For most of my life, I existed inside a label I never chose but learned to carry: “the fat girlfriend.” It was never shouted at me in public or written on signs, but it lived in pauses, in sideways glances, in well-meaning comments that cut deeper than insults. It lived in the way people would compliment my personality before anything else, as if my body was something that needed to be explained away. It lived in relatives’ concerned expressions at holidays, in strangers’ unsolicited advice at grocery stores, in doctors who talked to me like I was irresponsible rather than human.

From a young age, I understood that if I wanted to belong, I had to compensate. If I couldn’t be the prettiest woman in the room, I would be the most helpful. The funniest. The most reliable. The one who never complained. The one who remembered birthdays and picked up shifts and brought snacks and listened endlessly. I learned how to make myself easy to keep. Low-maintenance. Grateful for crumbs. Apologetic for taking up space. That was the version of me Sayer met at trivia night. I was making jokes, keeping the team together, filling awkward silences. He said I “carried the table.