tried to steady my breathing. My body still buzzed from the lift, the strain in my legs and back a reminder of what I’d just accomplished. The weight of the moment settled in, and for a second, I allowed myself to feel proud. But there was no time to linger. One milestone wasn’t enough for tonight.

I turned my attention to the bench press, the station sitting off to the side like a quiet challenge. Out of all the lifts, the bench had been the hardest to figure out. Progress there felt slower, every extra kilo harder to earn. It was frustrating at times, but it was also part of what made tonight’s goal so meaningful. If I could break through here, it would feel like a real step forward.

As I walked toward the bench, I adjusted my T-shirt, pulling it over my damp skin. My chest felt tighter than it used to, the familiar softness replaced with something firmer. It wasn’t dramatic—nothing anyone else would notice—but I could feel it. My muscles were finally catching up, building strength even where I’d never expected it. The thought sent a small surge of confidence through me.

The goal tonight was 60 kilos. One large plate on each side of the barbell. A weight that was, incredibly, almost my own. I loaded the plates with deliberate care, the sound of metal sliding into place grounding me in the moment. Standing back, I stared at the bar, the numbers echoing in my mind. Sixty kilos. Just one less than me.

There was no room for hesitation now. My body ached, my arms burned, but I could feel the determination building. I sat down on the bench, adjusting myself beneath the bar. This wasn’t just about moving weight—it was about proving, again, that I could do more than I ever thought possible.

I wrapped my hands tightly around the bar, feeling its cold weight settle into my palms. Sixty kilos. A large plate on each side. The thought alone sent my heart racing, but it wasn’t nerves—it was determination. I positioned myself beneath it, my back flat against the bench, my feet firm on the ground. I took a deep breath, steadying myself as I unracked the bar.

It wobbled slightly in my grip, and my arms trembled as I lowered it. The weight pressed down, heavier than anything I’d ever held before. My chest felt crushed beneath the strain, my arms quaking as the bar hovered just above me. For a split second, panic flashed through my mind: What if I can’t get it back up? What if I drop it? I was alone. No spotter. No safety net.

The fear threatened to overwhelm me, but I forced it aside. My grip tightened, my knuckles white against the bar. With a guttural moan, I pushed, my entire body straining as the bar slowly crept upward. My arms shook violently, my shoulders screaming, but the bar kept moving. It felt like an eternity before I locked out the lift, my breath coming in sharp gasps.

I racked the bar with a loud clang, the sound reverberating through the empty gym. My arms fell to my sides, limp and shaking, as I sat up, the adrenaline still coursing through me. My chest felt tight, my muscles burning, but I’d done it. Sixty kilos. It wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t pretty—but I’d done it.

As I reached for my water bottle, my phone buzzed twice on the bench beside me. I wiped my sweaty hands on my shirt and picked it up, my fingers still trembling.

The first message was from Molly.

Happy New Year, Chlo! Hope you found something fun to do tonight xx.

My chest tightened, not from the lift this time, but from the reminder of where I wasn’t. Fun. That wasn’t how I’d describe this night, but I wasn’t sad either. It was just… different.

The second message was from Mum.

HNY, luv. Hope you’ve got something better than beans and toast tonight. Don’t be eating crisps for dinner, alright? xx.


A small laugh escaped me. That was Mum. She didn’t know about my new eating habits or my training routine, but she did know my old habits all too well. Back then, my diet had revolved around whatever was cheap and easy—baked beans, toast, the occasional packet of crisps if I felt like “treating” myself. She’d always teased me for it, but it had never bothered me until now.

I glanced at the time on my phone. Midnight had come and gone. It was 2023 now, and I hadn’t even noticed the shift. No fireworks, no countdowns—just me and the weights. The gym was as quiet as it had been all night, and I let out a deep breath, letting the silence settle around me. Somehow, it felt fitting.

I placed my phone back on the bench and wiped my hands on my sweatpants, the faint smile from Mum’s text fading as I turned back to the barbell rack. One lift left to go: the squat. My body felt heavy, trembling from the deadlifts and bench press, but something about the quiet gym and the new year gave me a strange kind of energy. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe stubbornness, but I wasn’t stopping now.

I loaded the plates, the sound of the metal ringing out in the stillness. Two large plates on each side again—100kg in total. The same as my deadlift earlier, but somehow this felt even more intimidating. Squatting it would take everything I had left.

I glanced at myself in the mirror, catching sight of the sweat-soaked t-shirt clinging to my back. It felt heavy and uncomfortable, so I tugged it off, tossing it onto the bench. Underneath was my plain white sports bra, one of the cheap ones I’d grabbed at Primark when I started this journey. Functional and unremarkable, but it worked. My reflection stared back at me, and I took a second to really look. My upper body, shiny with sweat, didn’t look like much at first glance. But there were subtle signs—the faint lines on my shoulders, the slight curve of my arms. My stomach wasn’t flat, but it was firmer than it had been when I started. I wasn’t ripped, but I wasn’t soft either.

I stepped under the barbell, positioning it across my shoulders. The cold steel pressed into my traps, and I gripped it tightly, adjusting my stance as I braced myself. The weight felt immense, my whole body absorbing the pressure as I unracked it and stepped back. I glanced at the plates in the mirror—two large ones on each side. The sight was ridiculous and thrilling all at once.

Lowering myself into the squat, I felt the bar’s weight sink into my legs and core. My knees bent slowly, the tension building as I descended. My breath came in sharp, controlled bursts, my focus narrowing to the movement and the weight above me. At the bottom, I paused, readying myself for the push.

I exhaled hard and drove upward. My legs burned instantly, my core straining to stabilize the weight. The bar moved—just an inch—then stalled. My arms trembled as I forced myself to keep going, a low grunt escaping my lips.

Come on, come on.

The bar inched higher, but my body was giving out. My legs shook violently, my breath coming in gasps, and for a moment, I thought I had it. But then, the weight started to sink.
“No, no,” I muttered, panic flashing through me. My heart pounded as I realized I couldn’t recover. My grip shifted, and I let the bar fall backward with a loud crash, the safety rails catching it as I stumbled forward, my hands bracing against the rack.

For a few seconds, I just stood there, breathing hard, my legs quivering beneath me. I glanced back at the barbell, still loaded with the weight that had defeated me. It wasn’t the triumphant start to 2023 I’d imagined, and the frustration stung. But as I wiped the sweat from my face and grabbed my t-shirt, I couldn’t ignore the pride that lingered underneath the disappointment. I’d tried. And next time, I’d be stronger.

Turning off the lights and stepping out into the cold night, I thought to myself: it wasn’t the best start, but it wasn’t the end either. I’d be back. Always.

9.  More Is More



I stared at the number on the scale: 65 kilos. My chest tightened, frustration bubbling up as I stepped off, staring at it again as if somehow willing it to change. But it didn’t. The digital display blinked back at me, indifferent and unmoving, the same number I’d seen last week.

Eighteen weeks. That’s how long I’d been at this. Sixteen weeks of progress, watching the number climb almost a kilo every single week. Sixteen weeks of pushing myself harder than I ever thought I could, of eating until I felt like I’d burst, of forcing my body to transform. And now, for two weeks in a row, the weight hadn’t budged. It felt like I’d hit a wall, and I couldn’t figure out why.

It wasn’t fair. I was already struggling—with school, with loneliness, with keeping up a routine that demanded so much. And I worked out like a maniac. I force-fed myself every single meal, choking down food long after I was full because it was what I had to do. And still, the number refused to move.

I stepped back from the scale, my jaw tightening as I glanced at myself in the mirror. Was it my fault? Had I messed something up? Or was my body just giving up on me? My reflection stared back, and I tried to find reassurance in it. My arms were firmer, my shoulders broader, my face less round than it used to be. I could see the changes… but it wasn’t enough. Not compared to the effort I was putting in. Not compared to the goals I’d set.

I grabbed my phone and opened the app where I tracked everything. Calories, macros, lifts—it was all there in painstaking detail. My finger hovered over the entries for the past two weeks. Nothing had changed. I swiped back further, looking at the steady climb from the first sixteen weeks, and the difference hit me harder than I wanted to admit.



The sound of the weights clinking echoed faintly in the gym as I lowered the bar for the final time. My arms trembled as I set it down, the EZ bar wobbling slightly as I let go. Skull crushers weren’t my favorite, but they did their job. The 7.5kg plates on either side felt heavier than usual this morning, my triceps screaming by the last rep. I checked the clock—6:20 already. I’d come in later than usual, the sluggishness of my morning routine dragging everything out.

I leaned against the bench for a moment, catching my breath. Despite finishing all my sets, a familiar weight sat in my chest. Two weeks with no gains. Two weeks of eating, lifting, and grinding, all while my body refused to cooperate. My reflection in the mirror caught my eye, and for a moment, I searched for any signs of progress. Was I bigger? Stronger? It didn’t feel like it.

I started to pack up my stuff, stuffing my water bottle and notebook into my bag. Just as I grabbed my hoodie, a noise caught my attention—the sound of a barbell racking on the squat platform. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a middle-aged man setting up for his set. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost hesitant. I didn’t recognize him. It was rare to see anyone here this early, and I guessed he wasn’t a regular.

He stepped under the bar, adjusting it across his shoulders. Two small plates—just 50 kilos total—were loaded on either side. As he lowered into the squat, his legs shook slightly, and I noticed his form falter. His knees caved inward, and his back rounded as he struggled to push himself back up.

I paused, hoodie still in hand, as I watched him grind through a second rep, his face reddening with the effort. For a moment, I felt a pang of something—pity, maybe? No, it was something else. It hit me like a flash: I do my sets of 5x5 with 85 kilos. I lift nearly double that weight, and my form is better.

The realization sat heavy in my mind as I stood there, staring. I wasn’t just stronger than some grown men—I was stronger by a lot. It was the first time I’d thought about my progress in those terms, and it felt strange. Empowering, maybe, but also surreal.

Pulling my hoodie over my head, I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for the door, the image of him struggling with the bar still lingering in my mind. For weeks, I’d felt deflated, my weight plateau gnawing at my confidence. But now, as I stepped out into the cool morning air, a small spark of pride flickered in me. Maybe the numbers on the scale weren’t the only way to measure progress after all.

The cool morning air hit me as I stepped out of the gym, my bag slung over one shoulder and my hoodie pulled tight against the chill. The streets were starting to wake up, and I fell into the familiar rhythm of my walk toward the grocery store. The thought of pushing past this plateau gnawed at me, but the realization from earlier—that I was genuinely stronger than some grown men—kept me moving. If I could get this far, I could push further.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly as I stepped into the store, grabbing a basket from the stack. The aisles were nearly empty, save for the occasional elderly shopper or store employee restocking shelves. I moved on autopilot, making my way through my usual list. Frozen chicken breast—check. Six pints of whole milk—check. A couple of broccolis, baked beans, toast, and a few dozen large eggs quickly joined the pile.

But then I paused, staring at the shelves. If I was going to make this work—if I was going to break through the stagnation—I needed more. My eyes scanned the items, and my hand moved almost without thinking. A bag of jacket potatoes landed in the basket, followed by a multipack of canned tuna in sunflower oil. Further down the aisle, I grabbed a bunch of bananas, their bright yellow skins a stark contrast to the usual monotony of my cart.

The added cost would be hard to manage. My budget was already stretched thin between food, gym membership, and the occasional expense for school. But as I stood at the till, loading my groceries onto the belt, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of determination. If an extra meal every day was what it took to get the scale moving again, then I’d make it work. I had to.

The bags were heavier than usual as I started the trek back to the halls, the plastic handles biting into my fingers. The weight didn’t bother me, though. It felt purposeful, a reminder of what I was trying to achieve. Each step back to my room brought me closer to the decision I’d already made: 3,500 calories a day. More food, more effort, more progress.

As the halls came into view, I shifted the bags in my hands and let out a steadying breath. The road ahead would be hard, but it always had been. And if this was what it took to keep growing, then so be it. I’d force down every bite if it meant getting closer to the strength I wanted.

The door to the halls clicked shut behind me, the sound echoing softly in the empty corridor. It was time to get to work—on the meals, on myself, on the goals I’d set. And as I unpacked the groceries, the faint ache in my arms felt like a promise: that it would all be worth it.

10.  Invisible Gains



Ben’s laptop slammed onto the table with a thud, making the already wobbly desk shake violently. “Why d’we even have to do this in groups, man?” he muttered, not really asking anyone but loud enough for the rest of us to hear. His voice carried the same grating edge it always did, like he was personally offended by the existence of group assignments.
I shifted in my seat, adjusting the waistband of the jeans I’d bought a couple of weeks ago from Primark. None of my old ones fit anymore, so I needed to wear these every day. They were loose enough to feel comfortable but roomy enough not to draw attention. My legs brushed against the denim as I moved, a subtle reminder of how much they’d grown over the months.

“Reet, so who’s gonna step up an’ sort this lot out, then?” Ben said, his tone sharp as he looked around the table. He wasn’t looking at me, of course. His attention had already shifted to Emma, who was fiddling with her tablet, clearly pretending not to hear him. I stayed quiet, letting them argue it out. I wasn’t in the mood to get involved and had no interest in dealing with Ben’s attitude.

Ben leaned back in his chair with a huff, turning his attention elsewhere, and I let my focus drift. The familiar feeling of sitting on the edge of the group, unnoticed, settled over me. It was easier this way, just listening and watching, rather than trying to fit into the conversation.

Emma finally broke the silence, her voice soft but firm. “Maybe we should just divide up the research paper sections? It’s the easiest way, and we can each focus on one part.”

There were murmurs of agreement around the table, but I barely registered them. My mind had already started to wander. Six months ago, I was 50 kilos and invisible. Now, at 70 kilos, I’d transformed my body in ways I never thought possible—almost 20 kilos of growth. My thighs brushed against each other with every step, my shoulders pulled at the seams of my oversized hoodie, and yet, no one seemed to notice. Not here, anyway. Beneath my loose clothes, I felt like a completely different person, but to them, I was still just Chloe.

The familiar frustration simmered in my chest, a mix of pride and annoyance. Was I working so hard just to remain unseen? Or was it my own fault for keeping so much of myself hidden? Before I could spiral too far into my thoughts, Ben’s voice cut through the haze.

“Previous research part is fucking boring. Chloe can take that.”

I blinked, his words snapping me back to the room as everyone’s eyes shifted toward me.

I stared at Ben, my mind catching on his words, but my focus drifting to the person behind them. He was a little under six feet tall, his frame lanky and unremarkable, almost swallowed by his ill-fitting hoodie. His hair—oh, that ridiculous bowl haircut—looked like it belonged to a different decade entirely. And that grin, the smug, self-satisfied smirk that seemed permanently etched on his face, made my stomach churn with irritation.

A thought crept into my mind, unbidden and almost startling in its clarity: I was probably stronger than him. No, scratch that—I was almost certain I was. I could probably grab him, pin him to the floor, and wipe that stupid grin off his face without much trouble. The image was brief but vivid, a flicker of power I hadn’t quite acknowledged before.

But instead of acting on that spark of confidence, I swallowed it down and kept my voice soft, my usual shield. “Yeah, I can do that,” I said, glancing down at my notebook as if the decision had already been made. My tone was as shy as ever, barely more than a whisper.

Before I could even write down “previous research” in my notebook, another voice cut through the air. It was Lily, the girl with the perfectly styled ponytail and a never-ending supply of brightly colored highlighters. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her eyes darting between Ben and me.

“No offense,” she started, her tone light but edged with something sharper, “but I don’t think Chloe should do that part on her own. I mean, no offense to you, Chloe,” she added quickly, looking directly at me with that kind of overly polite smile that made it worse. “It’s just that I read your last paper, and, like, I want us to actually get a good grade on this.”
The room went quiet for a beat, save for the faint scratching of a pen from someone not paying attention.

“I’ll take one for the team,” Lily continued, her voice brighter now as if she were doing everyone a massive favor. “I’ll help Chloe with the previous research bit. We need it to be solid.”

I nodded mutely, feeling the familiar warmth of embarrassment creeping up my neck. My hand tightened slightly around my pen, but I kept my face blank. Inside, though, her words stung more than I wanted to admit. They didn’t think I was capable. I could see it in the way Ben had carelessly dumped the boring part on me and now in Lily’s patronizing offer to “help.”

Lily’s voice faded into the background as my mind began to drift again, her words about grades and helping barely registering. She wasn’t wrong—when it came to IT or writing papers, I wasn’t exactly the strongest in the group. Compared to them, I always felt like I was barely keeping my head above water, fumbling my way through assignments and lectures. It was hard not to feel like a burden when everyone else seemed to get it so effortlessly.

But this morning had been different.

I’d walked back to my dorm room at six, my body buzzing with the aftereffects of push day at the gym. My arms and chest felt heavy, almost sore, but in the best way possible. For once, I hadn’t felt weak at all.

Back in my room, I’d kicked off my trainers, peeling my now tight—and admittedly sweaty—sweatpants and T-shirt off my body. The fabric clung to my skin as I pulled it away, leaving me standing there in just my underwear. The mirror in the corner caught my attention, and for a moment, I hesitated, unsure of what I’d see. But curiosity got the better of me.

I stepped closer, letting the dim light from my desk lamp illuminate my reflection. At 70 kilos, I wasn’t ripped by any means—there was still softness around my stomach and thighs—but the person staring back at me was no longer the Chloe I’d been six months ago. I raised my arms tentatively, curling them into a flex.

That’s when I saw it.

My back. It had grown so much wider than my waist, creating a solid, unmistakable V-shape. My arms, though not huge, had a definition that hadn’t been there before. And my shoulders—they looked broader, sturdier, like they belonged to someone who could hold her own. The sight was almost surreal. I looked strong. Solid.

Lily’s voice pulled me back to reality, and I realized she was staring at me, her eyebrows raised like I was supposed to have answered something. I’d completely missed what she said.

“What?” I asked, my voice coming out a bit softer than I’d intended.

She let out a dramatic sigh, pushing her pen down onto her notebook. “I said, we’ve gotta get this done tonight, yeah? Hope you’re ready for an all-nighter.”

An all-nighter? My stomach twisted at the thought. My routine flashed through my mind—7 o’clock dinner, bed by 8, and everything perfectly set up for tomorrow’s session at the gym. It wasn’t just a habit anymore; it felt necessary, like a promise I’d made to myself. But I couldn’t exactly explain that to Lily, not without sounding completely mad. This wasn’t optional. It was the grade. It was the group. And if I said no, I’d just be proving what they already seemed to think about me.

“Right,” I muttered, nodding. “Yeah, I’m up for it.”

Lily didn’t look convinced, but she just shrugged and went back to her notes. The room was filled again with the quiet sound of typing and scribbling, but all I could think about was the hours ahead—and how much I’d have to give up tonight to get through them.

11. Weekend Off



The train rattled gently beneath me as I adjusted my glasses, pushing them up the bridge of my nose. Outside, Newcastle’s grey skies stretched endlessly, cold and uninviting. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, feeling the fabric strain uncomfortably at the shoulders and chest. It had been loose when I bought it last year, but now it barely fit. I couldn’t afford a new one, so I made do, even though I could feel the seams protesting whenever I moved.

Cambridge, where I was heading, promised warmth and sunshine—a stark contrast to Newcastle’s lingering chill. I’d keep the jacket on until I arrived, but underneath, I wore one of my new size-large T-shirts, loose and comfortable, perfect for when the day warmed up. My only pair of jeans that fit me sat snugly around my thighs, a reminder of just how much my body had changed in the past seven months.

I shifted in my seat, the weight of my bag pressing against my legs. Seeing Molly again filled me with a mix of excitement and nerves. It had been months since Christmas, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d notice the changes in me this time. Twenty-three kilos was a lot—surely enough for someone to comment on. But the thought of spending the weekend with her and her Cambridge friends made my stomach twist. What if I didn’t belong in her world anymore? What if I never really did?

I glanced out the window, the passing scenery blurring into streaks of green and grey. Molly had always been the confident one, the one who shone in any group. Me? I’d never been the center of attention, not even in my own life. But still, this trip felt important—like a chance to reconnect with her, even if it meant stepping far outside my comfort zone.

I nudged my bag with my foot, feeling the weight of everything I’d crammed into it for the trip. The train ride to Cambridge was only a little over four hours, but I wasn’t taking chances. Inside was enough food to keep me going for the day—just in case.

Tucked neatly into the bag were a Tupperware of chicken, rice, and broccoli, four toast sandwiches filled with baked beans and tuna, and even a pint of whole milk wrapped securely to avoid spills. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was necessary. The last few months had taught me how quickly a missed meal could derail my progress.

I grabbed the Tupperware, peeling back the lid with a soft pop, and jabbed my plastic fork into the chicken. The first bite was dry and unappetizing, but I barely noticed anymore. Eating wasn’t about pleasure; it was about fueling the hours I spent in the gym. My routine had become mechanical, each bite a step closer to another PR or another kilo on the scale. It wasn’t easy, but the results were undeniable.

I took a sip from the pint of milk, its thickness coating my throat as I swallowed. The train jolted slightly, and I braced my arm against the bag beside me to steady myself. Outside, the scenery grew brighter, patches of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Cambridge was getting closer, and with it, the promise of a weekend that I both looked forward to and dreaded.

Would Molly notice? The question lingered, unbidden but persistent. My reflection in the window stared back at me, the faint outline of broader shoulders and thicker arms just barely visible through the jacket. I wanted her to see the changes. I wanted her to say something. But at the same time, the idea of drawing attention to myself felt suffocating. Maybe it was better if she didn’t.

I forced myself to focus on the food, shoving another forkful into my mouth. Whatever happened this weekend, at least I’d be prepared. And with Molly, I’d always been able to find my place—somewhere on the edge of her spotlight, but close enough to feel its warmth. Hopefully, that hadn’t changed.

The train slowed as it pulled into the Cambridge station, the brakes squealing softly as the platform came into view. I tightened my grip on my bag, feeling the weight of the food and clothes inside press against my side. Stepping off the train, the warmth of the sun hit me immediately, a stark contrast to the chill I’d left behind in Newcastle. I shrugged off my jacket, folding it over my arm as I scanned the platform.

Molly was waiting near the entrance, her familiar round face breaking into a smile as soon as she spotted me. She gave a little wave before starting toward me, her strides short and hurried. The years hadn’t changed much about her—she was still as short as ever, her figure slightly rounder than the last time I’d seen her, but her confidence filled the space around her like always. She wrapped me in a quick, tight hug, her arms barely reaching around my shoulders.

“It’s so good to see you!” she said, stepping back with a grin.

“You too,” I replied, adjusting my glasses nervously as I glanced down at her. For a moment, I wondered if she’d notice—how much thicker my arms felt, how solid I’d become. But Molly said nothing, her attention already shifting as she picked up her pace, leading me toward the exit.

“How was the trip?” she asked, her voice bright as ever.

“Long, but fine,” I said simply, my words feeling inadequate. I wanted to say more, to ask her if she noticed the difference, but instead, I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and followed her into the crowd. Whatever I hoped she’d say stayed lodged in my throat, unspoken, as we stepped out into the Cambridge sunshine.

Molly's room was nicer than mine back in Newcastle—not by much, but enough to notice. The walls were painted a fresh, crisp white, and the small window let in enough light to make the space feel less cramped. Still, it wasn’t exactly spacious. There was just enough floor space for the air mattress Molly had blown up for me to sleep on. I set my bag down beside it, trying to make myself as unobtrusive as possible in the already tiny room.

Molly had flopped onto her bed, rummaging through a pile of clothes she’d dumped there. “Give me a sec,” she said, holding up a top against herself in the mirror before tossing it aside. “This party’s going to be decent, but everyone’ll be dressed up a bit. You’ll love it.” She grinned, clearly excited about the night ahead.

I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t have better clothes for a party—I didn’t even know what "better clothes" meant for something like this. My wardrobe was mostly sweats, baggy hoodies, and a few plain tees. Fancy wasn’t exactly in my repertoire.

Molly pulled out a sparkly top and held it up triumphantly. “This’ll do,” she said, before reaching for a makeup bag on her desk. Watching her start to dab foundation onto her face was strange. Molly in makeup was new to me. Back in school, she’d always been too nerdy to care about stuff like that. She was all about video games, science experiments, and winning debates, not contouring or mascara.

“Want me to do you, too?” she asked, her tone casual as she swiped a brush across her cheek.

I hesitated. “I don’t really… I mean, I don’t have anything fancy to wear,” I mumbled, looking down at my loose jeans and oversized T-shirt. My jacket was still slung over the air mattress, but it wasn’t exactly a game-changer.

“It’s fine,” Molly said, brushing off my concern. “You don’t need to dress up loads, just let me do a little makeup for you. It'll be fun!”

Before I could protest, she was already pulling me toward the mirror. I sat stiffly on the edge of her bed as she leaned over me, dabbing at my face with brushes and powders. It felt odd—foreign—but it wasn’t unpleasant. Molly’s cheerful chatter filled the room as she worked, and for a moment, it felt nice to let someone fuss over me.

When she finished, I looked at myself in the mirror. It was subtle—nothing dramatic, just some eyeliner and a touch of color on my cheeks. But it softened my face in a way that felt… nice. “What do you think?” Molly asked, stepping back to admire her work.

“Yeah, it’s… good,” I said awkwardly, though I meant it. I wasn’t used to this kind of thing, but it was nice of her to do it for me.

Molly turned back to the mirror, focused on her own reflection now. “Perfect,” she said, smoothing down her top. She seemed completely absorbed in getting ready, her excitement palpable. But as she fussed over herself, she didn’t say a word about me—not about the way my shoulders filled out my T-shirt, or the size of my arms. Not even the makeup she’d just put on me seemed worth mentioning. It was like she didn’t notice the changes at all.

I told myself it didn’t matter, but the small pang of disappointment was hard to shake.

The streets of Cambridge were quiet as we walked, the old buildings towering over us like something out of a period drama. Molly led the way, her sparkly top catching the glow of the streetlights. My jeans and T-shirt felt plain and out of place next to her, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was chatting about the party, about the people who’d be there, her voice light and full of energy.

“Is everyone at Cambridge as much of a genius as you?” I asked, my voice barely cutting through the cool night air. My nerves had been creeping up with every step closer to the party.

Molly laughed, glancing at me over her shoulder. “Hardly. Trust me, there’s not many like me,” she said with a playful smirk, her voice dripping with that cheeky confidence she’d always had. “Most of them are just here ‘cause their parents have deep pockets. You’ll see.”

That wasn’t exactly reassuring. As we turned a corner, the sound of music and laughter spilled out from one of the college buildings ahead. My stomach tightened. The door was propped open, and as we stepped inside, I was hit by a wave of warmth and the smell of cheap booze. The room was crowded, filled with people dressed in sharp shirts and sleek dresses. I caught sight of a few blazers, and my jeans suddenly felt even more out of place.

I tugged at the hem of my T-shirt, trying to make it look less… casual. Molly, as usual, seemed unfazed. She weaved through the crowd with ease, tossing smiles and quick hellos to a few people as we passed. I followed closely, feeling like a shadow trailing in her light.

Then, out of nowhere, Molly grabbed a cider from the drinks table, cracking it open with a practised ease. My eyes widened. Molly. Drinking. It was almost as shocking as seeing her in makeup. She caught my expression and raised the bottle in mock toast before taking a sip, completely at ease. Meanwhile, I was still trying to figure out how I’d survive the night.

Molly took another sip of her cider, leaning casually against the wall as if she belonged here more than anyone else in the room. I couldn’t stop staring at the bottle in her hand. “You’ve started drinking?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

“Course I have,” Molly said with a shrug, a teasing grin spreading across her face. “Don’t you drink at the parties up in Newcastle? I thought Geordies were on the lash all the time.”

Her words caught me off guard, and my cheeks flushed. I looked down, pretending to smooth out the already-straight hem of my T-shirt. She didn’t know. Of course, she didn’t know. How could she? I’d never told her that I hadn’t been to a single party since I started university, that my nights were spent eating, training, and collapsing into bed. The thought of explaining it now made my stomach churn.

“Do you want one?” Molly asked, gesturing toward the table of drinks with her bottle.

I hesitated, my mind immediately flashing to yesterday. I’d done a double gym session to make up for the trip. Pull day in the morning, push day in the evening. My body was still sore from it, and I’d spent the entire train ride stressing about my meals, wondering if the weekend would set me back. A cider wasn’t part of the plan. It was empty calories, and I’d read somewhere that alcohol could mess with recovery.

But then I looked around the room, at all the other students laughing and chatting with drinks in their hands. It would be weird not to, wouldn’t it? I didn’t want to stand out, not here, not tonight. “Yeah, alright,” I said, forcing a small smile.

Molly grabbed one for me, handing it over with a knowing smirk. “Go on, it won’t bite.”

I twisted off the cap, the sharp hiss cutting through the noise. The first sip was bitter and awful, making me wince. But I swallowed it down, reminding myself that I’d forced two pints of whole milk a day for weeks now. If I could get through that, I could get through this too. Molly didn’t seem to notice my reaction, already turning back to the crowd to greet someone she knew. I took another sip, settling into the taste as best as I could, trying to blend in.

Now, hours later, I sat slumped in a chair, staring at the unfamiliar dining hall around me. The long tables were littered with the remnants of the night—crumpled napkins, empty cans, and scattered bottles reflecting the faint glow of the overhead lights. My head ached dully, not the sharp pain of dehydration but a foggy weight that made it hard to focus.

I lifted my wrist, squinting at the time on my Apple Watch. 3:07 AM. My stomach dropped. I never stayed up this late. My nights usually ended at eight sharp, tucked in bed and preparing for the next morning’s workout. Now, I was here, in a place I didn’t recognize, surrounded by voices and faces I couldn’t place.

I shifted uncomfortably, trying to remember how I’d gotten here. The cider, Molly laughing, flashes of conversation—all of it jumbled together, pieces that didn’t fit. My chest tightened with frustration. I’d talked to people, hadn’t I? I’d been standing with Molly, hadn’t I? Then why did everything feel so… blank?

My gaze drifted to the girl sitting next to me, her head propped up on her hand as she scrolled through her phone. I recognized her vaguely—Molly’s friend. We’d talked earlier, I was sure of it. She’d said something about studying English or maybe history. Why couldn’t I remember her name?

I glanced around the dimly lit dining hall again, hoping to spot Molly’s familiar face among the scattered group of partygoers. She was nowhere to be seen. My stomach turned uneasily, and I leaned toward the girl next to me. “Hey, have you seen Molly?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

She smirked, leaning back in her chair as if I’d just asked a silly question. “She’s with Jack, in one of the rooms,” she said, her tone teasing. “Guess she got tired of the crowd, yeah?
”
I blinked, trying to process her words. With Jack? My mind raced, trying to piece together what I might have missed. Molly hadn’t said anything about Jack being more than a friend. My chest tightened, but I forced myself to nod as if her absence didn’t bother me.

The girl’s gaze flicked down to my shirt, and she burst into laughter. “Bloody hell, what’s that all over you? You’ve been in the wars, haven’t ya?”

I followed her eyes and groaned. My white T-shirt was covered in something sticky and faintly sweet-smelling, like cider or some other sugary drink. I had no idea when—or how—it had happened. A sinking feeling settled in my chest as I brushed at the stain uselessly. “Yeah… looks like it,” I muttered.

The girl tilted her head, her grin softening. “Tell ya what, love, no need to sit around like that. I’ve got somethin’ you can borrow. My room’s just here. C’mon, let’s get ya sorted.” She stood, jangling her keys.

I hesitated, glancing down at the mess of my shirt. There was no point staying like this. “Alright. Thanks,” I said, following her as she motioned for me to come along.

“Don’t worry,” she said over her shoulder with a laugh. “We’ll find you somethin’ decent. Can’t have ya sittin’ here like you’ve been dragged through a hedge!”

The girl rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a grey hoodie and tossing it onto the bed. “Here ya go,” she said casually. “Should do the trick.”

I picked it up, running my fingers over the soft fabric. It was a size medium, smaller than anything I’d usually wear, but it looked clean and comfortable. I glanced down at my cider-stained T-shirt, debating whether to just throw the hoodie on over it. The sticky feeling against my skin made me cringe, and I sighed. No chance. I couldn’t leave it on underneath.

With a quick glance at her, I peeled the damp T-shirt off, the fabric clinging awkwardly before I tossed it aside. Standing there in just my sports bra, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the corner of the room.

My shoulders looked broad, wider than I was used to seeing, and the lines of my arms were more defined than I’d ever noticed before. My waist looked smaller in comparison, giving me an athletic shape I hadn’t recognized before. As I moved, my arms flexed slightly, and I couldn’t help but catch the curve of my biceps, subtle but there.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, her eyes widening as she let out a low whistle. “You’re proper built, aren’t ya?”

My face burned, and I turned to her, suddenly very aware of how exposed I was. “Uh, thanks,” I mumbled, trying to brush off the comment. I wasn’t used to anyone noticing—let alone saying something outright.

Out of the corner of my eye, the mirror caught my attention again. For just a second, I saw myself the way she must’ve: wide shoulders tapering down to a slimmer waist, solid arms thicker than I thought possible months ago. It felt strange—almost surreal—to see my progress so clearly reflected back at me.

I quickly tugged the hoodie over my head, the fabric clinging slightly as it stretched over my frame. I adjusted the sleeves, which were tighter around my arms than I’d hoped. She smirked, giving me a quick once-over. “That’s somethin’. Bet you could lift me and all.”

My face flushed even hotter as I pulled at the hem of the hoodie, trying to deflect. “Yeah, well… thanks,” I muttered, keeping my voice quiet as I avoided her gaze. The way she looked at me felt equal parts flattering and uncomfortable, and I didn’t know which one I hated more.

The flat was alive with noise again as we stepped out of her room, but it felt even more chaotic than before. The music had shifted to something louder, the bass reverberating through the walls as laughter and chatter spilled from every corner. I trailed behind her, keeping my head low as we weaved through the crowded kitchen.

I found an open spot on the couch pushed up against the wall and sank into it, the exhaustion finally catching up to me. The room felt stuffy, the air thick with the smell of stale cider and leftover pizza. My head throbbed with the kind of dull ache that made everything feel louder, sharper. I rubbed at my temple, wishing I could just close my eyes and disappear for a while.

Around me, the party raged on. Someone shouted something I couldn’t make out, met with a chorus of laughter from the other side of the kitchen. A couple of girls were dancing by the counter, one of them swaying so precariously she almost tipped over a half-empty bottle. The chaos made my stomach twist, and I let out a quiet sigh, glancing at my watch. 5:03 a.m. The numbers felt surreal, almost mocking.

I leaned back into the couch, my gaze drifting to the doorway as I waited, hoping Molly would show up soon. My head tilted to the side, and my eyes closed briefly, though the noise wouldn’t let me relax. The faint hum of exhaustion settled into my limbs, heavy and unwelcome.

Finally, I felt the couch shift under new weight. I opened my eyes to find Molly collapsing into the seat next to me. Her glasses were askew, her hair sticking out in every direction like she’d been caught in a windstorm. Her clothes looked rumpled, the neckline of her shirt pulled awkwardly to one side. She let out a long breath, leaning back and letting her head fall against the wall.

“Sorry,” she said, though there wasn’t much sincerity behind it. “Didn’t mean to leave ya hanging. But…” She gave me a tired smile, brushing a hand over her face. “Worth it, though. Totally worth it.”

I blinked at her, unsure of what to say. Her words settled awkwardly between us, and I felt my chest tighten. “Right,” I mumbled, glancing down at my hands.

She stretched, adjusting her glasses with one hand while scanning the room lazily. “Anyway,” she said, her tone light, “you wanna stay for a bit longer, or…?”

“No,” I said quickly, my voice sharper than I intended. Molly raised an eyebrow, and I stumbled to recover. “I mean… I think we should probably call it a night, yeah? Get some sleep or… something.”

Her smile twitched, but she shrugged. “Fair enough,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Let’s head back, then.”

I nodded, feeling a small wave of relief as she stood, gathering her things. It wasn’t how I’d pictured the night ending, but at least it was over.

12. Strong



I sat cross-legged on the floor of my room, staring at the half-zipped duffle bag in front of me. Most of my things were already packed, neat rows of clothes and books lining the cases stacked by the door. The sight should’ve made me feel accomplished, like I was ready for the next step. Instead, it just felt… hollow.

The last day of school had come and gone, and with it, any chance of some grand first-year finale. My classmates had been buzzing all week about their plans for last night—drinks, parties, laughter echoing through the halls. None of it had included me. Not that it mattered. I had other things to focus on, better ways to spend my time.

I glanced toward my workout notebook, its edges frayed and pages worn from constant use. My legs were sore, my arms heavy, and my stomach still felt uncomfortably full from the breakfast I’d forced down earlier, but none of that could dampen the quiet thrill building inside me. This morning wasn’t just any morning—it was important. Something I’d been working toward for weeks.

The light from the window shifted as a faint breeze stirred the curtains, the air outside warm with the promise of summer. Liverpool was waiting, and by this afternoon, I’d be back in my childhood bedroom, the walls lined with memories I wasn’t sure I was ready to revisit. But before that, there was still one thing left to do.


I slung my gym bag over my shoulder and stepped out into the corridor, the faint echo of my footsteps following me as I made my way downstairs. The building felt quieter than usual, the hum of end-of-term excitement having faded with the last of my classmates leaving. Outside, the warm morning air wrapped around me, the sun already high, casting long streaks of light across the pavement.

As I walked toward the gym, my thoughts drifted to the year behind me. It hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped—not even close. I’d started university thinking I could finally prove myself, that maybe a fresh start would bring something new. But when I’d checked my final grades last night, the numbers on the screen confirmed what I already knew: I hadn’t earned as many credits as I’d wanted. Some modules I’d barely scraped through, and one or two were still marked as incomplete.

I kicked a stray pebble along the path, my grip on the gym bag tightening. It wasn’t that I didn’t try—I had. But trying wasn’t enough when the concepts refused to stick, the assignments overwhelmed me, and everyone around me seemed to breeze through what felt like an impossible workload. I’d managed to keep my head above water, but just barely, and the sinking weight of it all followed me even now, with the school year behind me.

As I reached the gym door, I pulled it open without hesitation. The familiar clang of weights greeted me, along with the faint smell of old rubber and metal. I dropped my bag near the racks and slipped my notebook out, flipping to the page I’d sketched out this morning. No routine today, no carefully planned sets. This was about one thing—testing my maxes.

The last time I’d done this was on New Year’s Eve, back when I still had no idea what I was doing. My form was shaky, my confidence worse, and I’d barely managed to move what felt like a pitiful amount of weight. But now, almost 15 kilos heavier—50% more than when I’d first walked into this gym—it was time to see what that meant on the barbell. Squat, bench, deadlift. The three lifts that defined strength. Today, I’d find out just how much stronger I’d become.

I set my bag down and headed to the squat rack. New Year’s Eve had been the first time I’d truly tested myself under the bar, back when lifting 100 kilos felt like the ultimate goal. I’d come so close to completing the lift, the bar hovering just shy of lockout before my legs gave out. It wasn’t a failure—it was a mark of how far I’d come since those shaky first weeks in the gym. But now, six months later, 100 kilos was no longer a goal. It was just another step on the way to something bigger.

I loaded the plates onto the bar and started warming up, the familiar rhythm of the movements grounding me. First, just the bar, then 60 kilos, 80. Each set felt solid, my form steady. When I finally reached 100 kilos, I didn’t hesitate. I dropped into the squat and powered back up, the bar moving smoothly through the full range of motion. One, two, three—six reps later, I racked the bar without breaking a sweat.

I stood there for a moment, breathing deeply, feeling the weight settle into my body in a different way. The bar hadn’t crushed me this time. It hadn’t even challenged me yet. That alone was enough to make me smile as I added more weight to the bar.

This wasn’t just about hitting a new max. It was about everything that came with it—the way my body had started to change, showing glimpses of something more. The first time I noticed the faint line of a vein on my forearm, it had stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t much, just a small hint under the skin, but it was there, proof that all the hours in the gym were doing something. A few weeks later, after a particularly grueling session, I’d spotted a similar line on my bicep, just for a moment, when the pump was at its peak. That was all it took—I was hooked.

When I was going back to Liverpool for the summer, I was going to diet. Hard. All those lean, chiseled physiques I’d seen on the internet, the abs and sharp lines that seemed almost unreal—that’s what I wanted for myself. But I knew the price. Everything I’d read told me that dieting would mean losing some strength. The numbers on the bar would start to drop, even as my muscles became more defined.

That’s why today mattered so much. At 75 kilos, my heaviest ever, this was the strongest I’d ever been. Before the cutting phase began and my lifts inevitably got harder, I wanted to know exactly what I was capable of. This was my moment to push myself to the limit, to see just how far I’d come.

I stood in front of the squat rack, staring at the barbell loaded with 135 kilograms. The black plates on either side seemed to stretch endlessly, their weight taunting me, daring me to try. It was a ridiculous amount—far beyond what most people would attempt, let alone someone like me. An 18-year-old who, just over eight months ago, didn’t even know how to hold a barbell, let alone squat with one.

But this wasn’t eight months ago. This wasn’t New Year’s Eve. Back then, I’d stood in this exact spot, trembling under the weight of 100 kilos, so close to standing tall with it before my legs gave out. That failure had stayed with me. Today, I wasn’t going to fail. That’s why I’d chosen to start with squats—it was unfinished business, a reminder of how far I’d come. This time, I’d finish what I started.

I took a deep breath and stepped under the bar, the cold metal pressing against the back of my shoulders as I positioned it just right. My hands gripped the rough knurling, steady and sure, and I braced my core as I unracked the bar. The weight settled into me like a challenge, heavy and unyielding, but I planted my feet firmly, grounding myself for what was coming.

The first descent was smooth, controlled, every muscle in my legs firing as I lowered myself. The bar pushed down on me, compressing my chest and ribs, but I stayed focused, my eyes locked straight ahead. As I hit the bottom, I paused for a heartbeat—no bouncing, no shortcuts—and then drove upward with everything I had.

The effort was immediate, total. My thighs burned, the strain shooting up through my hips and into my lower back as I pushed against the weight. My breath hissed through clenched teeth, and a guttural moan escaped me as I fought to move the bar. For a second, it seemed to stall halfway. My legs screamed in protest, my body trembling under the pressure, but I let out another deep grunt, my whole body pushing harder, the roar in my head drowning out everything else.

With a final, desperate surge, I stood tall, locking the weight out above me. The barbell clanged faintly as I stepped forward to re-rack it, my arms trembling as I guided it back into place. The moment the bar settled, I stepped away, my breath ragged and uneven, my entire body shaking from the effort.

135 kilos. I’d done it. The weight that would’ve crushed me eight months ago had moved because of me. I stood there for a moment, catching my breath, letting the realization settle in. This wasn’t just a lift—it was a victory, one I’d earned every kilogram of.

I moved toward the bench press, still catching my breath from the squat. My legs were spent, but this was different. I wasn’t pushing with my legs now. This was going to test my chest, my shoulders, my arms. I loaded the plates onto the bar, the clatter breaking the stillness of the gym. One plate, then another, until the bar was heavy with 90 kilograms.

I lay back on the bench, planting my feet firmly on the floor, my back arching slightly as I adjusted my position. My hands found the bar, gripping it tightly, the knurling biting into my palms. The weight felt daunting, but I told myself I could do it. Slowly, I unracked it, the bar wobbling slightly as my arms took the strain.

Lowering it felt deliberate, every millimeter of movement controlled. My pectorals flexed hard under the strain, the weight pressing into me like it wanted to stay there. My arms shook as I steadied the descent, feeling every muscle in my chest and shoulders working to keep the bar aligned. It touched my chest lightly, a brief pause before I pushed upward with everything I had.

A sharp grunt escaped me as the bar started to move, slow at first, then stalling midway. My triceps burned, my shoulders strained, and my core tightened as I gave one final, desperate push. Another grunt tore out as the bar inched upward, trembling under my grip until it locked out fully. My arms felt like they were on fire, but I’d done it—I’d benched 90 kilograms.

I racked the bar and sat up, breathing hard, my chest rising and falling with the effort. The bar sat heavy on the rack, mocking me. I’d done it, but as I stared at it, I knew I wasn’t going to go for more. The 100 kilos I’d secretly hoped for—the magical two plates on either side—wasn’t going to happen today. I was at my limit. Pushing for 100 would only mean failure, and I wasn’t about to end the day like that.


The deadlift platform waited across the room, and I started toward it, the ache in my muscles a constant reminder of the weight I’d already conquered today. My arms felt like they might give out at any moment, and I could still feel the bar from the bench press in my chest, like it had left its mark there. By the time I reached the platform, I realized I was drenched in sweat, just like I’d been on New Year’s Eve.

I paused in front of the mirror, grabbing the hem of my t-shirt and pulling it over my head. The fabric clung to my skin, damp and heavy, and I tossed it onto the floor beside my bag. Standing there in just my sports bra, I couldn’t help but glance at my reflection. The sweaty, flushed person staring back wasn’t the same girl who’d stepped into this gym five and a half months ago.

My shoulders had grown broader, framing the rest of my upper body. My pectorals pressed slightly against the fabric of the bra, firm and defined despite the small chest I’d always been self-conscious about. My arms caught my attention next—my biceps looked rounded, flexed even when I wasn’t trying, and a faint line hinted at the veins I’d grown obsessed with. My forearms, too, looked solid, thicker than they had any right to be for someone who’d once struggled to carry grocery bags home.

Then there were my legs. They were what had surprised me the most in recent weeks. My thighs had filled out, pushing against the cheap Primark tights I’d bought to replace my old sweatpants. Those sweatpants had become too tight to even pull over my quads, and while I’d wanted something sleek and expensive, this was all I could afford. The tights hugged my legs snugly now, outlining every contour of my quads and calves, which looked powerful in a way that still felt new to me.

I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, catching a glimpse of my midsection in the mirror. My stomach wasn’t shredded or lined with abs like the photos I obsessed over online, but it was flat, and there was a tautness to it I hadn’t seen before. My waist was trim, but not delicate—it fit me, balancing the shape I was building everywhere else.

I grabbed the barbell and started loading it for my warmup sets. First 60 kilos, then 90, then 120. Each lift felt heavier, the strain building in my back and legs, but my focus stayed sharp. Deadlifts weren’t like squats or bench—they were raw, unforgiving, demanding everything from you. Each time I gripped the bar, I reminded myself why I was here. Today wasn’t about holding back.

By the time I stepped back to the platform for the final lift, the bar was loaded with 150 kilograms. Twice my body weight. The thought sent a ripple of nerves through me, but it was quickly swallowed by determination. I’d come too far to back down now.

I stood over the bar, staring at it like it was an opponent. My hands found the rough knurling, and I wrapped my fingers tightly around it, my grip steady despite the sweat on my palms. I took a deep breath and set my feet, feeling the tension coil through my legs, back, and core. The gym seemed to fade away, leaving just me and the bar.

I pulled.

At first, it barely moved. My traps bulged in the mirror as I fought to engage every muscle, my shoulders pulling back, my legs trembling. A low grunt escaped me as the bar inched upward, the weight testing every fiber of my being. The strain burned through my hamstrings and lower back, a fire that begged me to stop, but I wasn’t letting go.

The bar moved higher, and I felt the muscles in my back lock into place, my grip threatening to fail but holding strong. My teeth clenched, another moan ripping from my chest as the bar passed my knees. My whole body felt like it was going to collapse under the effort, but with a final, desperate pull, I locked the bar out at the top, standing tall and steady.

I held it there for a moment, staring at myself in the mirror. My traps were swollen, my arms taut, my entire body shaking from the effort. But I was upright, and the bar was in my hands.
I let the weight drop, the loud clang echoing through the gym. My breathing was ragged, my heart pounding, but I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. 150 kilos. Twice my weight. I’d done it.

I was fucking strong.

She is one of the few session girls I still think about, even though I havent seen her for a year.  Highly recommended. I will try to see her when I am in Rio next month.