Chapter 2: Day One

Consciousness returned as a heavy, physical fact.

Sugi woke on her back, staring at the off-white ceiling of her living room. The light coming through the window was a pale, early gray. She hadn’t moved all night, still lying where she’d collapsed after finishing the meal. Her body felt like a single solid object, anchored to the thin rug by the dense weight in her middle.

Her stomach announced itself before she could even think about sitting up. It wasn’t the sharp pain from last night, thankfully. That had faded into a deep, persistent ache—a taut, heavy fullness that seemed to have settled into her very bones overnight. The sensation was duller now but more pervasive, like every organ had been gently compressed to make room for what she’d put inside.

She breathed in slowly, testing. The air filled her lungs only halfway before meeting resistance, a firm pressure just below her ribs that stopped any deeper inhalation. Her work clothes were still on, the blouse wrinkled and creased from sleeping in it. The waistband of her slacks gaped open where she’d undone them, the fabric loose around her hips but still pressing uncomfortably against the lower curve of her belly.

Moving seemed like a bad idea. A very bad idea. But her bladder had other opinions, making its presence known with a low, urgent pressure that had nothing to do with food.

Groaning softly, she tried to roll onto her side. The simple shift of weight sent everything inside her sloshing in a slow, viscous wave. A low gurgle echoed through her abdomen, followed by a cramp that made her freeze halfway through the motion. She waited, breathing shallowly through her nose until the cramp eased back into the general ache.

Getting to her elbows was the next challenge. She pushed herself up slowly, using her arms to take as much weight as possible. Her stomach protested the change in orientation, the mass of half-digested food shifting downward to settle lower in her abdomen with an audible slosh. The sensation was distinctly unpleasant, a queasy reminder of exactly how much was still in there.

Sitting fully upright took two tries. The first time she got about halfway before a wave of dizziness made her sink back down. The second time she moved more slowly, pausing at each increment to let her body adjust. When she finally managed it, she sat with her legs splayed wide on the rug, breathing heavily from the effort.

Her stomach now protruded in a soft mound between her thighs. The blouse strained across it, the fabric pulled taut over the curve. Looking down, she couldn’t see past it to her knees. The realization sent a little thrill through her exhaustion—a physical proof of what she’d done.

Standing was another matter entirely.

She braced her hands on the floor behind her and pushed, trying to lever herself up. Her legs felt weak, uncooperative. On the first attempt she only managed to get one foot under her before sinking back down with a frustrated sigh. The movement stirred up another series of gurgles and bubbles from deep within.

The second attempt worked better. She rolled forward onto her knees first, which was uncomfortable but manageable. From there she used the arm of the couch to pull herself upright, moving in stages: one hand on the couch, then the other, then slowly straightening her legs while keeping a firm grip on the furniture.

When she finally stood, she swayed slightly, lightheaded from the sudden change in position. Her stomach hung heavy and low now, a distinct weight pulling at her front. It felt different than last night—less painfully distended, more solidly settled. Still impossibly full, but in a more permanent way.

Walking required a new technique. Normal strides were out of the question; they jostled everything too much and sent sharp twinges through her gut. Instead she developed a slow, wide-legged waddle, keeping her feet apart for stability and taking small, careful steps. Each movement made her aware of the sloshing contents of her stomach, a liquid heaviness that shifted with every motion.

The bathroom was only about fifteen feet from the living room. It felt like crossing a canyon.

She moved one foot, then paused to let everything settle. Then the other foot. Pause again. Her arms stayed slightly out from her sides for balance, making her look like someone walking across a slippery surface. Which, in a way, she was—the surface being the uncertain equilibrium of her own overstuffed body.

The journey took nearly a full minute. When she finally reached the bathroom doorframe, she leaned against it for support, breathing heavily from exertion that should have been trivial.

The bathroom was small and clinical-looking, all white tile and chrome fixtures. Sugi flipped the light switch with an elbow, squinting against the sudden brightness. She shuffled to the toilet first, dealing with the more immediate biological necessity with slow, careful movements that minimized any disturbance to her stomach.

Afterward, she turned to face the mirror above the sink.

For a long moment she just stood there, looking at her reflection without really seeing it. Her hair was messy from sleeping on the floor, strands sticking out at odd angles. Her glasses sat crooked on her nose. The blouse was badly wrinkled, and she could see where a button strained slightly over her midsection.

Then her eyes focused on what mattered.

She reached for the hem of her blouse and tugged it up slowly, revealing the pale skin of her stomach beneath. The waistband of her slacks had been pushed down low on her hips during the night, sitting well below her navel. What lay between was new territory.

Her belly protruded in a soft, definite swell that started just below her ribs and curved outward before tapering down to where the pants began. It wasn’t flat anymore—not even close. The skin looked tight and slightly shiny over the fullest part, stretched by the volume beneath. When she breathed in shallowly, the entire mound rose and fell as a single unit.

She turned slightly to get a profile view in the mirror. The curve was more dramatic from the side—a clear outward arc that pushed her blouse forward into empty space. She looked pregnant, almost. Not hugely so, but definitely rounded in a way that suggested something growing inside rather than something temporarily consumed.

Her hands came up almost of their own accord, fingers spreading over the warm skin. She pressed gently with her palms, feeling the firm resistance underneath. It wasn’t hard like last night—more like a water balloon that had been filled nearly to capacity but had settled overnight into something denser and more substantial.

A soft burble vibrated under her touch, followed by another deeper gurgle that seemed to come from somewhere near her intestines rather than her stomach proper. Digestion was happening, obviously. Her body was working through the monumental task of processing nearly five thousand calories of rich food.

She leaned closer to the mirror, studying the details. The skin around her navel looked slightly stretched, the little indentation shallower than usual. Fine silvery lines—stretch marks from childhood growth spurts—stood out more prominently against the taut surface. There was a slight pinkness to the skin over the fullest part, probably from pressure against her clothes all night.

This was it. Day one aftermath.

The thought made something flutter in her chest that wasn’t quite anxiety and wasn’t quite excitement—more like anticipation mixed with disbelief that she’d actually done this to herself on purpose.

As if responding to her attention, her stomach chose that moment to stage a more dramatic protest.

A loud, prolonged gurgle echoed through the small bathroom, sounding almost like water draining from a tub. It started high in her abdomen and traveled downward in a series of wet bubbles and pops. Then came the cramp—a sudden, sharp clenching that made her gasp and double over slightly, hands flying to clutch at the soft curve.

The pain was intense but brief, a muscle spasm deep in her gut that squeezed everything inside before releasing just as suddenly. In its wake came a rush of gas traveling upward through her digestive tract with uncomfortable pressure behind it.

She tried to swallow it back—a reflex from years of polite manners—but there was too much force behind it. A deep belch escaped her lips instead, loud enough to echo off the tiles.

The taste flooded her mouth immediately: garlic butter and chocolate milkshake, mixed with something sour and acidic that hadn’t been there last night. Stomach acid, probably. The combination was bizarre and vaguely nauseating—the sweet chocolate clashing with savory garlic and sour bile.

She swallowed hard against a sudden surge of reflux that burned at the back of her throat. The acidic taste lingered on her tongue even after she swallowed again, making her grimace at her reflection.

Her stomach gurgled again, softer this time—a series of little bubbles and pops that felt like carbonation fizzing under her skin. The cramp had faded back into the general ache, leaving behind a queasy unsettled feeling that sat just below her sternum.

She kept one hand on her belly as she reached for the tap with the other, turning on the cold water and cupping some in her palm to rinse out her mouth. The water helped wash away the taste but did nothing for the low burn of acid still sitting in her esophagus.

Straightening up slowly, she met her own eyes in the mirror again. Her face looked pale except for two spots of pink high on her cheeks. Her glasses had slid down her nose from bending over; she pushed them back up with a finger.

The girl in the reflection looked different than she had yesterday morning. Tired around the eyes maybe, but something else too—a certain awareness in her expression that hadn’t been there before. Like she’d crossed some invisible line and now saw everything from the other side.

Her gaze dropped back down to her swollen stomach. The curve seemed more pronounced now that she was standing fully upright again, pushing out against the loose drape of her untucked blouse.

She let out a slow breath—as deep as she could manage with everything so crowded inside—and watched the swell rise and fall with the motion.

Tomorrow had arrived

The acid reflux settled into a low, persistent burn that she decided to ignore for now. The cramp had faded back into the general background ache of fullness, which meant her body was probably done with its most dramatic protests for the moment. That left a window of opportunity.

Documentation.

The thought came with the same focused clarity she used at work when an experiment reached a critical point. Last night had been the procedure. This morning was the data collection phase. She needed baseline measurements—numbers to track progress against, evidence of what she’d already accomplished.

She waddled out of the bathroom and across the short hallway to her bedroom, moving with the same careful, wide-stanced gait. Her bedroom was as orderly as the rest of the apartment: bed made, clothes put away, nothing out of place. The measuring tape lived in the top drawer of her dresser alongside spare buttons and a sewing kit. Her phone was charging on the nightstand.

First, she needed to get out of yesterday’s clothes. The process was more complicated than usual. She unbuttoned her blouse slowly, working from top to bottom. When she tried to shrug it off her shoulders, the fabric caught on the curve of her stomach, requiring an awkward shimmy to work it free. Her slacks were easier—they were already undone and slid down her hips without resistance, pooling around her ankles.

Standing in just her bra and underwear, she became acutely aware of how her body filled the space differently now. The soft swell of her belly pushed against the waistband of her panties, creating a slight overhang where skin met fabric. Her bra felt tighter across her back and under her breasts, though that was probably just general bloating.

She picked up the measuring tape—a flexible yellow vinyl one she’d owned since high school home economics class—and carried it and her phone back to the bathroom. The full-length mirror on the back of the door offered a better view.

Setting the phone on the edge of the sink, she unlocked it and opened the camera app. She switched to front-facing camera so she could see herself in the screen as she positioned it.

The first photo was straightforward: a full-body front shot. She held the phone at chest height, making sure her feet were visible at the bottom of the frame and the top of her head at the top. She stood normally, arms at her sides, trying not to suck in her stomach or pose in any particular way. Just documentation. The click of the shutter sounded loud in the quiet room.

Checking the photo, she zoomed in on her midsection. The difference was subtle but definite—a soft rounding where there used to be a nearly flat plane between her ribs and hips. Her underwear cut across the lower part of the swell, emphasizing rather than hiding it.

Side shot next. She turned ninety degrees, holding the phone out to her side at the same height. This angle showed the profile more clearly: the outward curve that started just below her breasts and extended forward before sloping down to her hips. From the side, she could see how much space her stomach now occupied between her front and the imaginary vertical line that would have been her body yesterday.

Back shot was trickier—she had to hold the phone behind her and guess at the framing, taking three tries before she got one where her entire back was visible. Not that she expected much change there yet, but completeness mattered.

She studied each photo with a critical eye, looking for details beyond just the obvious swell. The way her bra strap dug into her shoulder a little more than usual. The slight puffiness in her face—water retention from all the salt, probably. The way her panties sat lower on her hips, pulled down by the weight above them.

Satisfied with the photographic evidence, she moved on to quantitative measurements.

The scale lived under her bed—a digital model she bought when she first moved to America, mostly unused except for occasional curiosity. She retrieved it and placed it on the bathroom floor, stepping onto it carefully once it powered on.

The numbers flickered for a moment before settling. She’d weighed herself maybe two weeks ago, out of idle interest rather than any particular concern. The number now was three pounds higher.

Three pounds overnight.

Of course, most of that was just food weight and water retention—the actual fat gain would be a fraction of that. But still. Three pounds was a measurable change. A data point.

She stepped off and grabbed her notebook from the nightstand—a simple spiral-bound lab notebook she sometimes used for personal projects when work ideas followed her home. Flipping to a fresh page, she wrote today’s date at the top in neat, precise handwriting.

Underneath she wrote “Weight:” and recorded the number.

Next came circumference measurements with the tape. She started with her waist, which she defined as the narrowest point between her ribs and hips. Finding that point was more challenging today—the usual indentation had filled in considerably. She settled for measuring at her natural waistline, which felt higher than usual because of how everything had settled.

The tape wrapped around snugly but not tight. She made sure it was level all around before checking the number where it met the zero mark. Another increase—an inch and a half more than last time she’d measured, which had been months ago admittedly.

Hips were next: around the widest part of her buttocks. That measurement showed less change, only a quarter inch difference. Understandable—the weight from one meal wouldn’t distribute evenly yet.

Then came the important one: belly circumference at its fullest point. She stood sideways to the mirror again to locate where her stomach protruded most dramatically—about two inches below her navel today. Wrapping the tape around at that level required holding it in place with one hand while maneuvering with the other.

The number made her pause.

Four inches more than her usual waist measurement. Four inches of outward curve that hadn’t been there yesterday.

She recorded all three numbers in her notebook alongside the weight, creating a neat little table of data points. Then she added a notes section below:

Post-first major stuffing. Meal: fettuccine alfredo (2 servings), garlic bread (whole loaf), chocolate milkshake (32 oz). Estimated calories: 4,872.

Observations: Significant abdominal distention immediately following consumption (unable to sit upright comfortably). Distention reduced overnight but permanent swelling noticeable upon waking (~4” increase at fullest point). Weight increase: 3 lbs (mostly food/water weight). Experienced indigestion, cramping, acid reflux this AM.

Physical sensations: Fullness persists 10+ hours post-meal. Stomach feels heavy, solid rather than painfully distended. Movement requires wider stance to accommodate mass.

Reading over her notes, they sounded clinical—like something from a case study rather than a personal journal entry. Which was fine, honestly. The clinical approach made it feel less like a guilty secret and more like a legitimate project.

But she wanted another kind of record too.

Carrying her phone and notebook back to the living room, she settled onto the couch this time—slowly, carefully, lowering herself at an angle to avoid compressing her stomach too much. Once seated with her laptop on her thighs, she opened it and navigated to a private blogging platform she’d bookmarked weeks ago but never used.

The sign-up process was quick: fake name, disposable email address, no personal information beyond what was required. When prompted for a blog title, she typed “Chubby Cutie” without hesitation. The username field accepted the same.

Password creation followed—something complex with numbers and symbols that she saved in her password manager alongside work credentials. The irony wasn’t lost on her that she was securing this journal more carefully than some of her actual professional accounts.

The dashboard loaded: clean interface, simple formatting options. She created a new post titled “Day 1: Baseline.”

Uploading the photos took a moment—she selected all three shots from her phone’s gallery. The platform asked if she wanted to make them private; she clicked yes without reading the fine print about what “private” actually meant technically speaking.

When they appeared in the post editor, they looked different framed by website formatting than they had on her phone screen. More official somehow. More permanent.

Below the photos, she began typing an entry that was less clinical than her notebook but still structured:

Date: [Today’s date]

Starting stats: (Recorded for future comparison)

Today’s meal: Detailed description including portions

Immediate effects: How full I felt, physical limitations

Morning after: Measurements, weight, physical sensations

Thoughts:

She paused at that last heading, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

What were her thoughts exactly?

That this was simultaneously exactly what she wanted and more physically uncomfortable than she’d anticipated? That three pounds on the scale felt like both an accomplishment and nothing at all? That her stomach still ached dully twelve hours later and probably would for several more?

She typed slowly:

The first major stuffing is complete. Waking up this morning with my stomach still so full was strange—like carrying evidence around with me that can’t be hidden just by wearing different clothes.

The measurements are small changes objectively speaking, but they feel significant because they’re mine. I did this to myself on purpose.

Already thinking about what comes next. Need to plan meals that are calorie-dense but maybe easier to digest? The acid reflux wasn’t pleasant.

Part of me wants to see how long I can maintain this level of fullness before my body processes everything.

She read over what she’d written before adding one final line:

This is only day one.

Then she hit publish.

The page refreshed with a confirmation message: “Post published privately.” Her three photos stared back at her from the screen—a front, side, and back view of a body that was just beginning to change.

She closed the laptop lid and leaned back against the couch cushions, one hand resting on the swell of her stomach beneath her underwear waistband. The ache was still there—a deep, persistent fullness that felt like it had become part of her now rather than something temporary she’d consumed.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table with an alarm: time to start getting ready for work.

She looked down at herself again—at the soft curve that interrupted what should have been a straight line from chest to thighs—and wondered how she was going to fit into proper clothes today.

Dressing presented an immediate logistical problem.

Her usual work attire—fitted blouses, tailored slacks, structured skirts—assumed a certain body shape. One that didn’t include a tender, swollen stomach that protested against any constriction. Standing in front of her closet, she surveyed options with new criteria: loose, forgiving, nothing with a defined waistline.

She settled on a pair of black stretch pants with an elastic waistband that could sit comfortably below the swell of her belly. For a top, she chose an oversized gray sweater that fell nearly to her thighs—soft knit fabric that wouldn’t chafe against sensitive skin. The outfit looked intentionally casual rather than professionally crisp, but it would have to do. She could claim not feeling well if anyone commented.

Putting the pants on required sitting on the edge of the bed and shimmying them up over her hips carefully, avoiding any sudden pressure on her stomach. The elastic waistband settled low, just above her pubic bone, where it didn’t compress the fullest part of her abdomen. The sweater went on more easily, the loose fabric draping over everything without clinging.

When she looked in the full-length mirror on her closet door, the outfit successfully hid most of the swelling. The sweater’s bulk obscured the specific contours of her stomach, making her look merely like someone wearing comfortable clothes rather than someone concealing evidence of a five-thousand-calorie meal. Only when she turned sideways could she see how the fabric tented outward over the curve.

Getting to work involved the same careful waddle she’d developed earlier, though now disguised as normal walking if she concentrated on taking smaller steps. The bus ride was uncomfortable—every bump in the road transmitted through the seat into her sensitive midsection. She sat near the back where fewer people would notice if she shifted position frequently to relieve pressure.

At the lab, she moved through her morning routine with deliberate slowness. Putting on her white coat over the bulky sweater made her look even more shapeless, which was fine. She logged into her workstation, checked the day’s testing schedule, and began preparing samples for lipid analysis with the same meticulous attention to procedure she always showed.

But everything required adjustments.

Sitting at her lab bench meant finding a position where her stomach wasn’t compressed between her body and the edge of the counter. She ended up sitting farther back than usual, leaning forward slightly to reach her equipment—a posture that strained her back but spared her abdomen.

Walking between stations took more effort too. Each step still produced that internal sloshing sensation, though fainter now as digestion progressed. She moved with deliberate care, avoiding quick turns or sudden movements that might jostle everything inside.

The worst part was the noise.

About an hour into her shift, as she was calibrating a pipette, a low gurgle echoed from deep within her gut. It was loud enough that she glanced around instinctively, though the lab was mostly empty at this early hour. A colleague two benches over didn’t look up from his microscope.

She shifted in her chair subtly, trying to ease whatever internal rearrangement had caused the sound. The movement prompted another series of softer bubbles and pops—a digestive soundtrack playing at low volume beneath her professional exterior.

Throughout the morning, her stomach announced its ongoing work at irregular intervals. Sometimes it was just a faint rumble she could feel more than hear. Other times distinct gurgles traveled from one side of her abdomen to the other like liquid shifting through pipes. Each time, she paused whatever she was doing until the sound subsided, pretending to check a reading or consult her notes.

The indigestion settled into a constant low-grade discomfort—not painful exactly, just a persistent awareness of fullness that made every movement feel weighted. Her breathing remained somewhat shallow, lungs unable to expand fully against the mass below them. She found herself taking more frequent but smaller breaths without consciously deciding to.

When lunch break arrived at noon, her coworkers headed to the break room or out to nearby cafes. Sugi stayed at her station, claiming she needed to finish calibrating a machine before an afternoon test. The truth was the thought of eating anything—even normal food—made her stomach clench in protest. She was still full from last night, the heavy sensation having settled into something more permanent-feeling than mere satiation.

While the lab emptied out, she minimized her work windows and opened a fresh spreadsheet instead.

This one she titled “Project: Sustainable Caloric Increase.” The phrasing made it sound like a legitimate research topic rather than what it actually was: planning how to consume even more calories than yesterday without making herself completely sick.

She started with an analysis of yesterday’s meal. In a new column next to the ingredients list from her first spreadsheet, she added notes on digestibility and aftereffects:

Heavy cream sauce – High satiety value but caused significant bloating and acid reflux.
Garlic bread – Greasy, contributed to indigestion.
Milkshake – Sugar crash afterward, dairy possibly worsening reflux.

The problem, as she saw it, wasn’t the calorie count—that had been successfully achieved—but the physical toll. If she wanted to do this regularly (and she did), she needed meals that were dense in calories but perhaps easier on her digestive system. Or at least varied enough that different food groups distributed the strain.

She began researching calorie-dense foods that were less likely to cause immediate discomfort. Nut butters came up—high in fat and protein, relatively easy to digest in moderate quantities. Avocados too. Whole milk rather than cream might be gentler while still providing substantial calories.

A new plan began taking shape on the screen: breakfast smoothies with peanut butter, banana, whole milk, and protein powder. Lunch could be something like a large burrito with rice, beans, cheese, and guacamole—spread across several hours of grazing rather than consumed all at once. Dinner would remain the main event, but maybe with adjustments: pasta still, but with olive oil instead of cream sauce? Or perhaps fried rice loaded with eggs and oil?

She calculated rough calorie estimates for each meal component, building toward a daily total that exceeded yesterday’s single massive feast but spread across waking hours. The math was soothing in its clarity: if breakfast was 800 calories, lunch another 1200 through grazing, and dinner 3000, that would be 5000 total without requiring her to consume it all in one agonizing sitting.

The spreadsheet grew with formulas linking cells, conditional formatting highlighting meals that reached target calorie ranges, even a notes section for tracking physical reactions day by day. It looked exactly like the project planning documents she created at work for stability testing protocols—same structure, same attention to variables and outcomes.

When coworkers began filtering back into the lab around one o’clock, she saved the file to her personal drive and closed it, returning to her official work screen just as someone walked past her station.

The afternoon passed in a blur of routine tasks performed through a haze of persistent fullness. By four o’clock, the heavy sensation in her stomach had diminished somewhat—digestion was finally making progress—but it had been replaced by genuine hunger for the first time since yesterday evening. Not just psychological craving for another massive meal, but actual physical hunger pangs that cut through the residual fullness.

The timing felt significant: her body had processed enough to want more already.

She left work exactly at five, stopping at a different grocery store than yesterday’s on her way home. This time her cart contained peanut butter, bananas, whole milk, avocados, tortillas, shredded cheese, eggs, and rice—ingredients for her new spread-out approach rather than a single theatrical feast.

But as she stood in line at checkout looking at these sensible components of a high-calorie diet plan, something felt unsatisfying. Too gradual. Too reasonable.

Back at her apartment, she put away the groceries methodically before changing into soft leggings and an old t-shirt. Her stomach had deflated noticeably throughout the day—still rounded compared to two days ago, but no longer dramatically swollen. The ache was gone entirely, replaced by that genuine hollow hunger.

She stood in her kitchen looking at the ingredients for tonight’s planned dinner: rice waiting to be cooked, eggs ready to be scrambled with cheese and avocado for a substantial but manageable meal.

Then she opened the freezer and saw the pint of ice cream she’d bought yesterday but hadn’t used yet.

An idea formed—one that bypassed the sensible spreadsheet plan entirely.

What if she documented it this time?

The thought arrived fully formed: not just consuming another massive meal, but recording herself doing it. Creating actual evidence beyond private photos and journal entries. Something that existed outside her own perception.

She retrieved the small phone tripod she used occasionally for video calls with family back in Japan—a lightweight collapsible thing with flexible legs that could wrap around objects. Setting it up on her kitchen counter took some experimentation with angles before she found one that captured most of her small dining table while keeping her face partially in frame.

Her phone connected to the tripod mount clicked into place securely. She opened the camera app and switched to video mode, setting it to record in high definition.

Then she began cooking with different energy than yesterday—less ritualistic solemnity, more focused purpose. She decided on simplicity this time: an entire box of macaroni and cheese prepared not with water and butter as directed but with whole milk and extra butter plus half a block of shredded cheddar stirred in at the end until it formed an obscenely thick orange sludge. As sides: garlic bread again because it worked so well last night for calories-per-bite efficiency, and a milkshake made from that remaining ice cream blended with heavy cream instead of milk this time for maximum density.

The meal came together faster than yesterday’s elaborate preparation—just boiling pasta and melting cheese essentially—but when she plated it all twenty minutes later, it looked just as formidable. The bowl of macaroni alone probably contained close to two thousand calories with all the modifications. The garlic bread added another few hundred easily. The milkshake in its tall glass might reach a thousand by itself if she’d measured correctly.

She carried everything to the table and arranged it within frame of the phone camera before sitting down herself. The red recording light glowed steadily on her phone screen.

For a long moment she just looked at the camera lens—a dark circle like an unblinking eye watching her. Her heart beat faster than it had when she was alone yesterday. This was different: performing rather than just experiencing.

Taking a slow breath that still felt somewhat restricted (her stomach hadn’t returned completely to normal yet), she leaned forward slightly toward where she estimated the microphone would pick up her voice best.

“Hello,” she said quietly, then cleared her throat when the word came out as barely more than a whisper.

She tried again with more volume this time: “Hello.”

A pause followed while she tried to think what people said in these kinds of videos. She’d watched enough of them over the years to have some idea, but speaking the phrases herself felt awkwardly performative.

“This is… my second day.” Another pause. “I ate a lot yesterday. Four thousand eight hundred seventy-two calories.”

Saying the number aloud to an imaginary audience made it feel more real somehow—less like a private experiment and more like something that existed in the world beyond her apartment.

“Tonight I’m having… macaroni and cheese with extra cheese.” She gestured vaguely toward the bowl without looking away from the camera lens. “And garlic bread again because it’s good for… for calories.”

The explanation sounded clumsy even to her own ears. She decided to stop talking and start eating instead—actions would be easier than words anyway.

Picking up her fork, she scooped a large helping of macaroni from the bowl. The cheese stretched in thick strings between bowl and fork before breaking. She brought it to her mouth deliberately so the camera could see clearly what she was doing.

The first bite tasted overwhelmingly rich—salt and fat and artificial cheese powder all competing for dominance on her tongue. She chewed methodically while looking directly at the camera lens again as if making eye contact with whoever might eventually watch this.

Swallowing required conscious effort already; hunger might have returned but her capacity clearly hadn’t reset entirely from last night’s ordeal.

She took another bite anyway because that’s what the recording needed—continuity between mouthfuls until everything was gone again just like yesterday but this time witnessed by technology preserving every moment for potential replay later by herself or maybe someday someone else entirely though she wasn’t thinking that far ahead consciously yet beyond knowing somehow instinctively somewhere deep down that documentation mattered now differently than before when privacy was absolute before today changed things subtly irrevocably already whether she fully understood how or why yet or not which honestly didn’t matter much right this second anyway with food waiting attention demanding consumption continuation onward forward into whatever came next after today ended too eventually like everything does inevitably sooner or later obviously naturally of course yes indeed absolutely definitely certainly sure thing unquestionably so without doubt whatsoever clearly evidently apparently manifestly patently plainly distinctly unmistakably undeniably indisputably irrefutably incontrovertibly conclusively decisively finally at last eventually ultimately presently shortly momentarily imminently soonish pretty soon any minute now right about…